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168 pages, Paperback
First published January 5, 2006
"They run to escape, swallowing the harshness of their future.The setting is the Troumoron in Mauritius, an impoverished area in Port Louis, Mauritius. The four distinct voices are children, teens, who are stifled and invisible in their poverty. Their lives occur alongside the wealthy populations living on the island, locals and tourists, but it is like parallel universes. The options are few - the lawlessness forces one girl into prostitution (but the kind that isn't for money, but to survive,) and a budding poet into a gang. The two other voices are more minor characters but also suffer from a lack of options and upward mobility.
I stay afloat."
"The laughter of women is laughter in this lost place, laughter that opens up a small part of paradise so we don't drown ourselves."The writing is GORGEOUS and I was happy to take my time over the words in the first half. I really do think the translator should be awarded for the work he has done, and I felt even more strongly about this in reading his notes on the translation, and how he thought through the dialect and Creole challenges. But beyond it being beautiful, I think the style of the writing serves a purpose. The deep thoughts are painfully pretty, but seem representative of the way the children have to insulate themselves from the world around them. The words and thoughts are the only thing they own. It makes sense then that as the world swirls around a chaotic event, and as more adult voices enter the scene, the words simplify and start to move faster. But while they do, the four children lose the protection of the beautiful words and have no choice but to face their realities. They had never escaped, but their minds seemed to be creating a buffer.
I was signing my books and someone would tell me that they were going on holiday to Mauritius and planned to buy my books, I would tell them to enjoy their holidays first and then buy the books!Eve out of Her Ruins is set in the fictional Troumaron, an impoverished area of Port-Louis: the name a deliberate pun as it could be read as “brown hole” or “hole for marrones” (escaped slaves).
I could have tried to have the four protagonists speak with a more contemporary youth jargon, but somehow I knew that it wouldn’t fit the tone of the novel. So I retained the poetry of their voices, which was the voice of their thoughts, the voice that no one ever hears from them because there is no one to listen.Jeffrey Zuckerman is to be commended on an excellent translation, respecting the use of both Mauritian Creole but also snatches of English words and syntax in Devi’s original (which itself reflects the trilingual Mauritian society) and he helpfully explains some of his choices in an afterword.
Sometimes, when the neighbourhood is quiet, the island’s sounds seem different. Other kinds of music, less funereal tones, the clang of cash registers, the dazzle of development. The tourists scorn us without realizing it. Money has made them naïve. We cheat them out of a few rupees until they begin to mistrust our pleasant, false faces.
The country puts on its sky-blue dress, the better to seduce them. A marine perfume wafts from its crotch. From here we can’t see the island all dolled up, and their eyes, dazzled by the sun, can’t see us. As things should be.
The sea by the luxury hotel gleams with hazy fire. Where we live, it looks like oil and smells like an armpit. People walk past, sit in a café, take in the air, drink beers, enjoy the weather and think about nothing. Eve once told me that we were on another planet. I think she’s right. Our sun and theirs aren’t the same”
"We are practically children, sitting on our parapet. And she, with that flower of violence on her cheek, feels old. She gets up and walks a few steps in front of me. She seems completely off-balance. She's dancing and falling at the same time. I hold out my hand to catch her."
Sono in negoziato permanente. Il mio corpo è uno scalo. Intere parti sono navigate. Con il tempo sono fiorite bruciature, screpolature. Ognuno lascia il suo segno, marca il suo territorio. Ho diciassette anni e me ne frego. Compro il mio futuro.
Troumaron stride con l'immagine idilliaca comunemente associata alle Mauritius; è un quartiere poco rispettabile di Saint Louis e con mirate frasi l'autrice ci fa percepire fin da subito la miseria e il degrado che infestano questa zona di periferia che è il worldbuilding nel quale si muovono i nostri personaggi.I was signing my books and someone would tell me that they were going on holiday to Mauritius and planned to buy my books, I would tell them to enjoy their holidays first and then buy the books!Eve out of Her Ruins is set in the fictional Troumaron, an impoverished area of Port-Louis: the name a deliberate pun as it could be read as “brown hole” or “hole for marrones” (escaped slaves).
I could have tried to have the four protagonists speak with a more contemporary youth jargon, but somehow I knew that it wouldn’t fit the tone of the novel. So I retained the poetry of their voices, which was the voice of their thoughts, the voice that no one ever hears from them because there is no one to listen.Jeffrey Zuckerman is to be commended on an excellent translation, respecting the use of both Mauritian Creole but also snatches of English words and syntax in Devi’s original (which itself reflects the trilingual Mauritian society) and he helpfully explains some of his choices in an afterword.
neither of us is innocent, and i hate the world for it.the second novel from mauritian author ananda devi to be translated into english, eve out of her ruins (ève de ses décombres) is the powerful story of four intertwined teenage lives contending with poverty, dispossession, alienation, violence, and their own forlorn futures. set within the indigent troumaron neighborhood of the port louis capital city, devi's novel is told in four distinct voices — an oral biography of longing, heartbreak, frustration, anger, resentment, sexualization, and neglect.
i don't believe in anything. but i suffer all the same.devi's titular character wields her sexuality as a means to an end; saadiq (saad) is an aspiring poet for whom eve's affection is just beyond reach; savita, eve's truest friend, longs for escape; clélio admires his expatriate brother and also dreams of liberation. together, their ensemble narrative works to great effect in portraying the oppressive ghetto milieu they each must exist within. their youth and socioeconomic disadvantage belie the very real adult challenges they're forced to confront daily.
i've always lived there. i was born a refugee. like everyone else who's grown up in the yellow shadows of these buildings, i've never understood their monstrous edges. i never saw the gaps born beneath our feet, separating us from the world. i played with eve. we called her the skeleton because she was so thin, but also to mask an unspoken affection. we played at war until we found ourselves at war.eve out of her ruins is a sorrowful, grief-filled tale. a coming-of-age story where coming-of-age is hardly guaranteed. disappointment, dejection, suffering, monotony, and a toxic disregard blanket the powder keg neighborhood where tension, foreboding, and volatility loom large in hearts and minds alike. colliding lives render futures nonredeemable.
i read in secret, all the time. i read in the toilets, i read in the middle of the night, i read as if books could loosen the noose tightening around my throat. i read to understand that there is somewhere else. a dimension where possibilities shimmer.devi's gifted, poetic, and undulating prose is her novel's greatest asset. strong, authentic characters and an excruciating plot enrich an already potent tale. eve out of her ruins, however rueful and without redemption, is a moving, unsettling story. like the waves forever crashing against this small island nation, the slow yet inescapable erosion of hope and possibility are deftly on display. devi has crafted a slim, singular work of fiction — one which unabashedly offers up an alloy of anger and anguish, forbidding us from looking away, stepping over, or ignoring altogether.
i am seventeen years old and i don't give a fuck. i'm buying my future.
ananda devi—who knows the cost of waging war against institutional wrongs and capricious fate as she delineates this battle in every one of her books—makes her island a fiery star on the maps of the indian ocean.