Et toujours les forêts, Sandrine Collette

For surely no good reason that I or anyone could possibly think of, I haven’t been keen on reading or watching anything related to pandemics, catastrophes, disasters, or dystopias. My recent reading hasn’t been without depth or conflict or even sad times. Percival Everett’s The Trees (see the July 10 U&S newsletter), for example, tackles race in America as head-on. Everyone Knows Your Mother Is a Witch by Rivka Galchen is about both “cancel culture” and the audacity of being a self-sufficient older woman. Katherine May’s memoir The Electricity of Every Living Thing chronicles her discovery and acceptance of a new truth about herself as she reaches middle age.

I pulled Et toujours les forêts by Sandrine Collette from my French TBR pile [translated as The Forests] this summer having completely forgotten what it might be about. I thought, as I started reading, that it might be about a young boy with an uninterested mother. Or it might be a coming of age story set in rural France. And then it became quite clear when “the thing,” as it’s most often called in the novel, happened that this was a postapocalyptic dystopian novel. Everything and everyone is wiped out, except for those few creatures who happened to be underground for the flash of “the thing.”

Devastated.

Was there another word?

Corentin sat beside Albane, next to the others. Like them, he considered.

But considered what?

Everything that was alive had become ashes.

Everything that had existed was destroyed.

Everything was only black silhouettes and wizened and burned—buildings, trees, cars.

Humans.

[my translation]

I realized that the protagonist was going to struggle for the next few hundred pages. And this summer, to my surprise, I was on board with it.

It's not a happy book; it is relentless. It offers the reader and the protagonist, Corentin, a single blade of grass or a wolf cub just when you both need it. It raises questions about climate change, nuclear weapons, and that high school English class standby: man's inhumanity to man. It questions family and duty and love, and it makes you wonder if Corentin has done the right thing—not just in the face of “the thing,” but ever, at any point in his life and in this story. He’s not a bad person, he’s sincere and he’s trying to do the best he knows how, but every choice he made had me wondering if I would do that too, or if in the grander scheme of things his was the correct or ethical or moral choice. Would my choice be any better for myself, my family, and the world as it tries to return?

The word dorénavant occurs more and more frequently as the story progresses across decades and Corentin accepts the gray skies, the black trees, the dearth of life. It means “from now on”: from now on, I will accept the cold lack of direct sunlight. From now on, I will store nonperishable food that I find in empty houses. Dorénavant is used like stakes Corentin is planting in this hellish new earth, marking a new reality.

Corentin slowly moves forward, the world slowly moves forward, and the reader is somehow pulled along on this grim trail by those glimpses of life and those stakes of “from now on.” After finishing the book—and it does draw to an appropriate close rather than cutting the reader off abruptly—I kept thinking about it as if I were still reading it, as if I were going to pick it up again and consider further the complex questions Collette asks of Corentin, of his family, of the reader. I was still engaging with the book as I went on runs with the dog and napped on my couch during a climate change-related heatwave.

Living in 2022 means I can't help but compare the challenges of the past say, seven years to the extreme hardships in les forêts. I keep thinking, This may be shitty, this disease, this weather event, this housing shortage, this widespread real-life man’s inhumanity to man, but it's not “la chose.” Then I wonder if we'll let this nightmare run all the way up to “la chose”—or as it’s sometimes called, “la catastrophe”—if we'll refuse to learn any lessons or see beyond our noses to prevent “la chose” from happening.

If you buy any of the books in this newsletter through the affiliate links, I’ll receive a small commission.

More Fun Stuff: Library Bans!

You’ve probably heard that small-minded control freaks are banning all kinds of books but especially those that deal with race and LGBTQ+ issues from public and school libraries. It’s the kind of news that often means reading a headline or a tweet, shaking our heads because we’ve seen this stupid dance before, and moving on. But in case you’d like to learn a little more, here are a few links to specific instances of bans as well as harassment of librarians. Literary Hub in particular has been keeping tabs, if you want to keep up with this news too.

New York Times: Texas School District Bible and Anne Frank Adaptation in Back-to-School Sweep (this should be a link to allow you behind the paywall)

The Brooklyn Library’s Books Unbanned program helps students access banned books.

LitHub: Residents of Michigan Town That Defunded Its Library Are Rallying to Keep It Open

Them: A School Librarian Is Suing the Right-Wing Activists Who Tried to Harass Her

If you’re reading U&S, you probably know why books matter. But if you need ammunition for the upcoming holiday season with family, here you go:

Positive News: “Syrians Need This”: The Kiosk Helping a War-torn Nation Reconnect with Literature”

LitHub: A New Study Shows That Books Can Change Views on Gender Stereotypes

Your Reward for Reading: Blep