Incest

A daring novel that made Christine Angot one of the most controversial figures in contemporary France recounts the narrator's incestuous relationship with her father. Tess Lewis's forceful translation brings into English this audacious novel of taboo.

The narrator is falling out from a torrential relationship with another woman. Delirious with love and yearning, her thoughts grow increasingly cyclical and wild, until exposing the trauma lying behind her pain. With the intimacy offered by a confession, the narrator embarks on a psychoanalysis of herself, giving the reader entry into her tangled experiences with homosexuality, paranoia, and, at the core of it all, incest. In a masterful translation from the French by Tess Lewis, Christine Angot's Incest audaciously confronts its readers with one of our greatest taboos.2018 Prix Albertine finalist

"A sensation in France, [INCEST is a] novel in the form of a wild confession of a life filled with trauma..." — The New York Times

"Written in emotional, stream-of-consciousness prose, Incest can often feel agitated and erratic, perfectly capturing the shattered inner world of its narrator, who is suggested throughout to be the author herself. . . Incest challenges, disgusts and confounds, making it a moving and memorable contribution to contemporary literature. Angot's work of auto-fiction confronts the brutality and pervasiveness of desire and will appeal to those both fascinated and terrified by explorations into the darkness of human nature." — Shelf Awareness

"Angot is being most truthful when she is discussing her choices as a writer. On one level, I see this book as a treatise on writing itself." —Electric Literature

"At times reminiscent of playwright Sarah Kane, particularly in her incantatory free associations ... Incest is remarkably prescient. Christine Angot pinpoints how technology antagonizes mental health; how a lack of immediate reply can give the obsessive mind no room to breath." — Rebecca Watson, The Times Literary Supplement

"Given Angot’s antagonism toward conventional syntax, the English translation, by Tess Lewis, is a feat of perspicuity. . . When “L’Inceste” was first published, an interviewer asked Angot what she hoped to achieve. “My ambition is to be unmanageable,” she said. “That people swallow me and at the same time cannot digest me.”" — New Yorker

"Angot’s writing reclaims the confession as a radical act—spiritual, even...At its core, Incest is a true testament to the subversive power of literature." — Elizabeth Baird, The Millions

"A 2013 Telegraph article labelled Angot as 'France’s Queen of Shock-Fiction.' This seems to imply that there’s something inauthentic about Angot. But there’s nothing inauthentic about the way she examines incest’s effect on her character’s cognition, or her ability to derive meaning and draw connections from even the most horrific of personal experiences."   —Rebecca Rand, ZYZZVA

"Angot works the spirit over. One is exhausted, but one also cries, Finally, an authentic experience! Rude and raw, artful but brash and unpredictable...This is what we might all hope to write, to make, to communicate. This should be everyone’s letter to the world. Let us hope more of Angot’s work reaches the English-speaking world, and soon." --David Pratt, Lambda Literary

"[INCEST] creates a space where imagination, potential futures, and pasts mingle with experiences, where the ‘I’ slips from the author to the narrator and gets lost in the vortex of language; it is language that speaks—the writer just writes... Voices echoing from the fractures, this is Incest: a collective adventure for the one that writes and the ones that read." — Giorgos Kassiteridis, Asymptote

"[Incest] is rich, intimate, and pulls you in... [Angot's] books are an incantation, biblical in their onrush of verbs, nouns, names, and deliberate repetitions in the service of rhythm and camouflage, compelling you to read on, for sound, for cadence, for poetry... Take Incest into your arms and let yourself experience Angot as you would music, or an image of great evocative power." —Tsipi Keller, Asymptote Journal

"[A] brilliant portrait of a brain almost continually on fire with self-loathing... both a mesmerizing and harrowing ride... I believe Angot has done something truly spectacular here... How many of us have been lost in darkness and unable to think our way out of it? Angot’s life is lived in that state—a state of perpetual chaos and dejection. And she has used her brazen, fierce intelligence to translate this reality to the page in a way that reveals her brilliance as a writer and her sadness as a human being. Her journey is one you will never forget." —Elaine Margolin, Truth Dig

"The exquisite frenzy of the novel is captured masterfully in Tess Lewis’ translation, which preserves not just the passion and the mania of Angot’s narrator, but her wit and her wordplay as well. Lewis has managed to get inside the narrator’s head and translate her essence and energy, as well as her words, perfectly into English." —The Arkansas International

“Incest is a thrilling book. It's a formally daring and passionate performance of the depths of human self-loathing, and the sufferings of attachment. It cut deep inside me with its truths. In every moment of reading it, I both wanted to keep reading it and wanted to write. I don’t think I will ever forget this book.” — Sheila Heti, author of How Should a Person Be?

"A maximalist in the art of emotion, Angot unmasks with frightening precision the roiling heart and the sharp edges of lust, loathing, and scorn lodged within love's fossil record.  This is a book that points you toward the subterranean roots of your own emotions, the intricacies and murk we cover up in the name of normal daily operations." — Alexandra Kleeman, author of You Too Can Have a Body Like Mine

"[Incest] stylistically, is near perfection.. I would recommend this novel to anyone, especially fans of modern/contemporary literary fiction or experimental fiction." — Matthew E. Jackson

"I feel that books like this HAVE to be written to keep the landscape of modern literature fresh, live and moving forward." — Bookish Lara

"All said and done, Christine Angot is rock 'n' roll. Not what it became, but what it should never have ceased to be: raw, concise, radical, subversive.... Angot serves as a mirror, revealing to her readers all their paradoxes and contradictions." --Françoise-Marie Santucci, Libération

"It is clear that Christine Angot has won, because we are going to be thinking for a long time about this book. Because it will need a long study written about it in order to examine all of its hypotheses, its contradictions, understand the questions it puts forward, study its passion, disgust, insanity, the dream of controlled incest, the fantasy of incest fulfilled....What's at play in the work of Angot, in her force, her violence, is an idea of literature as a means of escaping from every collective, from all policing ... to think and write in one's singularity." --Josyane Savigneau, Le Monde

"Auto-fiction at its extreme does not aspire here to shock but to give literature back its dangerous function and return to it its dignity." --Gérard MeudalAUTHOR: Christine Angot is one of the most controversial authors writing today in France. Born in 1958 in Châteauroux, Angot studied law at the University of Reims and began writing at the age of 25. After six years of rejections, Angot published her first novel, Vu du ciel, the story of woman named Christine told from the perspective of an angel who died after being raped as a little girl. Her subsequent novels have dealt with a variety of taboo topics, including homosexuality, incest, and sexual violence, and have continually blurred the line between autobiography and fiction. Ever since gaining widespread notoriety with the 1999 publication of Incest, Angot has remained at the center of public debate and has continued to push the boundaries of what society allows an author to express.

TRANSLATOR: Tess Lewis is a translator from German and French and an Advisory Editor of The Hudson Review. She has been awarded translation grants from PEN America and PEN UK, an NEA Translation Fellowship, and a Max Geilinger Translation Grant for her translation of Philippe Jaccottet.I was homosexual for three months. More precisely, for three
months I thought I was condemned to be homosexual. I
really had caught it, I wasn’t imagining things. The test
results were positive. I’d become attached. Not the first few times.
It was the looks she gave. I started on a process, one of collapse.
In which I couldn’t recognize myself. It wasn’t my story anymore.
It wasn’t me. Still, as soon as I saw her, the test results were the
same. I was homosexual the moment I saw her. Things turned
back into me afterwards. Whenever she was gone. Other times,
even in her presence, I was myself again. I missed my daughter
so much on trips, when I was away for longer stretches, three or
four days. The feeling of betraying the only one I truly love. To
whom I’d dedicated all my books. Writing is impossible. When
you’re not yourself. My sexuality suffered. In the beginning I was
dissatisfied. Then. I wasn’t anymore. I was less and less. Except
for one thing (I’ll get to it later), that I never enjoyed doing.
Something specific, that involves all the rest. Except for once, I
remember. I never did it, so to speak. I had become one hundred
percent homosexual apart from that. Apparently. The moment I
saw her. But for this detail. Remaining fundamentally and profoundly
heterosexual all the while. (But, without theory.) One
detail that spared me. Otherwise I was completely homosexual.
For a short time, but still, three months. There were no men at all
in my fantasies, on the contrary, there were women rivals. I was
on the sidelines, they were rivals with each other. I was fascinated
by homosexuality. No one is fascinated by themselves, I wasn’t
homosexual. And yet. I ended up feeling an enormous desire. As
soon as I saw her arriving, I was caught. Even now, I still have to.
Even at this very moment. Have to stop myself from calling her.
Calling her at work, that’s my specialty. It amused her at first. All
the “quick calls.” The secretary knew my voice. Of course. Right
away. The secretaries recognize my voice. Right away, they know
it’s Christine. I keep at it, I’m relentless. I make it clear, I’m not
embarrassed. The weapon turns against me sooner or later. I use
it. My former editor used to say “she’s a serial killer.” I want to call
him too sometimes. My father has Alzheimer’s, typical, I call
others. I telephone. Her, I can’t count the number of times. I call
again. I hang up. I call back to say, “above all, don’t call me again.”
“I don’t want to hear from you anymore.” I don’t get a call. I
telephone again. I say “you could have called me back. So you
weren’t going to call, hunh? You don’t have the guts! To do the
opposite of what I tell you for once. When you know perfectly
well… it’s not what I wanted. You know it’s not true, what I say.
Not what I want. But the opposite. After three months, you still
haven’t figured it out. You know that’s how it is. And if you don’t,
well then…” Behaving like a baby. I’m perfectly aware. Not at first,
though it was normal to call her at work ten times in an hour. She
claims she loves me. For a blown light bulb, an empty ink cartridge,
a fax that won’t go through, to read her what I’ve just
written over the phone, for some anxiety attack coming on. Etc.
Dinner, do you love me, and I forgot to tell you, I thought to
myself, I’ll call her or I’ll have forgotten again by this evening. At first,
it comes off well, she likes it, it’s spontaneous, it’s a change. Serial
killer, it’s part of my charm. I tell her she’s a coward. She tells me
I’m crazy. A lack of balance doesn’t scare me, there are others who
can’t cope. Like her. People like her. Who have limits. I have none.
Her, she has them. Me, I don’t. She can’t stand it. When things
get so… neurotic. I get called insane. Several times. Don’t take it
as an indictment, you’ve got reasons, it’s just an observation. Some
people have limits, you have none. But still, I’m suffering. She
can’t take it anymore. She has her limits. Who could? I hang up.
I pass the mirror. Despite my face being all flushed, I think I look
pretty good. I say to myself, “I’m worth more than this.” I don’t
call her back. I say to myself “I’m not going to call her.” I say to
myself “how dare she… ten years older than I am… and not all
that attractive.” I lie down. Time to move on to something else.
There are other things in life than calling Mademoiselle. I decide
to read. I like reading. This doesn’t interest me. Coeur furieux, my
heart is even more furious. I close the book and try to watch The
Last Temptation of Christ. After five minutes I stretch out on the
sofa and weep. I don’t just shed a few tears. Pretty soon it’s unbearable.
I wonder who to call. Who to talk to about this. What number
to dial to start sobbing right after “hello” and then “what’s the
matter?” How many phone numbers before coming to my senses
again? There are always offers. “If things aren’t going well, call
me.” No, her. To see if she loves me to exhaustion, as she claims.
If not, then really! “I’d do anything for you,” but not take two
hundred phone calls. Right now, this minute! At her place, at
work, at the hospital, with a patient in front of her. And then. I
don’t call her again. I’m relieved, I’m finally free. Phew, I even say
it out loud. I say phew. I pick up the phone and put it on my stomach.
I tell myself that it doesn’t mean anything, there’s no reason
I can’t have it on my stomach. The remote control is on the ground
and still I’m not watching television. So there! Just because the
telephone is on my stomach, doesn’t mean I’m going to call. It’s
absurd! I’m so much better off without her. I’m not going to go
and call her now, just when I’m starting to calm down. Besides, I
have nothing to say. Not a thing. Phew. Really, phew. I didn’t want
to. I was never homosexual. I was never interested in breasts.
Mine included. We finally undressed one day. She said “touch
me.” “Never.” I’ll never be able to. I told her, I remember, even
though it was a long time ago, “your breasts bother me.” She said
“well just your luck, they’re very small.” That’s just it! as long as
I’m at it, I’d have preferred they were bigger. When she said “touch
me,” that’s not what she was talking about. When someone says
touch me… Fine, I put my finger in. You never get a chance to
touch something like that otherwise. Léonore has a book about
touching called Feely Bugs in the ‘Touch and Feel’ series. There’s
nothing like this in it. Not the plush bug, the one with feathers,
with lace, or, of course, the leather one, or the lamé one, or the
very soft bug, the carpet bug, the sticky bug, the padded bug, the
velvet bug or the bug with pleats, or the scratchy one, or the candy
wrapper butterflies she collects. When I felt how slimy it was! I
pulled back my hand. It’s peculiar. Too peculiar. It was the look
she gave me. Even now, I have to keep from thinking of her eyes.
I’m still vulnerable. Her look is terrible. For me. No one had told
her that before. It seems. Sous-au-cun-pré-tex-te. Je-ne-veux. Devanttoi-
surex. Poser-mes-yeux. (Under-no-circumstances. Do-I-want.
To-over-expose. My-eyes-in-front-of-you.) She sings that sometimes.
The phone is in the other room. I’m calm. Right here, right
now. It’s more dangerous when it’s on my stomach. Within reach.
I must have really bothered her at work, the number of times I
called. Up to a hundred times in a day. I can’t count any more.
Sobbing or cold as ice, “you’re hopeless, you poor thing, you poor,
poor thing, but poor thing, your medical license should be revoked
for failure to provide assistance to someone at risk. What a sham,
not a shred of humanity. For someone who’s suffering”… “OK,
you want to be friends, I’m calling as a friend, come over.” She
didn’t come. “In any case, we can never be friends, we’re not going
to see each other any more, it’s perfectly clear, besides sex, did
anything ever work between us, more or less – and even then?
Take care of yourself, sweetheart, keep an eye on your little savings.
When you can’t, you can’t, isn’t that right? We can’t. Take
care, take good care, get some rest, yes, you’re tired, my love, get
some rest and keep watch over what little capital you have, so it
stays untouched. For your legacy when you die. When you’re dead.
For your family.” An allusion to the will she wrote when she was
eight. Pitou to my godmother. My rabbits to Mama as long as they
won’t be killed. My desk to Papa. My books to my cousins. My
toys to poor children. My clothes to Françoise. I want to calm
down. Take this damn phone off my stomach. I eject the tape of
The Last Temptation of Christ and put in Deleuze’s ABC Primer, at
least I won’t waste my time. Not my time, there’s that. Letter B,
boisson, drink. I don’t call. Deleuze immediately raises the bar. Oh
yes, I drank a lot. I stopped. Drinking is a question of quantity.
You don’t drink just anything, everyone has their favorite drink,
the quantity is set. Alcoholics and drug addicts are often ridiculed.
Because ‘Oh, me, I can stop when I want.’ This is the last. The last
phone call, the last, the very last. Before becoming completely
disgusted with it. With calling. Given the answers. When I want
to stop, I do. Next Saturday when I’m back in Paris, this afternoon,
I already stopped a long time ago in my head. With her. The
only woman I love is Léonore, not her. But I can’t dedicate this
one to you, sweetheart. Sweetheart, I used to call you. Even if I’ve
stopped now. Calling. I knew I could stop when I wanted to. I
stopped a long time ago in my head. And Friday, too bad, I’ll go
to Nîmes by myself. We were supposed to go together. I’ll take the
train, I reserved a hotel room. I’ve stopped. Today, in a half hour,
right away, already done, I’m done calling. If she called me, she’d
regret it. She won’t do it, she wouldn’t dare. And if she does, she’ll
regret it. I know how to destroy people. I’ll write her, it’s more
certain. So that she won’t call me anymore. Finally. Phew. Besides,
I’ll take her the letter myself, right now. In person and put it into
her own hands. Unless I send a courier. To show her I didn’t come
up with this pretext just to see her. Something that might seem
like a pretext in her eyes, her beautiful eyes. I’m not going to shell
out 200 francs for that girl. I’ll take it myself. The letter. Written
on stationery from the Gramercy Park Hotel. Where we were so
happy, barely three weeks ago. Happy, well, as for me, not always.
I missed Léonore so much by the third day, I became myself again.
I cried in secret. When she was in the shower I called Claude to
get news. For two days I stopped being homosexual. I kicked her
out of my bed. I never talked about it because I knew it was temporary.
So now I take the stationery, the envelope and a page. I
cross out the letterhead. And I sign it ironically “your little angel!”
But she couldn’t care less that I’m upset. All she wanted: for me
to calm down. I took the letter to her office. I ran. I left Léonore
playing, watched by her friend’s mother. I’d taken her out of
school, I was anxious, I left. I left her with one of her friends’
mothers, I don’t remember which. One of the ones always sitting
on the benches. It was hot out, I arrived covered in sweat, I was
dripping. For forty-eight hours, it was only by running that I could
keep it more or less together. She laughed and said “see you
Saturday,” to calm me down. I’d found her in the X-ray room,
developing some images. At her practice. But in person. In the
little darkroom. Yes, I know, I know I’m all sweaty. And I’d like,
if possible, if it’s not asking too much, I know there are patients
waiting in the next room, for her to read it in front of me. I don’t
want to give it to the receptionist. I want to see her. Her. I want
to be certain she receives it, in her own hands, right away. That
she realize this time, it’s over, I’m done, finished. I ask her, in
addition, to please not try to call me again, there’s no point. I don’t
want her to. I left at a run, I arrived bathed in sweat, I ran everywhere
for two days. The phone calls were rushed, the letters
urgent. To get to the final letter, the final phone call, as quickly as
possible. And to the last kiss, still, you can kiss me. As quickly as
possible. The last water lily, the last look. I turn on the answering
machine, I filter the calls, I won’t answer if it’s her, so there! People
make fun of alcoholics because they don’t understand. They want
to get to the last glass, to do whatever it takes, an alcoholic never
stops stopping. Getting to the last glass.