Voices in Her Head

Reading Lydie Salvayre is principally a matter of listening. A clamor of voices resounds in her writings—voices of rage, of loathing, of indignation, of sorrow, of fear, of desperation. They shout, they whisper, they castigate, they wheedle, they condemn. Some voices are maddeningly prolix, others are painfully laconic; some offer carefully reasoned insight, others speak to say nothing; some emanate from the lower reaches of society, others from points of rare privilege. Often they are monological, either by choice or by force of circumstance; and frequently those voices are anonymous ones. Some speak in bleakly literalist terms, while others layer irony upon irony in a discourse that is hopelessly vexed. Sometimes, people speak constantly, but soundlessly, in a silence more deafening than the most strident voice imaginable. As often as not, nobody listens—except for us, if we are willing.