‘Everyone has a mother, but we don’t all smash up our lives for her sake,’ we hear in the first few pages of Lili is Crying. It’s a sensible message, but one which seems suited to an entirely different book. Hélène Bessette’s 1953 debut novel – translated into English for the first time – is a tale of bust-ups, mistakes and life-ruining decisions in a fiery, fickle relationship between a mother and daughter.
Charlotte and her daughter Lili live in Provence, and the novel jumps between the 1930s and 1940s, from Lili’s ‘ribbons and Sunday dresses’ to her first freighted dalliances with boys. Charlotte runs a boarding house from which Lili longs to escape – and nearly manages to, with the same young man who tries to convince her not to destroy her life for her mother. His honesty is his mistake, and Lili fails to leave for him – eventually ‘going off’ not with ‘the man I do love’ but instead ‘with the man I don’t’. Her flight ends in failure – there are disappointments and a backstreet abortion – and it isn’t long before she is back with Charlotte. The two stay together while Lili’s husband, a Slav, is interned in Dachau for the duration of the war.
Bessette’s prose is prickly and snappy, with short lines and speech introduced by dashes. On the page it looks more like verse than prose, an effect which matches Bessette’s take on the ‘poetic novel’. Yet the style is even less defined than this suggests. The action is narrated by everyone and no one. Even the house in Provence has a voice, resentful, complaining: ‘Naturally, they slam my doors.
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