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BOOK: On Writing – The Hunger Diaries by Mavis Gallant
Mavis Gallant’s “The Hunger Diaries” provides a glimpse into the life of a young writer striving to establish herself in Europe during the 1950s. The diary entries, spanning from March to June 1952, chronicle her experiences in Spain, where she struggles financially while awaiting payment for her stories. Her diary highlights her daily life, including interactions with locals, observations of Spanish culture, and her deep commitment to her craft amidst hardship.
Gallant details her persistent hunger, financial anxieties, and the emotional toll of artistic creation, as well as the relationships with those around her. She faces challenges and grapples with self-doubt, all while wrestling with her novel. Ultimately, the diary offers an intimate look into the sacrifices and struggles of a writer pursuing her passion in a foreign land.
An excerpt from the book:
MADRID, APRIL 1952
I live on bread, wine, and mortadella. Europe for me is governed by the price of mortadella. I know the Uniprix [department store] in France, the Upim in Rome, and here the sepu, all alike, with music piped in. In Madrid, subdued flamenco, and they seem to like the airs from Sigmund Romberg operettas.
Went to see “Oliver Twist,” which was dubbed and seemed very strange. In one scene, when he is beaten, the young people in the audience burst into maniacal laughter.
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This flat is full of sound. There is a squeaky baby I have not yet seen, who cries like a toy being pressed. His mother croons and sounds like the Duchess in “Alice.” And then there is the strange dark woman who shouts, and a very little, dark old creature with a senile face who creeps up to me and murmurs in the passage. I talk to her cheerfully in English until someone comes and rushes her off to the kitchen. The people are not friendly, but nice. I think not accustomed to foreigners.
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“Mama, look at the señora smoking,” a little girl cried, staring at me, in a café. Cool wind, fluttering apricot-colored tablecloths. At night the sky is deep indigo, the moon a piece of cold metal. Few city lights, and so it is almost a country sky. The sound of Madrid is a million trampling feet. Its smell is cooking oil. Everything tastes of it, even the breakfast croissants. This flat is awash in it. At lunch I saw a meal being prepared – a bath of oil with something sinister swimming inside.
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