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Évelyne Trouillot

Haitian playwright and writer

Évelyne Trouillot (born January 2, 1954) is an author and professor who lives in Haiti. She writes in French and Creole.

Trouillot in 2011

Quotes

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  • Sadly, it’s easy for publishers to fall into the trap of publishing texts that spread hastily formed impressions of a country and its people and unquestioningly recirculate damaging stereotypes. In that regard, books that abound in superficial references to vodou and pile up images of violence and deprivation seem to attract some editors, conveniently reinforcing their narrow perception of the Haitian reality. It takes a conscious commitment to diversify the array of translated books and to include non-Anglophone Black authors without trying to confine them to pigeonholes.
  • As a Black, non-Anglophone Haitian woman writer, I write about my personal world in my own languages (Creole and French) in order to move toward other people. With no concern for what a prospective Anglophone editor might think of my texts. Furthermore, the published book no longer belongs to me, and translated, my hold on it loosens even further. And my writings, stemming from my lived experience and my aesthetic and social vision for a more beautiful and just world, are presented to readers who are not always acquainted with my reality. It’s the same for other writers who, like me, are translated into English or other languages. Our words become conduits, bridges, walkways that transport meaning. It is to be hoped that these writings reach new readers in their full integrity and without distortion in a form conducive to candid and fruitful encounters. Respecting the diverse roots of creativity.
  • The solution for a country is never outside the country; it should emerge, and grow and develop, from within. We can’t all be Baydenns [emigrants]. A whole nation cannot leave. The more people leave, the more the country declines. It’s a vicious circle, we’re going round and round.
  • We Haitian citizens know the damages already caused by foreign forces in the country. Many questions need to be asked: Where did the guns and bullets that have reached Haiti come from? The country does not manufacture guns or bullets. Why do international bodies, and other foreign countries continue to support the de facto government while it refuses to prevent the violence from bandits?
  • Violence can prevent us from looking at the bigger picture and make us prisoners of the mundane – on guard so we don’t catch stray bullets. We should not be prisoners of this manufactured violence, which keeps us in a state of despair and constant fear. We have to keep our capacity to reflect on the situation and continue to look for and find solutions that take into account the dire realities of violence, while addressing the deeper structural problems of our society. The solution does not involve sending foreign soldiers to land in a country they do not know. The solution must go further than killing thugs. Rather, the solution requires that foreign governments stop butting into the country’s affairs. The solution is within. It demands that we, as Haitians, are not afraid to look properly at the problems, find a way to establish justice, break with the impunity, distribute our resources fairly, and gather our strength and dignity to establish a society that can work for us. It will not be an easy task, but it is possible. I still believe that.
  • I wasn't intending to write a historical novel. May I be forgiven, then, for the few discrepancies and creative liberties I've taken. I only seek to acknowledge my characters' humanity. Yet I must refuse any responsibility for the torture and punishment described in the text. They are all unfortunately true, born of the cruel and perfidious imagination of those who proclaimed themselves to be civilized.
    • Afterword to The Infamous Rosalie (2003)

Memory at Bay (2010)

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novel orginially published as La mémoire aux abois, translated from the French by Paul Curtis Daw (2015)

  • I head home with the smell of the old woman's withered flesh on my fingers. The vision of her form sprawled limply on the bed like a nameless doll accompanies me through the streets of Paris. Why had they added that room to my list?
    "Whatever you do, mademoiselle, don't reveal her name. No one should know who she is. Besides, we have no official confirmation. I thought you were only a child when you left your country. The dictator-I'm talking about the father, of course-was already dead when you were born, so you mustn't get carried away. Management has not authorized us to say that this woman is really his widow. In any case, this is no concern of yours."
    Who does he take me for, that idiot of a director with his conspiratorial air? Even if I weren't the daughter of Marie-Carmelle, who suffered all her life from the horrors of the Doréval era, I would have recognized that woman's face. How could I forget it?
    • beginning of chapter 1
  • Today, old and bedbound, she finds herself alone. She knows we are always alone at the end of life, even when relatives are holding our hand, even when those who love us are shedding genuine tears. We must confront death all alone. There's no longer any way to hide behind plans, intentions, or dreams. It's necessary to look at the life behind us and say good-bye to it. We can pretend otherwise, but what good would it do? Along the way, illusions and self-deception help us to continue, but at the end of the road, they become useless masks that we must discard, for whether we like it or not, the flesh is laid bare and revealed for what it is. (chapter 1 p31)
  • Two crimson nights, followed by so many days of silence. (chapter 1 p34)
  • I wonder if someday I'll be able to free myself from the forlorn and agonizing shell in which you raised me. When I look at the figure stretched out on the bed, I can't let go of my hostility, because I'm afraid that dejection will take its place and leave me with no defense against despair. (chapter 1 p34)
  • They've become elements of my universe, so powerful a part of my mental space and of my memories that it seems to me I'll never be able to escape them and will always remain captive to their ghosts. (chapter 3 p67)
  • Always in the backs of their minds were their memories of an oppressive past, from which they could hope to break free only with great turmoil and agitation. (chapter 3 p100 )
  • I detest death. It's been around us all my life, invading our slightest movements. Unknown dead people dominated my childhood and adolescence. All those anonymous fatalities I mourned. Family members with frozen expressions in yellowed family photos. I abhor the atmosphere in which you raised me-oozing with fear and regret, anger and powerlessness, with unfinished farewells forever dangling. An atmosphere devouring every intention I had of living happily. Swallowing up all my possibilities of pleasure and joy.
    I detest this dour gravity I inherited from you.
    • chapter 4 p104

The Infamous Rosalie (2003)

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translated from the original French L'infame Rosalie into English by M.A. Salvodon (2013)

  • I weave through the maze of paths between the shacks, taking care to go the back way, avoiding the one window through which I can glimpse the dark, damp rooms inside the house. My blue serge skirt swirls around my legs, and I hold it up with one hand to keep it out of the puddles from yesterday's rain. I run, ignoring the occasional scolding looks and grumblings that follow me, responding to well-meaning advice with a flick of my hand. (first lines)
  • Between us silence covers the wounds with a veil of peace and a soft breeze. (p19)
  • After each of our encounters filled with love and pain, she would tell me: "Your story must dwell, vigilant, under your skin, at the tips of your hair. Each piece that you add to it grows roots and stars for your dreams." (p20)
  • "when a house falls down, you don't accuse the window of not closing properly!"..."Never explain to a man being whipped how to avoid blows. Every one learns to protect the body part most sensitive to him, his most vital part. You'll see all sorts of ruses that we slaves invent to try to survive this horror. Some will seem ridiculous, others barbaric, but who can really judge? A human being will do whatever he needs to do to make sure the breath that fills his voice belongs to him. It's his right." (p42-3)
  • These words come back to remind me that I am a slave, and it is in this truth that my strength lies. Whether a field slave or a house slave, man, woman, or child, the slave is a creature who has lost his soul between the mill and the sugarcane, between the ship's hold and its steerage, between the crinoline and the slap in the face. Shame stains our every gesture. When we place our feet, undeserving of shoes, on the ground, when we let our exhausted bodies fall on cornhusk mattresses, and when we swing the bamboo fans, we crush our souls under the weight of our shame. Only our gestures of revolt truly belong to us. (p62)
  • "it smells like danger, blood, and anger around here. You know just what I'm talking about. Don't wait until your life closes in on you to know what to do with it!" (p63)
  • My youth longs for the calendas, the coral necklaces and images of sun-filled fields, where there are no bent backs, no overseers, no children dying. My youth wants to erase the stories of The Infamous Rosalie and barracoons, to lift off this weight that clouds my vision whenever I try to dream. (p64)

Interviews

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for Words Without Borders (2019)

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  • I started writing naturally, not really knowing why. After more than twenty years since the publication of my first book of short stories, I believe that writing has become a necessity for me. As a human being, a black woman, writing helps me to make sense of the world. The more I write, the more I read, the more I see the world and its challenges—the deep inequalities, the constant struggles of the majority of the world’s population to live decently—the more I see writing as an urgency.
  • Some themes seem to come back to me even when I don’t realize it at the beginning. Madness, motherhood and all the shapes it can take, unlikely encounters, impossible situations that bring human beings into . . . madness.
  • Haiti is a world of extreme gaps and contrasts. For the past forty years, the gaps have become bigger and bigger. One has the feeling that there are multiple spaces and countries within the same country. Each group for numerous reasons stays in its own environment, making the encounters between the different groups rare and unlikely. As a citizen I think that we have to find ways to force different types of Haitians to live together. Evidently, this requires social justice and the end of abject poverty for the majority while a minority is living in luxury. As a writer I like to envision such situations where, for one reason or another, individuals with different backgrounds meet, and then I explore what the results could be. To go beyond what is apparent and delve into emotions and let the readers also envision what is possible.
  • Literature is a key to understanding human nature, social relations, and feelings.

for Bomb Magazine (2005)

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interviewed by Edwidge Danticat

  • Writing can be both a task of memory, or homage, and simply a hand held out, the offer to share a sadness that’s too heavy to bear alone. To continue working and try to make a difference constitutes both an obligation and a renewal. This does not mean that writers cannot intervene in other ways, but for me writing helps me sort out my thoughts and feelings, and at the same time, I think I can have some impact on people’s minds.
  • This is a year not just to celebrate the past; it is a year to build, to change, to question, to recover our history and demystify it.
  • The writer is also a citizen: a citizen who writes. Someone who makes sense of things. For me, this production of meaning does not happen in a vacuum, in a space without place, without society. The social calls out to me.
  • Poetry, of course, is special, unique. It is a metamorphosis of language that transforms both reader and poet, an exquisite and melancholy exercise. Sometimes, in difficult moments, I take down a text by the Haitian writer René Philoctète or the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish and my darkness fills with light. For me that’s what poetry is. And fiction has the power to shed new light on life, on people, on relations between human beings, on our relations with ourselves.
  • While writing Rosalie l’infâme, I rediscovered the history of the revolution, I learned about the struggles of the enslaved women, men and children in their daily lives; their struggles to maintain their dignity. And I truly believe that if the slaves had not fought for their dignity, if they had not managed to maintain some dignity amid the most inhuman system, the Haitian revolution would not have been possible. While doing my research for writing Rosalie, I could empathize with them because finally I saw them as human beings and not as an anonymous mass of victims of slavery.
  • I think that we often tend not to face the pages of our history that upset us. I would have thought that there would be many more texts, many more stories around the Duvalier dictatorship. Generations of men and women were marked by this period. But it’s the same story as for slavery: there is shame in speaking of it, like a wound that one is scared to touch.
  • This image of the condemned books remains for me one of the strongest images of the repression, this repression of knowledge and of creative freedom. Isn’t that one of the strongest armies used by dictators everywhere?
  • I feed off of my observations, above all. Sometimes it just takes a remark for an idea for a story or a character to arise. Or unconsciously I store things away and the next time I sit down to write, they come back to me. Obviously writing is a digestion of our experiences. Certain characters of mine draw on the image I have of people in my life...But I think that what makes a text interesting is its capacity to go beyond one’s own experiences, to succeed in sharing a different world. This requires a lot of sensitivity, and also self-knowledge. Writing allows me to better understand the world in which I developed. If I really want to create meaning, I must be honest with myself, and not present a simplistic version of things. Most of the time this means setting aside my own experiences, transcending them.
  • I am more and more convinced that the future of Haitian literature rests in a broadened set of topics. It cannot deal only with exile, dictatorship and misery. I want to limit neither the topics nor the manner of approaching them. I think this is the feeling of many Haitian writers. For me, to be a writer today means to appropriate a space for creation even if, and especially when, conditions threaten both existence and the development of art. The writer has the ability to throw new light on reality. In that resides the artist’s power and originality. When a writer turns away from the path that is attributed to him and takes another path to offer an unexpected view, it is literary creation that wins. If one is obligated to write against political repression, one remains under the dictatorship. It is up to each artist to redefine the universe, to resist the preconceived ideas of their homeland, to not hesitate to pry open the vice of this or that set of topics that has been assigned, to find a way to defy the constraints imposed by sociopolitical context, revolutionary consciousness and the vision of others. One must escape every embargo on the imagination to question the world.
  • Contact with books pushed me toward writing. In books I found a special space of the imagination, and I wanted to create my own...When I write, I feel so rich. Rich with love affairs and friendships that I have had, rich with my experience as a mother of two children, rich with my life as one half of a couple, rich with my ups and downs, with everything that I have seen and read...Reading and writing function for me as two sides of the same adventure: the meeting of language, ideas, and images.
  • (Who were your models when you began writing?) I was always drawn to novelists. Maupassant remains a master for me and I reread his stories and novels with more and more pleasure. Nabokov too. I like writers who manage to affect us profoundly in relatively few pages. As for Haitian authors, other than René Philoctète, who, in poetry, remains unsurpassable, there are some writers whose work enriches literature: Jacques Stephen Alexis is well known; Anthony Lespes, in my opinion, deserves to be.
  • I like this back and forth between the past and the present, between memory and reality.

Quotes about

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  • One of the first things I was told in Haiti is that all families have at least

one member in the army, at least one member in the Macoutes, and at least one member killed by the army or the Macoutes. Memory at Bay is a distressingly beautiful evocation of this eerie symbiosis between oppressor and victim, by one of the best writers in the Caribbean basin today. As one of Évelyne Trouillot's characters says to another, "My only inheritance from you was your torment."

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