Genre Fiction
![Sandra Smith - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001I9VW86.jpg)
![Irene Nemirovsky - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B00456FPPU.jpg)
Suite Française
Beginning in Paris on the eve of the Nazi occupation in 1940, Suite Française tells the remarkable story of men and women thrown together in circumstances beyond their control. As Parisians flee the city, human folly surfaces in every imaginable way: a wealthy mother searches for sweets in a town without food; a couple is terrified at the thought of losing their jobs, even as their world begins to fall apart. Moving on to a provincial village now occupied by German soldiers, the locals must learn to coexist with the enemy-in their town, their homes, even in their hearts.
When Irène Némirovsky began working on Suite Française, she was already a highly successful writer living in Paris. But she was also a Jew, and in 1942 she was arrested and deported to Auschwitz, where she died. For sixty-four years, this novel remained hidden and unknown.
When Irène Némirovsky began working on Suite Française, she was already a highly successful writer living in Paris. But she was also a Jew, and in 1942 she was arrested and deported to Auschwitz, where she died. For sixty-four years, this novel remained hidden and unknown.
Editorial Reviews
"Stunning. . . . A tour de force." -The New York Times Book Review
"Remarkable." -Newsweek
"An incisive, heartbreaking portrait of a small French town under seige, and the people trying to survive, even to live, as Hitler's horrors march closer and closer to their doors. . . . A masterpiece of observation and character study, a standout of Holocaust literature." -New York
"[Némirovsky] sees the fullness of humanity. . . . A lost masterpiece." -O, the Oprah Magazine
"Gripping. . . . Brilliant. . . . Endlessly fascinating." -The Nation
"Transcendent, astonishing. . . . The last great fiction of the war." -The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
"Superb." -The Washington Post Book World
"Extraordinary. . . . A work of Proustian scope and delicacy, by turns funny and deeply moving." -Time
"Remarkable." -Newsweek
"An incisive, heartbreaking portrait of a small French town under seige, and the people trying to survive, even to live, as Hitler's horrors march closer and closer to their doors. . . . A masterpiece of observation and character study, a standout of Holocaust literature." -New York
"[Némirovsky] sees the fullness of humanity. . . . A lost masterpiece." -O, the Oprah Magazine
"Gripping. . . . Brilliant. . . . Endlessly fascinating." -The Nation
"Transcendent, astonishing. . . . The last great fiction of the war." -The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
"Superb." -The Washington Post Book World
"Extraordinary. . . . A work of Proustian scope and delicacy, by turns funny and deeply moving." -Time
Readers Top Reviews
BarbaraR.MintcakeBar
I read this beautiful book about 6 years ago, lent my copy to a 'friend' - you know the rest! I saw the film in France and it rekindled my desire to re-read the book. This is an intensely moving and realistic narrative. It came to life for me as I lived near Tours in France for several years, and the Occupation was still a haunting presence for my older French friends. The first part which describes the stories of some of the 2 million people escaping the Nazi arrival in Paris is exquisitely drawn, and leaves an indelible imprint on the imagination. Unforgettable testimony. The second part is the moving friendship between a lonely French woman and a German officer. Everything is against this attraction at every level. Beautifully crafted by the author. This book is still my number one read, and I will not be lending it to anyone in future - I insist you buy your own copy, and find out about the author - another moving experience. Also, read her other books too.
Consumer
I read the book after seeing the movie on Netflix. I recommend the book and movie. After viewing the movie, my curiosity was piqued and read about the author and then Kindle read the book and bought a book of four novellas by Nemirovsky. I plan on reading more of her works. Without a lovely movie, I would never have been introduced to an excellent author who has long passed.
D. BookHugger
This is an amazing book in that it was an eyewitness account of events, made even more interesting by the author's insights into her characters. She has little patience with the pampered upper classes and their expectations of privilege during the crisis--though in the end, even with those types, patriotism prevails. Nemirovsky has a beautiful writing style and a real sense of the dramatic. The book is an easy read with interesting characters and a good flow. Part 2 offers an unusual portrayal of the German invaders--they were polite and even paid for the things they took. It was a privilege to read this book, considering the tragic story of the author's life and death.
Secret Spi
An air of melancholy pervades Irene Nemirovsky's 'Suite Francaise', due both to the novellas themselves and to the circumstances in which they were written - and those that prevented the author finishing the suite. It is extraordinary to think that these novellas were being written as the events of WW2 unfolded, not with retrospect. The two novellas are loosely linked via one or two of the same characters. The first, 'Storm in June' follows the exodus from Paris as the Germans invaded. This traumatic pageant has something of a documentary feel, as if the author is a journalist, observing the characters as they make their very human mistakes in the panic. The characters are mainly from the middle and upper echelons of Parisian society, and Nemirovsky's narrative is observational and insightful, yet unsentimental: 'Panic.stricken, some of the women threw down their babies as if they were cumbersome packages and ran. Others grabbed their children and held them so tightly they seemed to want to force them back into the womb, as if that were the only truly safe place.' The second novella, 'Dolce' is of a different character: static, focussed on a few characters, intense and bittersweet. The characterisation is superb and the uneasy relationship between the occupied and the occupier superbly portrayed. The atmosphere is wonderful: you can taste, smell and breathe the French summer days and nights. I liked the circularity of the story. Of course, the stories are fragments, maybe unedited to the author's satisfaction. One can only wonder at what might have been had she survived to complete the suite.
wdgolf
I had to put some adjectives as part of this review which describe the book. The plot of the book revolves around the German invasion of France and how it affects the lives of the people in the towns. I found the book to be very moving and very realistic- I had a sense of people encapsulated by the events around them, still able to see birds singing and nature in full bloom, while war is occurring right in front of them at the same time. I was captivated by this book and the complexity of emotions, situations, characters, and the choices they make as well as the circumstances that bind them and in some cases doom them. There is always a juxtaposition too, between people who are not marked for death and exist in relative safety while the others had to somehow hide completely and thoroughly and at the same time find ways to eat, to sleep, to stay alive. Some people may not think the book is full of surprises, but reading the book enabled me to see through the eyes of the narrator and therefore the entire book was a surprise as it is a world I have never experienced and could not begin to anticipate Even knowing the outcome of the war; it is altogether different to be inside the war while it is occurring and to be faced with situations that are part of being occupied and at war.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1War Hot, thought the Parisians. The warm air of spring. It was night, they were at war and there was an air raid. But dawn was near and the war far away. The first to hear the hum of the siren were those who couldn't sleep-the ill and bedridden, mothers with sons at the front, women crying for the men they loved. To them it began as a long breath, like air being forced into a deep sigh. It wasn't long before its wailing filled the sky. It came from afar, from beyond the horizon, slowly, almost lazily. Those still asleep dreamed of waves breaking over pebbles, a March storm whipping the woods, a herd of cows trampling the ground with their hooves, until finally sleep was shaken off and they struggled to open their eyes, murmuring, "Is it an air raid?"The women, more anxious, more alert, were already up, although some of them, after closing the windows and shutters, went back to bed. The night before-Monday, 3 June-bombs had fallen on Paris for the first time since the beginning of the war. Yet everyone remained calm. Even though the reports were terrible, no one believed them. No more so than if victory had been announced. "We don't understand what's happening," people said.They had to dress their children by torchlight. Mothers lifted small, warm, heavy bodies into their arms: "Come on, don't be afraid, don't cry." An air raid. All the lights were out, but beneath the clear, golden June sky, every house, every street was visible. As for the Seine, the river seemed to absorb even the faintest glimmers of light and reflect them back a hundred times brighter, like some multifaceted mirror. Badly blacked-out windows, glistening rooftops, the metal hinges of doors all shone in the water. There were a few red lights that stayed on longer than the others, no one knew why, and the Seine drew them in, capturing them and bouncing them playfully on its waves. From above, it could be seen flowing along, as white as a river of milk. It guided the enemy planes, some people thought. Others said that couldn't be so. In truth, no one really knew anything. "I'm staying in bed," sleepy voices murmured, "I'm not scared." "All the same, it just takes one . . ." the more sensible replied.Through the windows that ran along the service stairs in new apartment blocks, little flashes of light could be seen descending: the people living on the sixth floor were fleeing the upper storeys; they held their torches in front of them, in spite of the regulations. "Do you think I want to fall on my face on the stairs! Are you coming, Emile?" Everyone instinctively lowered their voices as if the enemy's eyes and ears were everywhere. One after another, doors slammed shut. In the poorer neighbourhoods there was always a crowd in the Métro, or the foul-smelling shelters. The wealthy simply went to sit with the concierge, straining to hear the shells bursting and the explosions that meant bombs were falling, their bodies as tense as frightened animals in dark woods as the hunter gets closer. Though the poor were just as afraid as the rich, and valued their lives just as much, they were more sheeplike: they needed one another, needed to link arms, to groan or laugh together.Day was breaking. A silvery blue light slid over the cobblestones, over the parapets along the quayside, over the towers of Notre-Dame. Bags of sand were piled halfway up all the important monuments, encircling Carpeaux's dancers on the façade of the Opera House, silencing the Marseillaise on the Arc de Triomphe.Still at some distance, great guns were firing; they drew nearer, and every window shuddered in reply. In hot rooms with blacked-out windows, children were born, and their cries made the women forget the sound of sirens and war. To the dying, the barrage of gunfire seemed far away, without any meaning whatsoever, just one more element in that vague, menacing whisper that washes over those on the brink of death. Children slept peacefully, held tight against their mothers' sides, their lips making sucking noises, like little lambs. Street sellers' carts lay abandoned, full of fresh flowers.The sun came up, fiery red, in a cloudless sky. A shell was fired, now so close to Paris that from the top of every monument birds rose into the sky. Great black birds, rarely seen at other times, stretched out their pink-tinged wings. Beautiful fat pigeons cooed; swallows wheeled; sparrows hopped peacefully in the deserted streets. Along the Seine each poplar tree held a cluster of little brown birds who sang as loudly as they could. From deep beneath the ground came the muffled noise everyone had been waiting for, a sort of three-tone fanfare. The air raid was over.2 In the Péricand household they listened in shocked silence to the evening news on the radio, but no one passed comment on the latest developments...
