News #1: A month or two ago I mentioned that Syncopation: A Memoir of Adele Hugo was named a “diamond” and that a review on the Discovering Diamonds website would be forthcoming. The review is up, and it is lovely.
News #2: Syncopation: A Memoir of Adele Hugo is now available as an e-book on amazonUS and amazonUK.
If you have already read Syncopation, consider writing a review of it on amazon: all reviews are welcome, whether you loved it or hated it. After all, no book is for everyone, and shoppers should know if it is a good match for them or not.
Discovering Diamonds is a book review site for historical fiction, bringing attention to well written books published by small presses or self published. The reviewers read many independently published books, and most are not designated a Diamond. I’m stunned and honored that Syncopation is receiving this accolade.
Discovering Diamonds is a wonderful resource for readers of historical fiction who would like to find new books, especially exceptional books overlooked by mainstream publishers. I encourage you to visit the site, to find and read some of the other Diamonds they have discovered.
Today is the release day for the electronic version of Syncopation: A Memoir of Adèle Hugo.
Syncopation is the fictional autobiography of Victor Hugo’s scandalous daughter.
In Nineteenth Century France, a woman’s role was explicitly defined: She was a daughter, then a wife, then a mother. This view was held by novelist and poet Victor Hugo, but not by his daughter, pianist and poet Adèle Hugo. An elderly Adèle recounts her desperate attempts to gain personal freedom. Her memoir blurs the fine line between truth and madness, in a narrative that is off-kilter, skewed, syncopated.
“For humans there is only memory, and memory is unreliable.”
Syncopation is available for $4.99 at Smashwords and other e-book retailers: Barnes and Noble, Kobo, iBook (via your iProduct’s Apple store), Overdrive (ask your library to order it), and more. (It is not currently available at amazon–I will update this blog if that happens).
This is the stall for Syncopation: A Memoir of Adèle Hugo
Writer. Composer. Seductress. Liar.
For humans there is only memory, and memory is unreliable.
In nineteenth-century France, a woman’s role was explicitly defined: she was a daughter, then a wife, then a mother. This view was held by novelist and poet Victor Hugo, but not by his daughter, pianist and poet Adèle Hugo. Under such constraints, what’s a woman of passion to do? Syncopation breathes life into the unconventional thoughts of this controversial female figure. An elderly Adèle recounts her desperate attempts to gain personal freedom. Her memoir blurs the fine line between truth and madness, in a narrative that is off-kilter, skewed, syncopated.
Order your copy of Syncopation, from Cornerstone Press. Want to know more about the story? Read on:
To life there is a rhythm one knows from the womb. It begins as the beat of a mother’s heart–slow and steady and safe. An infant finds the pulse in its own heart and continues the rhythm in its needy sucking. The toddler pitter-pats to the rhythm, and the sound of the servants starting the day carry it through. The pulse is in the wind and the laps of the waves from the Seine; birds sing it and squirrels chitter it; the very soil under out feet moans and groans to its pounding.
In perfect time, from an especially forceful contraction, the baby fell into waiting hands. She screamed in blows staccato and clear, slowing rhythmically to a docile cooing more in tune to her station in life. Adèle was born an angel to a family of gods. Her father, Victor, was a poet, playwright, and politician, brilliant and beloved by his countrymen. She was named for her mother, the first Adèle,the most beautiful woman in France. Her brothers, Charles and François-Victor, were handsome, strong, and clever. And her sister, Léopoldine, was a model eldest sibling—doting and tender, never scolding or haughty. Her skin was a translucent mountain stream: cool and fresh and clean; her generous black hair captured the light and returned it in a blue sheen which mocked the night sky; the moon would hide when Léopoldine went out at night, the orb’s beauty waning in her glow. She was sweet like marzipan, gentle like a summer breeze, flexible like a reed, warm like an old Bordeaux. Léopoldine was perfect like a pearl.
Firecrackers exploded and people shouted when Adèle was born. It was July 28, 1830, the middle day of Les Trois Glorieuses, the three-day revolution protesting the tyrannies of King Charles X. With such a birthday, one knew at once that Adèle was born for glory and fame.
The Hugo house was the first on the newly constructed rue Jean-Goujon, with the wide fields of the Champs-Elysée as their backyard. The family had everything one could desire: parkland to explore, books to read, a small black piano, and each other.
And then one day, as a unit, this perfect family gasped. Those who survived missed a half-beat from the breath of life. If it had been a whole note, they could have perhaps fallen back into the rhythm, but it was a half-beat. They syncopated. They moved out of step, off-kilter. Forever more, they would run and jump and dream and scream, but they would be unable to slip into that easy rhythm, that regular beat that keeps time for the world.
—What are you doing, Dédé?
—I’m writing my memoires, Didine.
—You’ve not written them in first person, Dédé. Why do you write Adèle as if you are not Adèle?
—It is necessary. I will have more freedom in third person. I can explore the minds of others; I can write about places I have not been.
—Do you think that is a good idea?
—If I thought it were a bad idea, I would not do it.
–Au contraire, responded Didine. You would do it exactly because it is a bad idea. I see a sparkle in your eye at the idea of committing mayhem. These “memoires” will surely make people angry.
—Who will become angry? All of the people who might become angry are dead.
—They have left behind children. The children will surely try to stop you.
—Stop the truth? I feel an obligation to let the truth be known.
—Whose truth? asked Didine.
—Is there not but one truth? responded Dédé.
—Perhaps for God. For humans there is only memory and memory is unreliable.
Today I’m welcoming Victor Hugo to my series of author interviews. Victor is the French author, playwright and poet of many works, such as the plays Hernani and Ruy Blas, the novels, Les Misérables and Notre Dame de Paris (sometimes called The Hunchback of Notre Dame), and many collections of poetry, including Feuilles d’automne, Châtiments and des Contemplations.
Elizabeth: Welcome, Victor.
Victor: Thank you for having me.
Elizabeth: Your novel, Les Misérables, was converted more than twenty-five years ago into a very successful musical play and most recently into a movie. What do you think of these adaptations?
Victor: It’s an honor for my work to be sought out in this way. I feel that Les Misérables is one of my greatest achievements and for it to be brought to new generations is rewarding. I think it might have been more effective, though, if it had been done as a serious play. As many of your readers may know, I don’t care for music as an art form. Making my characters sing and dance creates an aura of superficiality and flightiness, making it seem as though these events could never have happened in real life, which is disappointing. It lessens the message of the novel.
Elizabeth: Did you realize that many who view the play Les Mis believe the stand at the barricades was a part of the French revolution?
Victor: Is this true? Pathetic. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. But don’t quote ME on this. I’m not really the one who said it.
Elizabeth: Which authors do you see as having influenced your writing?
Victor: Goethe is the first name that comes to mind. He revolutionized what it meant to be a writer; he understood the depth of ideas and emotion that could be transferred through a written work. Who else? I’m quoted as saying, at age fourteen, “I must be Chateaubriand or nobody,” although I don’t remember saying it. I met Chateaubriand once. He was a belittling, arrogant man.
Elizabeth: You’ve written plays, poetry, novels and essays. Is there a format you prefer?
Victor: Not really. Each has a distinct purpose. A writer should know his purpose before writing and then choose the format that will help him accomplish it. A play has an immediacy not found in other genres; it creates a community of the audience who can be moved all together. A novel can create a depth of emotion difficult to sustain in other formats, and its ability to thoroughly express and share complicated ideas is unparalleled. I find, in my old age, that poetry most suits me now. I’m more reflective than I was in my youth, and I don’t feel the need to make grand, passionate statements that move a people to action. Through poetry I can thank God and my family for what I have and what I’ve learned about live. Hopefully others can read my poems and glean some small wisdom.
Elizabeth: If I may, I’d like to ask you some questions about your daughter.
Victor: Yes, of course. Léopoldine was perfection. I think I always recognized her as an angel, but I didn’t realize her time with us would be so short. I never fully recovered from her death.
Elizabeth: I didn’t mean Léopoldine. I want to ask you about Adèle.
Victor: Adèle? Who put you up to this? I refuse to talk about Adèle. In fact, you can consider this the end of —
Elizabeth: We don’t have to discuss Adèle; I’m sorry for bringing her up. In fact, I believe its time for the let’s-get-to-know-the-author-better, nearly-pointless, sort-of-silly, rapid-fire questions:
Elizabeth: Coffee or tea?
Victor: Coffee. Tea is for wimpy Englishmen.
Elizabeth: Forest or mountain?
Victor: Through forest I will walk, o’er mountain I will fly
Elizabeth: Hiking or shopping?
Victor: Hiking. I’m always telling my wife and daughters that they shop too much.
Elizabeth: Violin or piano?
Victor: I’d rather silence.
Elizabeth: Mystery or fantasy?
Victor: Fantasy. This may surprise you, but I wish that I’d written the Lord of the Rings. Perhaps in another life I am J.R.R. Tolkien.
Elizabeth: Hester Prynne or Scarlet O’Hara?
Elizabeth: Love scene or death scene?
Victor: In real life, the love scene; I’m working to avoid the death scene.
I’d like to thank Victor Hugo for joining me today.
Victor Hugo died on May 23, 1885. This isn’t a real interview: it is an April Fools’ Day interview!
Thanks for playing along. I hope you enjoyed meeting my Victor Hugo character. Although this interview was a piece of historical fiction, Victor did indeed write the books, plays and poems named above. He was the father of four children, all but one of whom he outlived. His “crazy” daughter Adèle stars in my novel, Syncopation.
I’ve been studying Victor Hugo and his work for several decades, and so for many of his answers I allowed myself to “channel” his thoughts. If you want accurate information about Victor Hugo, I suggest going somewhere more credible than a blog!
I recommend: Johanna Richardson’s Victor Hugo, published by St. Martin’s Press in 1976.
Leslie Smith Dow’s Adèle Hugo La Misérable published by Goose Lane Editions in 1993.
My favorite quick source for all things French is my Petit Larousee Illustré, 1987.
Thanks for joining me today and have a Happy April Fools’ Day!
Jessica Knauss has initiated a blog hop to allow book fans a chance to read excerpts from a number of historical novelists. Welcome if you have come here from her page. Go there next, if you started here. My excerpt from Syncopation: A Memoir of Adèle Hugo is below:
Pulling off her gloves, she placed her palms and right cheek against the stone wall. “I like how the cold moves into my blood. I can feel the music, even when there is no service; the building stores the sound of the music. I can hear hymns sung a hundred years ago.”
Adèle opened her eyes and saw him standing several paces from the building. “Come,” she said, tugging at him. “You’re not feeling the cathedral.” She removed his hat, and, threading her fingers through his hair, gently pressed his head against the cold stone. “Close your eyes and feel Notre Dame.”
Auguste closed his eyes, but he felt only the nearness of Adèle, and her palm against his temple.