The Ripening Seed • Colette

I always follow the new releases from a handful of my favorite publishers with great attention and love to write here—preferentially—about their beautiful new editions. Of course I also read plenty of books beyond those handsome, current volumes, and after someone pointed out that I haven’t been giving this kind of reading enough attention, I want to change that. There are countless hidden gems—wonderful books that are absolutely low budget, a bit dusty, old and well-worn, yet still exude their own special charm. My copy of Colette’s The Ripening Seed is one such book, which I’d like to introduce today. Once again with an interesting video, because I love pairing a book with an Arte documentary, and today I want to write about both.

The Ripening Seed tells the story of fifteen-year-old Vinca and Philippe, a year older, who spend their annual summer holidays with their families on the beautiful beaches of Brittany, not far from Saint-Malo. Like siblings, they have passed previous summers on these pristine shores—fishing together, exploring the coastline, and swimming side by side. But the summer Colette portrays in this book changes their relationship, for they stand on the threshold between childhood and adulthood.

The book spans Vinca and Philippe’s summer and closely traces both their feelings and thoughts—how they meet each other in those, and how their relationship suddenly shifts on the cusp of growing up. I really liked how Colette captures this youthful wavering—especially Philippe, as the slightly older one, being torn back and forth, feeling superior yet still essentially a child. Colette does this wonderfully, and although the book has no notable arc of suspense, it is fascinating to watch how the relationship between the two protagonists changes and develops. Their inner worlds and the ways they act and feel are superbly rendered; the characters feel real and authentic.

At just under 200 pages, the book isn’t long, and for me it falls into a very particular category—almost a genre of its own. In its overall mood, and in the wonderful landscapes Colette keeps weaving in—scenes that mirror and extend Vinca’s and especially Philippe’s thoughts and emotions—the book strongly reminded me of Keyserling’s Waves. There, too, the characters’ inner lives are central, borne along and deepened by the sea and the shifting moods of the coast. Likewise, Bonjour Tristesse moves in a similar direction with its young protagonist and her time on the Côte d’Azur. There’s no grand plot constructed; instead, people—with their thoughts, feelings, and expectations—are placed in a situation that provides its own self-contained frame. As readers we follow precisely this emotional development, with Vinca and Philippe remaining unpredictable; it’s never clear how the tension will be released, where their relationship will lead, or what will grow out of it, because you sense immediately that the fine nuances are decisive here. Nuances that appear not only in thought and behavior, but also in the descriptions of the sea, the sun, the scents, and the surrounding vegetation.

The book is divided into numerous chapters, each presenting a scene—almost cinematic. Colette’s sentences are a pleasure to read: she articulates thoughts and feelings with clarity, yet always gives the phrasing a touch of poetry. I repeatedly found this beautiful—and at times deeply enjoyable—to read.

And then she left the realm of empty shadows to return to Philippe and continue walking with him along the path where they concealed their traces and where—both could feel it—they might well perish under the weight of a quarry too heavy, too lush, too early won. (p. 62)

Colette repeatedly abstracts—almost in a Balzacian way—generalizing her characters’ behavior. When this works, it is, of course, pure cinema.

She fell silent, and Philippe noticed, beneath the blue pupils, high on the childlike cheek of his friend, a mother-of-pearl sheen, a furrow—traces of sleeplessness and nightly tears—the silky, moonlit shimmer that appears on the eyelids of women who bear their sorrow in secret. (p. 152)

I had circled the book for quite a while. What finally prompted me to buy it was an Arte documentary about the author. I remembered well the book-and-doc pairing from Auster’s novel. So, right after finishing the book, I watched the accompanying Arte documentary on Colette. Unfortunately, we live in the Stone Age here when it comes to that strange “newfangled internet thing,” and the video is no longer available—Arte keeps videos online only for a limited time. But anyone who knows Arte knows it’ll reappear in the archive sooner or later.

I found the documentary fascinating—if only for the many images from the Belle Époque. Colette was quite the scandal figure, and it’s compelling to see her life summarized in such a well-made film. She was a sensuous person who strove for freedom and self-determination. She had numerous lovers—men and women—and a turbulent professional life, moved in demi-monde circles, and after leaving her husband she went into the variety theatre. Later she worked as a journalist, and she kept writing throughout her life. She became known through the Claudine novels, biographical in style, portraying the life of a young woman. Those books appeared from 1900 to 1903 under her unfaithful husband’s name; he knew how to market them and exploited his wife. Colette’s most famous novel was Chéri, which depicts a relationship between a young man and an older woman. At the time, Colette herself was involved with her much younger stepson, so the subject was very familiar to her. The Ripening Seed appeared in 1923, and you can see this theme glimmering there as well, even if it isn’t central. The author’s sensuality—rooted, according to the documentary, in the beautiful childhood her mother gave her—is clearly present in The Ripening Seed, especially in her eye for detail and for the natural world that surrounds the protagonists and frames them, much as an ornate frame enhances a painting. In sum, Colette led a vivid artist’s life—scandalous, free-spirited, yet, I think, always with literary depth. I’ll likely pick up more of her books, even if the available editions are shabby and old. It’s odd that her novels aren’t being reissued.

The book itself cost me less than two euros including shipping. With its cloth binding and sewn signatures, this almost 65-year-old volume is in decent condition, even if a bit faded. There was no ISBN back then, and I’ve never heard of the publisher. But the design is quite nice—the simple cover illustration suits it very well. The translation sometimes reads a bit old-fashioned, but overall very fluently—no complaints there.

Conclusion: Colette’s The Ripening Seed is a very fine novel that sensitively portrays coming-of-age in a clear yet poetic style. She constantly links her protagonists with their surroundings—the beautiful Breton coast—and blends their thoughts and emotions with the impressions of landscape and nature. It’s a book that, in this way, always maintains a connection to the sea, which is something I never tire of. A charming, brisk read with authentic characters—highly recommended.

Book information: The Ripening Seed • Colette • Deutsche Buch-Gemeinschaft Berlin und Darmstadt • 193 pages • 1955 edition • Translated by S. Neumann