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Gaëlle Josse

Portrait of Gaëlle Josse

Venue à l’écriture par la poésie, Gaëlle Josse publie son premier roman Les heures silencieuses en 2011, suivi de Nos vies désaccordées en 2012 et de Noces de neige en 2013. Ces trois titres ont remporté plusieurs prix, dont le Prix Alain-Fournier en 2013 pour Nos vies désaccordées. Le roman Les heures silencieuses a été traduit en plusieurs langues et Noces de neige est en cours d’adaptation au cinéma. Après quelques années passées en Nouvelle-Calédonie, Gaëlle Josse travaille à Paris et vit en région parisienne. Le dernier gardien d’Ellis Island a été loué par le Grand Livre du mois à l'automne dernier.

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Le dernier gardien d’Ellis Island

New York, 3 novembre 1954. Dans cinq jours, le centre d'Ellis Island, passage obligé depuis 1892 pour les immigrants venus d'Europe, va fermer. John Mitchell, son directeur, officier du Bureau fédéral de l'immigration, est resté seul dans ce lieu déserté , à la fois gardien et prisonnier de cet îlot sur l'Hudson River, en face de Manhattan. À quelques jours de son départ, il éprouve le besoin de se libérer des réminiscences de plusieurs épisodes de sa vie à Ellis, revenant sur une époque de l’histoire nord-américaine, et remonte le cours de sa vie en écrivant, dans un journal, les souvenirs qui le hantent... Deux femmes, deux bateaux, deux histoires ont marqué sa vie : Liz, l'épouse aimée, et Nella, l'immigrante sarde porteuse d'un étrange passé. D'autres fantômes ressurgissent dans ce temps de souvenir et de questionnement : Lazzarini, l'anarchiste italien, Kovacs, l'écrivain hongrois, dissident communiste fuyant le régime de Budapest avec son épouse, Brian, l'ami d'enfance né comme lui à Brooklyn, et d'autres encore. Remords, transgression, devoir, perte, solitude, exil…, mais aussi émotion, amour, sincérité.

Cover of Le dernier gardien d’Ellis Island

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Translated by Donald Winkler


For 45 years - I’ve had the time to count them - I saw those men, those women, those children, in their dignity and confusion and in their most presentable clothing, with their perspiration, their fatigue, their absent gazes, struggling to comprehend a language of which they didn’t know a single word, their dreams set down in the midst of their baggage. Trunks of wood or metal, baskets, suitcases, bags, carpets, blankets, and within themselves all that remained of a former life, the one they had left behind, and that, not to forget it, they had to keep locked away deep in their hearts so as not to yield to the anguish of separation, to the pain of remembering faces they would never again see. They had to move on, adapt to another life, another language, new signals, new customs, new foods, a different climate. To learn, to learn quickly, and not to look back. I don’t know if for most of them the dream was realized or if they were brutally launched into a day-to-day life that was barely worth the one they had fled. Too late to think about it, there was no going back on their exile.


I remember the day, many years ago now, when the meaning of a few sentences, etched in my memory since childhood, was shown to me in an instant, as if an object one thought to be of no use, but which one kept in the bottom of one’s pocket without knowing why, had one day revealed its purpose.


By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.


We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.


For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.


How shall we sing the LORD'S song in a strange land?


That psalm of exile came back to me with amazing precision and great suddenness, and I felt as if, in the middle of the night, I had stumbled against an obstacle in a hallway, and only then remembered it was there. The Sunday service, when I was a child. I still remember the voice of Reverend Hackson, his sparrow-like silhouette in a black robe, his halting gait, his convulsive gestures, and his diffident voice lodged deep in his chest, a bit more assertive with each phrase, until it became a flood, a swell that I thought each time would never end.

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