In her writing, Ernaux weaves the tapestry of her life with threads of art and literature. Within the pages of I Remain in Darkness, she draws upon a rich tapestry of cultural references. In one poignant moment, she compares her mother to Courbet’s evocative painting, The Origin of the World, where a woman reclines with her thighs apart—a tribute to the mother from whom she sprung. At another juncture, Ernaux reflects upon a Goya masterpiece she encountered at the Museum of Fine Arts, musing, “But that’s definitely not my mother,” she concludes. She continues this reflection, recognizing that the protagonist in Lolleh Bellon’s play Tender Relations, which she recently attended, also fails to encapsulate her mother’s essence.

Further on, Ernaux draws parallels between a woman in the hospital and the worn-out clock in Ravel’s opera, The Child and the Enchantment. Another patient evokes memories of Jean-Paul Sartre’s existential tome, Nausea, a book Ernaux devoured during her high school years. Each of these cultural allusions serves as a window into Ernaux’s erudite world, illuminating her intellectual landscape which is intricately entwined with her relationship with her parents. These insights are invaluable in understanding Ernaux’s character, especially in this slender volume that offers little in the way of context for the reader.

Themes of Aging and Illness

The central motifs of aging and ailment form the soul of I Remain in Darkness. Ernaux delves into the harrowing decline not only of her mother but also of the other residents residing within the walls of the nursing home. These individuals face the indignity of losing their bodily autonomy, requiring assistance for simple acts like going to the bathroom or being resigned to wearing diapers. The nurses, in an attempt to manage them, insist on tying Blanche and her fellow residents to their armchairs, stripping away their privacy as their vulnerabilities are laid bare, dependent on others for every physical need.

Ernaux captures this exposure with raw honesty, often noting the disheveled state of a nightgown, revealing much more than intended. This baring of the body symbolizes a deeper loss—of privacy, of dignity. Ernaux mourns the erosion of her mother's vitality and sense of purpose, observing her mother as she fades, becoming almost invisible. She extends this observation to the broader theme of aging, poignantly noting a similar fate befalling even her cat.

Throughout the pages of her journal, Ernaux intricately intertwines her identity with that of her mother's, painting a picture of a "dual personality." In moments shared, she is neither wholly herself nor solely her mother; instead, she is an amalgamation of both. Her mother's physical form becomes an extension of her own, and at times, she envisions her mother residing within her very being. Her mother's future, along with the twilight of her days, is mirrored in her own destiny.

Yet, rarely does Blanche do something that delineates the gulf between them. One such moment shatters the illusion—Blanche cries out her daughter's name, a name she hasn't uttered in over a year. "On hearing her voice, I freeze, emotionally drained," Ernaux notes, describing a call echoing from the very depths of her existence, whispering of her earliest memories. Despite this, the bond often runs so deep that Ernaux's own identity dissipates. Departing the nursing home one day, she writes, "I glance at myself in the mirror once again, just to make sure."

As her mother's life drew to a close, Ernaux reflects, "I feel that nothing has changed since my early childhood and that life is simply a series of...