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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN MODERN EUROPEAN LITERATURE
Irène Némirovsky’s
Russian Influences
Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekhov
Marta-Laura Cenedese
Palgrave Studies in Modern European Literature
Series Editors
Shane Weller
School of European Culture and Languages
University of Kent
Canterbury, UK
Thomas Baldwin
Centre for Modern European Literature
University of Kent
Canterbury, UK
Ben Hutchinson
Centre for Modern European Literature
University of Kent
Canterbury, UK
Many of the most significant European writers and literary movements
of the modern period have traversed national, linguistic and disciplinary
borders. The principal aim of the Palgrave Studies in Modern Euro-
pean Literature book series is to create a forum for work that prob-
lematizes these borders, and that seeks to question, through comparative
methodologies, the very nature of the modern, the European, and the
literary. Specific areas of research that the series supports include Euro-
pean romanticism, realism, the avant-garde, modernism and postmod-
ernism, literary theory, the international reception of European writers,
the relations between modern European literature and the other arts, and
the impact of other discourses (philosophical, political, psychoanalytic,
and scientific) upon that literature. In addition to studies of works written
in the major modern European languages (English, French, German,
Italian, and Spanish), the series also includes volumes on the literature
of Central and Eastern Europe, and on the relation between European
and other literatures.
Editorial Board
Rachel Bowlby (University College London)
Karen Leeder (University of Oxford)
William Marx (Collège de France)
Marjorie Perloff (Stanford University)
Jean-Michel Rabaté (University of Pennsylvania)
Dirk Van Hulle (University of Oxford)
More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14610
Irène Némirovsky’s
Russian Influences
Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekhov
Turku Institute for Advanced Studies
Turku, Finland
ISSN 2634-6478 ISSN 2634-6486 (electronic)

Palgrave Studies in Modern European Literature
ISBN 978-3-030-44202-6 ISBN 978-3-030-44203-3 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44203-3
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For my father (1947–2019)
Series Editors’ Preface
Many of the most significant European writers and literary movements

in the modern period have traversed national, linguistic and disciplinary
borders. The principal aim of the Palgrave Studies in Modern European
Literature series is to create a forum for work that takes account of these
border crossings, and that engages with individual writers, genres, topoi
and literary movements in a manner that does justice to their location
within European artistic, political and philosophical contexts. Of course,
the title of this series immediately raises a number of questions, at once
historical, geo-political and literary-philosophical: What are the parame-
ters of the modern? What is to be understood as European, both politically
and culturally? And what distinguishes literature within these historical
and geo-political limits from other forms of discourse?
These three questions are interrelated. Not only does the very idea of
the modern vary depending on the European national tradition within
which its definition is attempted, but the concept of literature in the
modern sense is also intimately connected to the emergence and consoli-
dation of the European nation-states, to increasing secularization, urban-
ization, industrialization and bureaucratization, to the Enlightenment
project and its promise of emancipation from nature through reason and
science, to capitalism and imperialism, to the liberal-democratic model of
government, to the separation of the private and public spheres, to the
new form taken by the university, and to changing conceptions of both
vii
viii SERIES EDITORS’ PREFACE
space and time as a result of technological innovations in the fields of

travel and communication.
Taking first the question of when the modern may be said to
commence within a European context, if one looks to a certain Germanic
tradition shaped by Friedrich Nietzsche in The Birth of Tragedy (1872),
then it might be said to commence with the first ‘theoretical man’, namely
Socrates. According to this view, the modern would include everything
that comes after the pre-Socratics and the first two great Attic trage-
dians, Aeschylus and Sophocles, with Euripides being the first modern
writer. A rather more limited sense of the modern, also derived from the
Germanic world, sees the Neuzeit as originating in the late fifteenth and
early sixteenth centuries. Jakob Burckhardt, Nietzsche’s colleague at the
University of Basel, identified the states of Renaissance Italy as proto-
types for both modern European politics and modern European cultural
production. However, Italian literary modernity might also be seen as
having commenced two hundred years earlier, with the programmatic
adoption of the vernacular by its foremost representatives, Dante and
Petrarch.
In France, the modern might either be seen as beginning at the turn
of the seventeenth to the eighteenth century, with the so-called ‘Querelle
des anciens et des modernes’ in the 1690s, or later still, with the French
Revolution of 1789, while the Romantic generation of the 1830s might
equally be identified as an origin, given that Chateaubriand is often cred-
ited with having coined the term modernité, in 1833. Across the Channel,
meanwhile, the origins of literary modernity might seem different again.
With the Renaissance being seen as ‘Early Modern’, everything there-
after might seem to fall within the category of the modern, although in
fact the term ‘modern’ within a literary context is generally reserved for
the literature that comes after mid-nineteenth-century European realism.
This latter sense of the modern is also present in the early work of
Roland Barthes, who in Writing Degree Zero (1953) asserts that modern
literature commences in the 1850s, when the literary becomes explic-
itly self-reflexive, not only addressing its own status as literature but
also concerning itself with the nature of language and the possibilities
of representation.
In adopting a view of the modern as it pertains to literature that is more
or less in line with Barthes’s periodization, while also acknowledging that
this periodization is liable to exceptions and limitations, the present series
does not wish to conflate the modern with, nor to limit it to, modernism
SERIES EDITORS’ PREFACE ix
and postmodernism. Rather, the aim is to encourage work that highlights

differences in the conception of the modern—differences that emerge out
of distinct linguistic, national and cultural spheres within Europe—and
to prompt further reflection on why it should be that the very concept
of the modern has become such a critical issue in ‘modern’ European
culture, be it aligned with Enlightenment progress, with the critique of
Enlightenment thinking, with decadence, with radical renewal, or with a
sense of belatedness.
Turning to the question of the European, the very idea of modern
literature arises in conjunction with the establishment of the European
nation-states. When European literatures are studied at university, they
are generally taught within national and linguistic parameters: English,
French, German, Italian, Scandinavian, Slavic and Eastern European, and
Spanish literature. Even if such disciplinary distinctions have their peda-
gogical justifications, they render more difficult an appreciation of the
ways in which modern European literature is shaped in no small part by
intellectual and artistic traffic across national and linguistic borders: to
grasp the nature of the European avant-gardes or of high modernism, for
instance, one has to consider the relationship between distinct national
or linguistic traditions. While not limiting itself to one methodological
approach, the present series is designed precisely to encourage the study of
individual writers and literary movements within their European context.
Furthermore, it seeks to promote research that engages with the very defi-
nition of the European in its relation to literature, including changing
conceptions of centre and periphery, of Eastern and Western Europe, and
how these might bear upon questions of literary translation, dissemination
and reception.
As for the third key term in the series title—literature—the forma-
tion of this concept is intimately related both to the European and to
the modern. While Sir Philip Sidney in the late sixteenth century, Martin
Opitz in the seventeenth, and Shelley in the early nineteenth produce their
apologies for, or defences of, ‘poetry’, it is within the general category of
‘literature’ that the genres of poetry, drama and prose fiction have come
to be contained in the modern period. Since the Humboldtian recon-
figuration of the university in the nineteenth century, the fate of litera-
ture has been closely bound up with that particular institution, as well as
with emerging ideas of the canon and tradition. However one defines it,
modernity has both propagated and problematized the historical legacy
of the Western literary tradition. While, as Jacques Derrida argues, it may
x SERIES EDITORS’ PREFACE
be that in all European languages the history and theorization of the

literary necessarily emerges out of a common Latinate legacy—the very
word ‘literature’ deriving from the Latin littera (letter)—it is nonetheless
the case that within a modern European context the literary has taken on
an extraordinarily diverse range of forms. Traditional modes of represen-
tation have been subverted through parody and pastiche, or abandoned
altogether; genres have been mixed; the limits of language have been
tested; indeed, the concept of literature itself has been placed in question.
With all of the above in mind, the present series wishes to promote
work that engages with any aspect of modern European literature (be it a
literary movement, an individual writer, a genre, a particular topos) within
its European context, that addresses questions of translation, dissemina-
tion and reception (both within Europe and beyond), that considers the
relations between modern European literature and the other arts, that
analyses the impact of other discourses (philosophical, political, scientific)
upon that literature, and, above all, that takes each of those three terms—
modern, European and literature—not as givens, but as invitations, even
provocations, to further reflection.
Acknowledgments
Writing this book has been a long process, one that benefited from the
support of many people and institutions over the years. I wrote a first,
quite different version as a doctoral thesis at the University of Cambridge;
those were incredibly formative years, accompanied by the emotional and
intellectual ups and downs that many former and current Ph.D. candi-
dates know well. I owe immense gratitude to my supervisor, Martin
Crowley, whose intellectual rigour, dedication and empathy have been
invaluable even after he was no longer my supervisor. Emma Wilson, Ian
James and Alexander Etkind also provided generous advice and insights.
Sadly, Angela Kershaw passed away before she could see this project
completed, but it owes more than I can say to her kindness, generosity
and unwavering encouragement.
At Cambridge, I must thank the Cambridge European Trust, the
Department of French, Girton College, and the Arts and Humanities
Research Council for funding my research. Many thanks also to Anne
Cobby, Hélène, Charlotte and Mirka at the MML Library, where I spent
many hours reading and writing, as well as shelving books. I would like
to extend my gratitude to my students at Cambridge, at the Univer-
sity of Venice Ca’ Foscari and in Moscow, because their enthusiasm for
the unknown and their unbridled questioning minds were a constant
reminder to nurture my own curiosity and creativity.
xi
xii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I spent several weeks researching Némirovsky’s archives at the Institut

Mémoires de l’Édition Contemporaine (IMEC), outside of Caen in Basse-
Normandie. I am grateful for the support of the administration and the
patience of the staff at the Bibliothèque de recherche, which provided the
most comfortable space for tireless days of work. In my experience, no
other place matches the beauty, peacefulness and quiet inspiration of the
Abbaye d’Ardenne, where the IMEC is located. My gratitude goes to
the late Denise Epstein-Dauplé, who first gave me access to her mother’s
archive; and to Nicolas Dauplé and Olivier Philipponnat, for providing me
with the permission to reproduce Némirovsky’s manuscripts in this book.
I finalized the manuscript at the University of Turku: a special thank
you to Hanna Meretoja, who is a brilliant scholar, a great role model and
the warmest of mentors. Thank you also to Hanna’s welcoming family and
to Eevastiina Kinnunen, who gracefully listened to my never-ending to-do
lists. The last edits were made during a research stay in Berlin. Thank you
to everyone who welcomed me at the Dahlem Humanities Center (Freie
Universität) and the Centre Marc Bloch (Humboldt Universität).
It has been a privilege to work with my editors at Palgrave Macmillan.
Thank you also to the Series Editors for their support. I also appreciate
the helpful comments provided by the anonymous readers and by Martina
Stemberger. Thank you to Simon Patterson for proofreading the whole
manuscript.
Over the years and across several countries, this book’s topic and
progress were discussed with many people. I owe a special gratitude to my
friends, who have helped and encouraged me in innumerable ways: Rosa
Barotsi, Andrew and Nicole Bogrand, Matteo Bucci, Giovanni Ciotti,
Barbara De Santi, Molly Flynn, Susanna Graham, Alex Gruzenberg,
Stephan Hilpert, Philip Herter, Sergio Jarillo de la Torre, Sazana Jayadeva,
Johannes Kaminski, Ali Khan Mahmudabad, Mrs Vijaya Khan, Faroque-
Ezra Khan, Merlin Kirikal, Domna Michailidou, Alex Moira, Giovanna
Montagner, Marga Petraglia, Mara Polgovsky-Ezcurra, Liz Raddatz and
Valentina Tartari.
Last but not least, my deepest gratitude goes to my brother, who is
the person I admire the most and have always looked up to for such acute
intelligence and integrity; he is the one who has played with me and is still
showing me how to fare in this world. And to my parents, without whom
this work would have never been. Thank you to my mother, for her love
and strength. My father will never hold this book in his hands, yet he
never doubted my ability to write it. His unconditional belief in me, his
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xiii
love and support are an incommensurable loss. This book is dedicated to

him.
I gratefully acknowledge the permission from publishers to draw on
the following earlier publications, which appear in this book in revised
form. In Chapters 2 and 4, I have integrated passages from “The Rhythm
of Unity: Irène Némirovsky’s Suite française and Leo Tolstoy’s War
and Peace” (Comparative Literature 71:1, 2019, pp. 64–85). An earlier
version of Chapter 8 was published as “A ‘Romanced Biography’: Irène
Némirovsky’s La Vie de Tchekhov” (Itinéraires. Littérature, textes, cultures,
no. 2017–1, 2018 [http://journals.openedition.org/itineraires/3712]).
Chapter 9 was written during a research period in the project “Identity
Work: Narrative Agency, Metanarrativity and Bibliotherapy” (PI Hanna
Meretoja) which is part of the consortium “Instrumental Narratives: The
Limits of Storytelling and New Story-Critical Narrative Theory” (2018–
2022), funded by the Academy of Finland (project number 314769).
Note on Translations and Citations
All writings by Irène Némirovsky, published or unpublished, have been

reproduced in the original, whether in French or Russian.
Translations from French texts are, wherever possible, from published
sources. Unless otherwise stated, most works by Némirovsky that I refer-
ence throughout the book, as well as several archival sources, have been
beautifully translated by Sandra Smith.
I read all texts in the original, except for Tolstoy’s and Dostoevsky’s
novels, which I read in their English translations. While ideally one always
reads in the original language, the nature of my analysis was not, in my
opinion, going to be hindered or its scope diminished by this choice.
However, I chose to reproduce the archival material in Russian, but with
present-day spelling; English translations are always provided.
Whenever published translations were not available, they are my own.
Titles of Némirovsky’s works are given in the original French with the
first publication date, followed by English in parentheses; after the first
mention, I cite titles only in French or English.
xv
Contents
1 Introduction: Creative Encounters Over Time

and Space—Writers, Readers and Researchers 1
Part I Tolstoy: Creative Reception
2 From Russia to France, Via England: Suite française,

War and Peace, and E. M. Forster 29
3 Departing from Tolstoy: Polyphony and Monologism 55
4 Beyond Tolstoy: Music 77
Part II Dostoevsky: Unconscious Influence
5 Dreams from Underground 95
6 The Abject 117
7 An Anthropology of Suffering 137
xvii
xviii CONTENTS
Part III Chekhov: Reading in Context
8 La Vie de Tchekhov: A Romanced Biography 157
9 La Vie de Tchekhov in the Twenty-First Century 183
10 Conclusion: A Russian Suite 199
Index 205
List of Abbreviations
Abbreviations of Irène Némirovsky’s work

Cl Les Chiens et les loups. Paris: Albin Michel, 2008
DW The Dogs and the Wolves. Trans. Sandra Smith. London: Chatto &
Windus, 2009
OCI Œuvres complètes, tome I. Introduction, présentation et annotations des
textes par Olivier Philipponnat. Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 2011
OCII Œuvres complètes, tome II. Introduction, présentation et annotations des
textes par Olivier Philipponnat. Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 2011
Sf Suite française. Paris: Folio, 2006
SF Suite Française. Trans. Sandra Smith. London: Vintage, 2014
VT La Vie de Tchekhov. Paris: Albin Michel, 2008
Abbreviations of Leo Tolstoy’s work

WP War and Peace. Trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. London:
Vintage, 2009
Abbreviations of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s work

NU Notes from Underground and The Double. Trans. Ronald Wilks. London:
Penguin, 2009
WN White Nights. In A Gentle Creature and Other Stories. Trans. Alan Myers.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009
xix
xx LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS
Abbreviations of Archival Sources

IMEC Institut Mémoires de l’édition contemporaine, Abbaye d’Ardenne, Caen
ALM fonds Albin Michel
GRS fonds Grasset et Fasquelle
NMR fonds Irène Némirovsky
INA Institut national de l’Audiovisuel, Bibliothèque nationale de France,
Paris
CHAPTER 1
Introduction: Creative Encounters Over Time

and Space—Writers, Readers and Researchers
The Encounter
Since the French publication of Suite française in 2004 and its translation
into multiple languages, the fame and talent of Irène Némirovsky have
been undisputed among readers, critics and scholars around the world.
Personally, I first came across her name early on. I was living in Paris,
it was 2004 and Suite française had just been published. I remember
walking into bookstores to find, at the entrance, tables filled with copies
of the book, her photograph on the cover and the classic red slip around
the lower half, marking in big letters “Winner of the Renaudot Prize.”
Despite the curiosity that all this talk about her had awoken in me, it took
me a few more years to read her novels: Les Chiens et les loups (1940. The
Dogs and the Wolves ) followed by Suite française were first. Némirovsky
did not immediately become a favourite of mine, like others had. Still,
there was something disconcerting about her oeuvre, something almost
repulsive yet incredibly appealing that kept me going back to read more.
After multiple readings, her style, which at first seemed too comme il faut,
showed all its intricacies, and her linear plots started to interlace in serpen-
tine pathways. For a lover of all things French and Russian, her story
proved compelling, her idiosyncrasies a challenge: a Russian émigré living
in the cultural capital of the interwar period, but mostly disengaged from
the émigré intelligentsia;1 a stateless Jew in Occupied France, who left
her destiny in the hands of a Christian God.2
© The Author(s) 2021 1

M.-L. Cenedese, Irène Nèmirovsky’s Russian Influences,
Palgrave Studies in Modern European Literature,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-44203-3_1
2 M.-L. CENEDESE
Against the backdrop of the history of the first half of the twentieth
century, and doubting the apparent disconnect between Némirovsky and
her Russian cultural heritage, I sensed a need for a thorough investiga-
tion of her relationship with the literature of her native country. Not only
were there archival notes that justified my perception of this correspon-
dence, but as a reader and student of Russian literature I also suspected
that it had been a source of great influence on her work. The names
of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekhov came naturally and were chosen
either for their consistent presence in the manuscripts (Tolstoy), for inci-
dental but evocative references (Dostoevsky), or for published evidence
(Chekhov). Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekhov’s influence on Némirovsky
vary, and yet it speaks directly to the cultural foundations of her work and
to her practice.3
Creative Reception and the Ethics of Influence

The notion of influence is at the heart of my analysis of Némirovsky’s
relationship with Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekhov. In this book, I use
the term influence to indicate the capacity of Russian literature to have
an effect on Némirovsky as well as to affect her, and in that sense I
call it creative. I originally articulated this notion after coming across
Brigitte Le Juez’s (2014) suggestion that the study of influence should
be revived as “creative reception,” which implies the acknowledgment
(sometimes reluctant) that at the basis of creative production there are
artists who act as “sources of inspiration and sometimes influence.”4 Le
Juez summons as examples of such inspiration/influence excerpts from
Martin Amis, Gustave Flaubert, Elizabeth Bowen and Oscar Wilde in
order to show how, instead of proving a lack of talent or imagination,
“following in others’ footsteps” is a common and transparent practice
and nothing to be ashamed of. She highlights that time and again writers
have openly expressed gratitude to their predecessors, and she notes that
in their tributes “[t]he language used by writers to discuss the question
of their reception of others tends to indicate an emotional response. Their
own understanding of what moves them into creative action can be vague
or at least difficult to articulate” (emphasis added). And she continues:
“[i]t is therefore the role of the comparatist to attempt a critical appraisal
of such a fundamental, artistic phenomenon as the continuously innova-
tive meeting of artistic minds ” (emphasis added). This book intends to
do precisely that: to propose a critical appraisal of the “meeting of artistic
1 INTRODUCTION: CREATIVE ENCOUNTERS OVER TIME AND SPACE … 3
minds” that took place in interwar Paris between Némirovsky, Tolstoy,

Dostoevsky and Chekhov. It attempts to show the ways in which the
Russian masters came alive in Némirovsky’s mind, how being their reader
nurtured her writing, but also wishes to find a critical dialogue with the
inherent challenges of defining what “moved her into creative action.”
That is, this book foregrounds the role of imagination in criticism as
a creative and playful mode of constructing new meanings. Therefore,
alongside Le Juez, this book suggests that, indeed, the comparatist needs
to play an active role and that such a role would bring more fruitful
results if she allowed herself to be part of such “creative meeting.” Under
these premises, the term “influence” is a “temporal operator” (Brewer
2013: 12) that maps the relations between texts and between texts and
subjects—writers, readers, and researchers, as expressed in this chapter’s
subtitle.
The phenomenon of reception presented by Le Juez uncovers feel-
ings “of intimacy and of lineage” that know no boundaries (geographical,
temporal and cultural), no hierarchies and no bias, and which, as Flaubert
had it, “give birth to an eternal family among all human beings” (letter
to Louis Colet 19/02/1854, qtd. in Le Juez 2014). Le Juez’s initial
emphasis on hard-to-explain ties that are oftentimes based on affective
impetus and emotive affiliations opens up a new dimension for artic-
ulating these connections. Her accent on “the reader’s sensitivity and
experience” implicates a critical appraisal that should, indeed, remember
that the writer is a reader with her sensitivity and set of experiences.
However, I suggest that we should also account for the reader embodied
in the writer-researcher, who has her own sensitivity and experience, and
therefore is subjected to her own “creative impetus.” To emphasize the
departure from Le Juez’s “creative reception,” therefore, I use the term
creative influence, which includes the process of the writer’s reception,
the ensuing response that moves her into “creative action,” and finally
the reading practice and creative response operated by the (reader-writer-)
researcher in her own writing. Surely the noun “influence” and the adjec-
tive “creative” do not give full justice to the complex relations implicit
in my formulation, but at least they set apart “creative reception” from
creative influence. In this specific case, creative influence describes not
only the meeting of Némirovsky with her predecessors, but also the
meeting with readers of Némirovsky, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekhov.
Thus, my concept accounts for ever-expanding hermeneutic possibili-
ties that allow the scholar, or indeed any reader, to articulate a creative
4 M.-L. CENEDESE
encounter of her own. Therefore, where the word influence is concerned,

my understanding of creative influence goes beyond the simple conflu-
ence of influence with both “source study” and “reception,” and instead
it encompasses and blends processes of intertextuality, aesthetic reception,
cultural transfers, artistic and critical creation in ways that bring together
authors, readers and writers. This combination of approaches is far from
being what may be called a “negative eclecticism” and instead becomes a
“positive necessity” (Suleiman 1980: 7).
As I was finalizing the book and rewriting this Introduction, I
chanced upon Ivan Jablonka’s methodological discussion of his Histoire
des grands-parents que je n’ai pas eus (2012. A History of the Grand-
parents I Never Had, 2016). A few years after the publication of the
book about his grandparents’ life, which he declines as “investigation,
testimony, biography, autobiography, narrative, and literature all at once”
(Jablonka 2018: 236), Jablonka reflects, as a trained social scientist, on
the methods he had used. The clarity with which he describes the reflexive
mode and its principles resonated with what I was trying to convey when
writing that creative influence includes the researcher within the research,
but without making it a simple emotional fancy. Explaining one of the
four principles of the reflexive mode, Jablonka writes that “the ‘I’ of
method can be implemented regardless of the subject under study.5 […]
For the ‘I’ of method is not only a way of reasoning and a form, but
also a line of reasoning within a form. […] By means of framed stories,
the ‘I’ of method reminds us that a situated individual set out on an
investigation, searched, saw, and felt” (245). Jablonka’s emphasis on the
researcher’s positionality—earlier in the book he speaks of the “situated
researcher” as that who “assumes responsibility for their situated selves”
(239)—is a partial nod to long-held feminist claims for positionality and
embodiment, from Donna Haraway’s “situated knowledge” (1988) to,
among the most recent examples, Sara Ahmed’s “embodied experience”
as a resource to generate knowledge (2017: 10).6
In this book, creative influence is also the methodology used to analyse
the connections between Némirovsky, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekhov.
As will be evident in the outline of the chapters, this method has the merit
of embracing several theories and methodologies: critical and literary
theory; archival data and source analysis (which establishes acknowledged
connections while prompting further hypotheses); and close textual anal-
ysis of the literary works. Indeed, this method allows the author of this
(or any) study the freedom to go on a hunt for direct influences, while
at the same time it encourages her to speculate, or better yet, to envision

the ramifications of a novel’s sentence or a journal annotation and thus
to engage in a creative approach that opens the imagination to possi-
bilities that would have not otherwise been considered. I would like
to suggest that the method of creative influence connects literary criti-
cism with Martha Nussbaum’s “imaginative activity” (Nussbaum 2010:
109). In Not for Profit: Why Democracy Needs the Humanities (2010),
Nussbaum suggests that from a very young age we should cultivate the
empathic capacity of the thinking mind—through “narrative imagination”
and “positional thinking”—in order “for thought to open out of the soul
and connect person to world in a rich, subtle and complicated manner”
(6). Here Nussbaum is discussing this activity within the field of educa-
tion and the role of the humanities in the creation of democratic societies,
but I would argue that, in a similar vein, creative influence promotes the
researcher’s “positional thinking” and “narrative imagination” insofar as
it allows a more sympathetic approach, one that opens out to more imag-
inative perspectives and dimensions in considering how works interact
with each other, thus nearing Nussbaum’s ideal of “critical thinking and
empathetic imagining” (19).
Thinking about the role of the humanities (and within it, of literature)
in our societies, the interaction between works and worlds, the intercon-
nectedness involved in practices of writing and reading, and hence the
influence that texts have on people and that people have through texts
as much as on texts, raises the question of an ethical understanding of
influence. For Daniel Brewer (2013), an ethics of influence exists in the
moment we reimagine literary studies to be that which deals not only
with forms and identities, but “more crucially with acting ethically” (16).
Le Juez suggests that a new avenue for examining reception and influence
may be found in the experience of a literary work, that is, in the ethical
dimension of literature (2014). And indeed, Jeremy Hawthorn and Jakob
Lothe have argued that “there is no narrative that is free of ethical issues,
no reading, viewing, or listening to a narrative that does not require some
ethical sensitivity and the exercise of moral discrimination on the part
of the reader, viewer or listener. Such issues arise at different stages in
the process whereby narratives are created and experienced” (2013: 6).
Although the question of the ethics of literature goes beyond the focus
of this book, its concern with the creative act of reading and writing is
on a par with the possibility of whether there can be such a thing as an
6 M.-L. CENEDESE
“ethics of influence.” In Chapters 8 and 9, this thought will underline my

reflections on the potential to read Némirovsky’s ethical engagement.
Finally, it must also be specified that creative influence does not sanc-
tion a praxis of “applying theory to literature” by virtue of the researcher’s
whim or as a purely rhetorical, yet empty, exercise. Rather, it under-
scores the connections between creative engagement and theoretically
based writing in the same way Kristeva claimed that Roland Barthes
taught us that “the relationship between theory and literature” is not
“one of application, but of implication” (Becker-Leckrone 2005: 16).
Here the same simultaneous scientific approaches are employed as those
of Barthes’s analytical model, which were “controlled by the discreet and
lucid presence of the subject of this ‘possible knowledge’ of literature, by
the reading that he gives of texts today, situated as he is within contem-
porary history” (Kristeva 1980: 94). “Reading” (and “readers”) is thus a
keyword in the method of creative influence since it implicates both the
researcher’s reading of Némirovsky and Némirovsky’s reading of Russian
and other literatures. It seems essential at this point to take a detour
through the birth and developments of the concepts of influence and
intertextuality, as well as the notions of readers, writers and authors.
Influence, Intertextuality, Readers and Writers

When influence is mentioned within the discipline of literary studies,
one cannot help but immediately think of Harold Bloom’s The
Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (1973, Bloom 1997) and A
Map of Misreading (1975, Bloom 1980). In his seminal studies of
literary influence, Bloom analyses pervasive references and allusions in
English Romantic and American poetry in order to grasp the relation
that individual artists have with their precursors. Starting from the
presumption that great writing is always a misreading of previous writing
(Bloom 1997: xix), Bloom describes intra-poetic relationships (i.e. poetic
influence) as hierarchical, vertical and diachronic, and envelops them in
an emotional struggle akin to the Oedipus Complex that leads to the
bespoke anxiety. Such anxiety “comes out ” of the act of misreading and
is a “creative interpretation,” or else a “consequence of poetic mispri-
sion” that follows the act of reading (xxiii; emphasis Bloom’s). Different
from source study and set in motion by two conflicting desires (imitation
and originality), influence is a critical act, “a misreading or misprision,
that one poet performs upon another” (Bloom 1980: 3), and thus
traces an agonistic/rebellious aesthetic going from an older writer (the

precursor) to a younger one, which is described as a complex journey,
a poetic apprenticeship of six techniques or stages—clinamen; tessera;
kenosis; daemonization; askesis; apophrades —7 that the young writer must
go through if he wants to come full circle.8 As Bloom reminds his readers,
“[p]oetic influence, in the sense I give to it, has almost nothing to do with
the verbal resemblances between one poet and another” (Bloom 1980:
19).
The meaning inscribed in the word “influence” presented in this book
is quite different from Bloom’s, although I would like to highlight his
understanding of the phenomenon of misprision as a “creative” act, which
is an essential component of the theory proposed here.9 The concept
of creative influence and the related methodology used in this book
take their cue from Bloom’s “creative misprision,” although at the same
time they seek to dissociate from his monologic and decontextualized
approach. In fact, to advance my view I find a more productive terrain
of discussion in the French post-structuralist theory of “intertextuality,”
which owes its name to Bulgarian-born philosopher Julia Kristeva.
As any introduction to Kristeva’s work will remind her readers,
however, a full engagement with her theory of intertextuality cannot
be comprehensive without considering her mentor and colleague Roland
Barthes, nor without reaching back to Russian theorist Mikhail Bakhtin.10
Indeed, Kristeva sees Bakhtin as a precursor of intertextuality by virtue of
his new dynamic conception of the literary text, which comes forward
in his understanding of the novel as the “polyphonic” space where the
conflict between “monologism” (an authoritative power) and “dialogism”
(a subversive tendency) take place (Brewer 2013: 4). Bakhtin’s ideas antic-
ipate the reflections on the heterogeneity of texts and the roles played
by writers and readers that will occupy the pens of Kristeva and her
contemporaries. According to Kristeva:
Bakhtin was one of the first to replace the static hewing out of texts with
a model where literary structure does not simply exist but is generated
in relation to another structure. What allows a dynamic dimension to
structuralism is his conception of the “literary word” as an intersection
of textual surfaces rather than a point (a fixed meaning), as a dialogue
among several writings: that of the writer, the addressee (or character),
and the contemporary or earlier cultural context. (Kristeva 1980: 64–65.
Emphasis Kristeva’s)
8 M.-L. CENEDESE
Unknown in the West until then, Bakhtin owes his introduction into
the (French) intellectual world to Kristeva, who presented his work at
Barthes’s seminar in 1966 (“Word, Dialogue, and Novel,” then published
in Séméiotiké: Recherches pour une sémanalyse in 1969).11 Drawing on
Bakhtin, Kristeva will famously formulate that “any text is constructed
as a mosaic of quotations; any text is the absorption and transforma-
tion of another” (66), thus summarizing the conviction she shares with
Barthes that literature is not a static product but rather a process, a so-
to-speak “work in progress” where different voices interweave, collide,
assimilate (cf. Becker-Leckrone 2005: 11–12, 92). This is the original
intertextuality that “replaces [the notion of] intersubjectivity” (Kristeva
1980: 66).12
Through the mediation of Kristeva, Bakhtin’s work also informs
Barthes’s thought and explains the process that led him to his radical
dismissal of the Author. In Barthes’s “The Death of the Author” (1968,
Barthes 1990a), an echo of Bakhtin’s polyphony and dialogism can be
found in the criticism of the importance given by capitalist ideology to
the man or woman producing the work, which is also the same “voice of
a single person,” that is the author, to whom the meaning of the work is
ascribed (Barthes 1990a: 143). Bakhtin’s denunciation of the pervasive-
ness of “the author’s field of vision,” emblematic of a monologic discourse
(Bakhtin 1984: 71), and the importance of the “carnival” in dialogism
reverberate in Barthes’s affirmations that a text is “an irreducible […]
plural” (Barthes 1990b: 159). It is “not a line of words releasing a single
‘theological’ meaning (the ‘message’ of the Author-God) but a multidi-
mensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original,
blend and clash. The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innu-
merable centres of culture” (1990a: 146. Emphasis added). Furthermore,
Barthes writes, the author may come back in the text “inscribed in the
novel like one of his characters, figured in the carpet; no longer privileged,
paternal, aletheological, his inscription is ludic” (1990b: 161). Barthes’s
“tissue of quotations” distinctly recalls Kristeva’s “mosaic of quotations,”
but it also connects to “From Work to Text” (1971, Barthes 1990b),
in which he reiterates the beautiful image of “a tissue, a woven fabric”
(159). In this same essay Barthes also defined intertextuality as that “in
which every text is held, it itself being the text-between of another text”
(160). Here Barthes clearly distinguishes intertextuality from clear-cut
source study and influence, which he sees as falling in with “the myth of
filiation; the citations which go to make up a text are anonymous, untrace-

able, and yet already read: they are quotations without inverted commas”
(160).13 What Barthes brings forward in his definition of intertextuality
is the inseparable link between cultural context and textual production,
and the unconsciousness it may be filled with.
Besides remarking upon the repetition of the word “quotations” and
the evocation of Bloom’s Freudian vocabulary in Barthes’s lexical choices
(“filiation,” “paternal” and “Father”),14 in order to explain the concept of
creative influence, it is important to pause on the “anonymous, untrace-
able, and yet already read” quotations that he mentions. Susan Bassnett
recalls that early programmes in comparative literature were experimental
and unstructured. Therefore, the attempt to break out of the confines
of national literatures would urge students to go on treasure-hunt-like
explorations of direct and demonstrable links between writers, based on
incontrovertible and trustworthy evidence left by the writers themselves.
However, such indisputable proof is often lacking, and so demonstrating
the influence of one writer on another becomes difficult if not impossible
(Bassnett 2007: 137). Furthermore, Bassnett underlines that “writers
draw their inspiration from all kinds of sources, some conscious, some
unconscious, some acknowledged, some vehemently denied. All that we,
as readers, can do is to see parallels, connections, affinities, and this is
a more fruitful approach than one which seeks to prove certainty where
certainty is a chimera” (138).15 This is where creative influence, building
on Le Juez’s “creative reception”, becomes most useful; in its capacity
“to contain both the conscious and the unconscious, the acknowledged
and the denied” (Kershaw 2015: 348. Emphasis Kershaw’s), it elicits
new parallels and affinities that engage with the already read. Likewise
Barthes’s intertextuality allows the reader to be “the space on which all
the quotations that make up a writing are inscribed without any of them
being lost” (Barthes 1990a: 148), in contrast to Bloom’s idea of influence
as that which delineates a map of names and identifiable sources. There-
fore, the reader may envisage intertextual connections when there is no
“incontrovertible proof” of such connections. Creative influence seizes
the creative and embracing role that the reader holds in Barthes’s inter-
textuality, but also challenges the statement that “the reader is without
history, biography, psychology” (148) by instead situating her firmly in
her history, biography and psychology. Thus, in creative influence the
reader is that who brings her own “horizon of aesthetic experience”
(Jauss 1982: 23), which opens up to a “dimension of historical experience
10 M.-L. CENEDESE
that must include the historical standpoint of the present observer, that
is, the literary historian” (34). Otherwise said, the situated subjectivity
of the reader (i.e. Jablonka’s “situated researcher”) becomes an essen-
tial moment of the hermeneutic process, insofar as she brings her own
knowledge and experience to the analysis.
Given the importance assigned to the reading process, it is evident that
this book’s critical method is also rooted in the work of Constance School
theorists Hans Robert Jauss and Wolfgang Iser. In Toward a Theory of
Aesthetic Reception (1982), Jauss proposed a critical approach based on
the understanding that a response to a literary work is mediated both
by its context of production and the context of its reception. Next to
the historical time of the author, his analysis brings forward the historical
situatedness of the reader. Similarly, Iser’s phenomenological approach
claimed that the literary work comes into existence when text and reader
converge (Iser 1974: 275). The act of reading is a dynamic experience
of sense-making in which the reader, through her own imagination and
by choosing from (or excluding) various possibilities of realization, fills
elements of textual indeterminacy (or “gaps”). In The Implied Reader
(1974), Iser writes that as we read “we uncover the unformulated part of
the text, and this very indeterminacy is the force that drives us to work
out a configurative meaning while at the same time giving us the necessary
degree of freedom to do so” (287). The act of reading is the construc-
tion of a “virtual dimension” that implicates the reader’s creative role and
involves “viewing the text through a perspective that is continually on the
move” (280). However, despite this emphasis on the reader’s creativity,
Iser’s stance is ambiguous: he downplays the degree of freedom of the
imagination by affirming that the author is supposed to activate the read-
er’s imagination so that she can “realize the intention of his text” (282).
This reiterates what Iser had mentioned in a previous essay—that “the
meaning is conditioned by the text itself” and that the author “compels
the reader to be that much more aware of the intention of the text”
(“Indeterminacy and the Reader’s response in Prose Fiction,” qtd. in
Suleiman 1980: 25). Furthermore, Iser’s reading subject “is not a specific,
historically situated individual but a transhistorical mind whose activi-
ties are, at least formally, everywhere the same” (25). Although Jauss’s
conception of a reader that is “actual” rather than implied, anchored yet
evolving within a historical context, is more relevant for our purposes,
Iser’s insistence on the reader’s creative role, albeit limited by its own
ambiguity, reminds us of the importance of subjectivity and creativity in

reading practices.
Throughout the book, I make use of the notion “horizon of expec-
tations” (Erwartungshorizont ). Simply put, the horizon of expectations
indicates the dialectic between the cultural and social expectations of
production and reception “in the historical moment of [the work’s]
appearance” (Jauss 1982: 22) and the different expectations of later
readers of that same work. Such a historical-sociological variety of recep-
tion “bring[s] to view the hermeneutic difference between the former
and the current understanding of a work” (28). This thereby determines
the readers’ changing horizons of expectations, “which are themselves
the result of both literary evolution and the evolution of cultural, polit-
ical, and social conditions and norms in the society at large” (Suleiman
1980: 36). Thus, the horizon of expectations acknowledges that the
future reception of a text is open to new questions and interpretations that
unfold with the mutations of horizons. However, although he appreciates
the “multiplicity of literary phenomena,” Jauss’s investigation presup-
poses that reading is a collective phenomenon in which the individual
reader is part of a homogenous reading public. In fact, he writes that,
from the point of view of an aesthetics of reception, the heterogeneity of
literary phenomena “coalesces again for the audience that perceives them
and relates them to one another as works of its present, in the unity of
a common horizon of literary expectations, memories, and anticipations
that establishes their significance” (Jauss 1982: 38; Jauss’s emphasis. Cf.
also Suleiman 1980: 35–37). For Jauss, then, reception is not a dynamic
process that allows a multiplicity of reading publics , and even though
he takes into account the changes in readers’ horizons of expectations,
they do not produce heterogeneous reading positions (cf. Kaakinen 2017:
6–8).
The Archive and Affective Reading

Although my method comes close to Jauss’s approach in considering the
reader as moving through changing historical conditions, creative influ-
ence includes a more differentiated conception of reading positions that
takes into account the act of reading as a private and affective experi-
ence. Such experience comes to the fore in the study of Némirovsky’s
archive. Jeffrey Wallen has argued that the archive is “a repository, a
place of storage” that “contains droplets of time—observations, pieces
12 M.-L. CENEDESE
of data that can reawaken a memory”: as such, the archive awaits the
“researcher who can make use of this information” (Wallen 2009: 261).
While the archive provides an encounter with the “traces of memory,” it
also shows “processes of ordering and transforming experience” (276),16
and thus contributes an insight into the act of reading as well as into the
unfolding of the creative act. Among others, Arlette Farge (1989/2013),
Natalie Zemon Davis (1987), Michel Foucault (1977/2001) and Maria
Tamboukou (2013) have demonstrated how archival research involves
creative forces that entangle researcher, archival space and historical
records.17 A large part of the research included in this book comes from
different French archives and is at the core of the analysis proposed.
The archive has not only been a source of factual knowledge, but also
a place of creative and affective encounter between readers, writers and
researchers. When I talk about an affective encounter, I associate with
what Tamboukou (2017) calls “archival sensibility,” which considers that
archival documents provide more than just citable sources—they can also
surprise us, direct us, interrogate us. As much as possible, I tried to
let Némirovsky’s archival documents speak to me. I engaged with them
empathetically, with the conviction that “we need to be sensitive to the
lives of the documents found in the archive, try to understand and map
the conditions of their possibility and attempt to imagine their lives before
and after our encounter with them,” persuaded that “we need to be
sensitive to their potentiality, the forces and effects of their intensity,
which we need to facilitate and set in motion, rather than block, hide or
sidestep” (Tamboukou 2017: 4). In particular, Parts I and III of this book
are largely built on archival evidence that they use not only to advance
their respective arguments, but also to preserve the memory of a creative
process.18
The IMEC, Institut Mémoires de l’Édition Contemporaine (Institute
for Contemporary Publishing Archives), was handed down Némirovsky’s
papers by her daughters in 1995, and in 2005 it added to the inven-
tory the documents that were under the collections of the publishing
house Albin Michel. The archive incorporates miscellaneous content
encompassing: hand-written manuscripts; work journals; research notes;
typescript manuscripts; proofs; letters from and to different senders and
recipients; photographs; reviews, interviews, and other “profile” articles.
The material ranges from the period of Némirovsky’s life until the present
day, and can be divided into four temporal segments: (1) 1919–1929; (2)
1929–1942; (3) 1942–2004; and (4) 2004–present. The first includes
Némirovsky’s early notebooks and first literary works (her juvenilia, so

to speak), such as the Nonoche series (Fantasio 1921), La Niania (Le
Matin 1924), and the novels published in Les Œuvres libres —Le Malen-
tendu (1926. The Misunderstanding ), L’Enfant genial (1927. The Child
Prodigy), and L’Ennemie (1928. The Enemy). The second segment spans
the entirety of Némirovsky’s successful lifelong career, starting with the
publication of David Golder in 1929 and closing with Les Chiens et
les loups (The Dogs and the Wolves ) in 1940, and including what was
published under pseudonym (Pierre Nerey/Neyret or Denise Mérande)
while she was in Issy l’Évêque. The third segment includes posthu-
mous publications (La Vie de Tchekhov, 1946. A Life of Chekhov; Les
Biens de ce monde, 1947. All Our Worldly Goods; Les Feux de l’au-
tomne, 1957. The Fires of Autumn; Dimanche et autres nouvelles , 2000.
Dimanche and Other Stories; Destinées et autres nouvelles, 2004. Destinées
and Other Stories ) and letters written after hers and her husband’s respec-
tive deportations. Thus, this third segment covers the timespan until the
publication of Suite française in 2004, which marks the beginning of the
fourth and final archival segment, during which Némirovsky’s name came
back to the fore of French letters and scholarship.19 In the last fifteen-
plus years Némirovsky’s novels and short stories have been republished
and translated into several other languages; scholars have analysed and
assessed her work under different critical lenses; the public has rediscov-
ered Némirovsky’s name and turned her into a sensation; her works are
being once again adapted for the screen—after Julien Duvivier’s David
Golder (1930) and Wilhelm Thiele’s Le Bal (1931), most recently Saul
Dibb adapted Suite française to the screen (2015)—as well as for the stage
(David Golder by Fernand Nozière in 1930 and the double bill Tempête
en juin and Suite française, adapted by Virginie Lemoine and Stéphane
Laporte in 2018–2019). Several international museums have organized
exhibitions where Némirovsky’s life and works have been presented to the
general public, without omitting to show the manuscripts, the leather-
bound notebook, the suitcase that contained Suite française, and to
organize events seeking to put her into perspective and to showcase her
idiosyncrasies and polemical aspects (such as “the Jewish question”).20
Besides the important corpus of the IMEC, other material was avail-
able in the following establishments: at the Bibliothèque nationale de
France (BnF–National Library of France) I was able to consult the
original periodicals and journals that published Némirovsky’s work; at
14 M.-L. CENEDESE
the Institut national de l’audiovisuel (INA–National Audiovisual Insti-

tute), housed at the BnF, I listened to several radio programmes on
Némirovsky (this was before the “podcast revolution”), and one in partic-
ular needs to be singled out because it offered an excerpt from an
original interview with Némirovsky, which was also diffused at the 2010–
2011 exhibition at the Mémorial de la Shoah in Paris.21 Finally, at the
Bibliothèque Marguerite Durand I had access to two dossiers documen-
taires alongside books, press cuts and some original publications.22 This
book also mentions documents from the National Archives (Archives
nationales ) related to Némirovsky’s education at the Sorbonne, which
I did not consult myself but that were referenced by Angela Kershaw
(2010, 2015) and by Némirovsky’s biographers Olivier Philipponnat and
Patrick Lienhardt (2009, 2010).
Loosely organizing the archive allows me to highlight the fluctuating
fortunes of Némirovsky, reflecting her journey from her young appren-
ticeship, to popular writer, to forgotten author, and to recently rediscov-
ered novelist. Such temporal segmentation also shows how Némirovsky
must be considered a writer who is solidly anchored within her time (i.e.
her cultural context of production and reception)23 but who has also been
able to reach far beyond it. As “the place where one can find the ‘facts’”
(Wallen 2009: 268), the archive defines and demarcates the concrete
(“factual”) limits of our research material; however, at the same time,
by exceeding the boundaries of Némirovsky’s life, it also sets the condi-
tions to trespass the archive’s own boundaries.24 That is, if the archive is
“a place where secrets are revealed or where one can now find truths that
had been hidden” (268), the innumerable questions that it raises give us
the freedom to think imaginatively through its gaps, or lack thereof. The
encounter with the archive takes the researcher to a space “between the
living and the dead, the personal and the impersonal, the public and the
private, the fragment and the whole” (262), which is where spontaneous
affective practices can be imagined and undertaken.
Outline of the Book

After this introductory chapter, the book is divided into three sections,
each one an exploration of creative influence in relation to Némirovsky
and, respectively, Tolstoy (“Creative Reception”), Dostoevsky (“Uncon-
scious Influence”) and Chekhov (“Reading in Context”). In each part,
single chapters open a conversation among texts, writers, readers and
researchers that seeks to emulate the unfurling of the creative flow in

processes of influence, reception and creation. Overall, each part considers
Némirovsky’s work alongside one of the three Russian masters and
analyses the complexity of each of these relationships, as well as the
different modes in which they appear. Together, integrating reading and
writing, reception and creation, fiction and archive, they aim to show how
Némirovsky engaged with Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov; to what
degree they influenced her; how this influence affected her work; and to
what effect.
Part I looks at Némirovsky’s connection to Tolstoy, focusing on the
relationship between War and Peace (1867) and Suite française (1940–
1942/2004), and largely exploring matters of form. Chapter 2 begins
from the direct link between Némirovsky and Tolstoy, which can be firmly
established through interviews she gave to the interwar press; records
of her enrolment in the degree in Russian literature at the Sorbonne,
where Tolstoy’s novels were certainly on the syllabus; in the active role she
affords him in her biography of Chekhov (La Vie de Tchekhov); and, espe-
cially, through the multiple references available in the writing journal for
Suite française. These documents allow us to map a “meeting of artistic
minds” (Le Juez 2014) by foregrounding how Némirovsky received her
precursor’s work and critically engaged with it both in her private creative
practice as well as in the public eye. Perusing the archive in relation to
“the making of” Suite française, Chapter 2 projects us in the midst of
Némirovsky’s creative process, as she elaborated her novel responding to
what she knew had been criticized in War and Peace, namely its lack
of unity or focus due to an ambitious form that moves between histor-
ical reflections and fictional narrative. The attentive analysis of the archive
brings to the fore the mediation of British modernist writer and critic E.
M. Forster in Némirovsky’s reception of Tolstoy. In Aspects of the Novel
(1927) Forster frequently referenced Tolstoy’s magnum opus and stressed
its relation to what he called “expansion”—a technique of “opening out”
rather than “closing in” that Némirovsky used in Suite française and in
previous novels. It is thanks to the idea of expansion that Némirovsky,
concerned (like Tolstoy) with the interrelations of history, individuals and
communities, was able to find the central focus of her narrative interest
in the human (rather than the historical). Once she established that she
wanted to portray what would be relevant in fifty or a hundred years—not
16 M.-L. CENEDESE
the specifics of history but the universalities of human lives and interac-
tions—Némirovsky set out to write a novel that would expose readers to
a multiplicity of perspectives.
Chapter 3 elaborates on Suite française’s unfixed narrative voice by
posing two questions: is Suite française a polyphonic novel? And if so,
how is it possible to reconcile this with its Tolstoyan influence? Most crit-
ical readings of Suite française have favoured a “monologic” reading by
virtue of Némirovsky’s allegedly active authorial criticism of Vichy and its
collaborators. After a brief overview of Bakhtin’s concepts of dialogism
and the polyphonic novel, the chapter reviews his contradictory remarks
about Tolstoy’s “monolithically monologic” novels and his inconsistent
stance about Tolstoy’s work—monologic, yet also dialogic. Renewing the
dialogue with the archive and the extant manuscript of Suite française,
first I underline the novel’s variety of points of view and their social
diversity. Then, I propose a detailed analysis of Némirovsky’s narrative
strategies that pinpoint the ways in which, through irony and satire,
Némirovsky is able to create a polyphonic narrative. Thus, in this Chapter,
I suggest that we should see in Némirovsky’s dialogism and polyphonic
narrative voice an overcoming of Tolstoy, which projects Némirovsky’s
creative reception beyond the limits of War and Peace and Suite française.
Indeed, Chapter 4 takes the reader beyond the limits of Tolstoy’s
creative influence on Némirovsky by turning to the creative tool she
chose in order to overcome the issues of structural unity that Chapter 2
delineated, and that the multivoiced narrative analysed in Chapter 3 had
exacerbated. From the title of her novel, Suite française, the French suite,
we are evidently in front of a novel that was inspired by music: there-
fore, starting with the presence of music in Némirovsky’s previous work,
I explore in great detail its expression in Suite française. Dancing through
the manuscripts and existing scholarship, the chapter shows at first how
Némirovsky used music to structure her fictional material from an external
point of view, that is, playing on oppositions and counterpoints à la
Bach and following the sonata form. Next, the chapter studies the role of
music as an internal structuring component. The focus is in particular on
one chapter from “Dolce” (and the journal notes connected to it) where
Némirovsky sets the scene for the description of the German officer Bruno
von Falk’s musical piece, which for Olivier Philipponnat represents the
mise en abyme of the whole novel (Philipponnat 2012). Finally, Chapter 4
suggests that, besides working as a structuring agent that reveals the inner
workings of the novel, music is an element that provides the “expansion”

or open-endedness that would enable the engagement of future readers.
Part II explores what I call the “unconscious” influence, or Chaudier’s
“oblique reception” (2008: 71), of Dostoevsky. Starting from the obser-
vation that, unlike for Tolstoy (Part I) or Chekhov (Part III), neither
in interviews nor archival notes is there direct evidence of Dostoevsky’s
impact on Némirovsky, in the three chapters I explore the meaning of one
reference to Dostoevsky included in Les Chiens et les loups , and from then
on I follow the “materialization” of his influence through an exploration
of the Dostoevskian qualities of Némirovsky’s work. This exploration is
strongly grounded in the theories of Julia Kristeva.
Chapter 5 focuses on Les Chiens et les loups and in particular on a
central sentence: “Don’t you find there’s something Dostoevskian about
her?” (DW: 125).25 Starting from the premise that Némirovsky is refer-
ring to Ada herself (rather than to her artwork), in this chapter I look at
what may associate this character with two typically Dostoevskian figures:
the Dreamer and the Underground Man. Dostoevsky’s The White Nights
(1848) and Notes from the Underground (1864) are put into close-textual
dialogue with Les Chiens et les loups, and the resulting analysis reveals
a common interplay between dream and reality, where art performs a
major role in connecting the two. The insistence on the dichotomy
dream/reality is linked to the phenomenon of the “double,” of which
Dostoevsky is a notorious portraitist and that often recurs in Némirovsky’s
production too. Les Chiens et les loups offers several configurations of the
theme, and in turn allows us to consider questions of aesthetic opposi-
tion (French vs. Russian), as well as gender and sexuality. As a result,
we come to the conclusion that in Les Chiens et les loups Némirovsky
is problematizing the use of normative stereotypes linked to masculinity
and femininity, and also undermining the hegemonic male–female power
structure.
Chapters 6 and 7 continue to underline the relationship with
Dostoevsky by operating a Kristevan reading of Némirovsky (Kristeva
1982, 1987, 1992). Chapter 6 explores the presence of “abjection” in
Némirovsky’s work, in particular in the short story “Fraternité” (1937)
and the novel Les Chiens et les loups . In “Fraternité,” abjection arises
when the assimilated Jew meets his Eastern-European counterpart; thus,
because of its in-betweenness, Jewish assimilation is presented as an abject
space, a space of danger that locates the Jew neither inside (Frenchness)
nor outside (Jewishness). Likewise, Les Chiens et les loups also suggests
18 M.-L. CENEDESE
the failure of assimilation and offers several examples of how the sense of
foreignness materializes through abjection. Furthermore, the novel also
exemplifies the transgressive, menacing nature of abjection: for instance,
Harry’s marriage proposal to Laurence Delarcher performs abjection’s
disturbance of borders and subversion of the pre-constituted social order.
Another example of such overthrowing happens early in the novel, in the
episode that describes the pogrom and the children’s frantic arrival at
the house of their rich relatives, up on the hills outside of the Ghetto.
Finally, building on Foucault’s discussion of heterotopic spaces (Foucault
1967/2000) and the connection between heterotopia and abjection (Li
2016), the chapter shows how the Ghetto is a heterotopic space, hence
the ultimate abject space.
The idea of a typically Dostoevskian “anthropology of suffering,”
advanced by Kristeva in Black Sun: Depression and Melancholia (1992),
introduces the analysis of Chapter 7, which aims to establish whether such
an anthropology can also be at the heart of Némirovsky’s work. How does
suffering manifest itself in Némirovsky’s work? Does it adopt the Dosto-
evskian way or can one speak of an ontology of its own? The language of
suffering used by Némirovsky in her novels harmoniously ties with Kris-
teva’s vocabulary of sensuality and voluptuousness—lexical choices that
in both cases also describe the frequent entanglements between love,
passion and suffering. According to Kristeva, suffering can only lead to
two solutions: either to death (murder or suicide) or to forgiveness,
and it is towards the latter that, according to her, Dostoevsky’s work
gravitates. However, in striking contrast to what Kristeva observes in
Dostoevsky’s novels, my analysis notes how Némirovsky seems to repeat-
edly deny the redeeming potential of forgiveness in favour of a secular
view of death, welcomed as a relief against a life of suffering. The in-depth
study of some novels, open to a gendered reading, prompts us to define
the agency of suffering and to also establish a love–pain–death triangu-
lation, suggested by Kristeva’s Histoires d’amour (1983—Tales of Love,
1987). This reading connects with the themes of the previous chapter,
in particular with the tension between subject and object (self/other,
dream/reality) proper of abjection, and therefore it further emphasizes
the affinities between Dostoevsky and Némirovsky. As a whole, the second
part of the book aims to show that, in order to highlight the Dostoevskian
elements of Némirovsky’s work, it is important to establish a produc-
tive dialogue, that is, both critical and creative, between different agents
carrying heterogeneous horizons.
Part III turns to Anton Chekhov, playwright and indefatigable short-

story writer greatly admired by Némirovsky, on whom she wrote her only
full-length biography, La Vie de Tchekhov (1946). The biography is at
the core of the present book’s final section: this choice is due to the
desire to bring a variety of genres to the corpus analysed—Parts I and
II having examined a large selection of Némirovsky’s novels and short
stories. Part III, therefore, seeks to widen the range of texts by including
a genre that Némirovsky had wanted and tried to approach on multiple
occasions, as evidenced by the manuscripts. Indeed, in the archive we find
many references to possible biographical works: a biography of Pushkin,
of which exists an article published in the journal Marianne (25 March
1936); a life of young Napoleon (1937–1938); a radio programme on
empress Joséphine’s life, with its remaining typescript probably dating to
1939; and, finally, between 4 January and 15 March 1939, under the title
“Grandes Romancières Étrangères,” Némirovsky gave six radio confer-
ences at Radio Paris (Lussone 2013: 459; Lienhardt and Philipponnat
2009: 403).26 In addition, a focus on biography permits an engagement
with Némirovsky’s place within the literary field of its production, as well
as that of its reception. In this way, Part III demonstrates the productivity
of the creative influence method as a means to foreground the ethical and
metanarrative aspects within Némirovsky’s late work.
In Chapter 8 I consider La Vie de Tchekhov within its context of
production in interwar France. I start by looking at the book’s recep-
tion upon its posthumous publication. I notice that critics singled
out Némirovsky’s double affiliation as a privileged position to under-
stand Chekhov’s “Russian soul” and to make him intelligible to French
readers—a view that Némirovsky seems to have shared, too. In the
chapter I review Némirovsky’s attentive research on Chekhov by refer-
ring to previously unpublished material from the archive, where there
are notebooks covered in Némirovsky’s Russian handwriting. Perusing
the archive, one can find typescript manuscripts of La Vie de Tchekhov
with Némirovsky’s comments, her husband’s corrections, as well as funny
exchanges between spouses. All these details from the archives—what
Némirovsky studied, the lists and descriptions she deemed useful, the
selections she made, the transliteration she settled on—enable us to peek
into Némirovsky’s creative process. The last part of Chapter 8 assesses
the biography within the evolution of biographical writing, up until the
first decades of the 1900s, when the genre was more or less “codified”
20 M.-L. CENEDESE
upon the requirement for a vivid rendering of the subject’s inner life and
a strong authorship.
Chapter 9 takes its cue from the final remarks made in the previous
chapter about the involvement of the author’s subjectivity, and in this
way takes La Vie de Tchekhov “to the twenty-firts century.” Here I argue
that the (self-)reflexive elements of the biography allow us to read it
as: (1) a metanarrative text in which Némirovsky considered the role of
writers as creators of narratives that may have an impact on the public
space and in people’s perceptions of each other (for example, the Jewish
émigré minority that she often portrayed in her previous works); (2) a
space where she deployed a “cautious engagement ,” that is, where she
connects with the ethical potential of literature and the prefiguration of
the écrivain-engagé. For these reasons La Vie de Tchekhov does not lose
potential when seen alongside recent romanced biographies (ca. 2000–
2018): indeed, to bring it into dialogue with contemporary forms of life
writing and to assess it through the eye of narrative hermeneutics can
only foreground the multidirectional memory work of the self-reflexive
passages, which in turn enhance the modernity of Némirovsky’s work.
The Conclusion (Chapter 10) draws together the different approaches
to the study of influence developed in the book, which illustrate the depth
of cultural resonance that connects Némirovsky’s French-language work
to the Russian literary heritage of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekhov. By
bringing together the overall results provided by the different modes
of analysis, this final chapter underlines the relevance of Russian litera-
ture for a more exhaustive understanding of Némirovsky’s work. It also
stresses how reception, influence and creativity form an interdependent
relationship that is essential in order to understand the work and creative
practice of transnational authors. At the same time, it foregrounds how
this method of comparative analysis may serve as a theoretical and analyt-
ical resource for studying phenomena of influence, reception and reading,
without forgetting the role of creativity and personal affective responses.
Notes
1. For instance, Lienhardt and Philipponnat write that Némirovsky was never
part of the Russian literary emigration because she was not only “too
young and too French” but also she belonged to a milieu, that of Jewish
bankers, that would have made taking part in the life of the Russian intel-
ligentsia quite unlikely (Lienhardt and Philipponnat 2009: 88). See also
Stemberger (2013: 57). However, Lienhardt and Philipponnat also nod to

Némirovsky’s “resolutely modernist, syncopated style” (88) of the Russian
verses found in IMEC, NMR 7.1, Carnet avec poèmes et notes.
2. Némirovsky converted to Catholicism in 1939. One of her journal notes
says that the future is “in the laps of the Gods” (SF: 357).
3. While I explain the reasons for choosing Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and
Chekhov, who are without any doubt crucial references in Némirovsky’s
work, there is scope for investigating other Russian authors and intertexts.
For instance, in this book I mention Némirovsky’s project of a Pushkin
biography and her connection to Turgenev. Other traces of Russian
literary influences worth exploring might be the role of classical Russian
literature (e.g. Gogol’) or her representation of St Petersburg. (Thank
you to Martina Stemberger for pointing out these two connections in her
reading of this book’s manuscript).
4. Le Juez points out that “comparatists began approaching the reception
question from very early on in the history of the discipline under the
notion of ‘influence’” (2014. Emphasis added).
5. Jablonka is thinking of subjects of historical study, but as his book argues,
history and literature have only evolved to become separate disciplines,
though they should not be considered as categorically so.
6. Jablonka acknowledges (although in my opinion without giving its due
weight) the crucial contribution of gender studies on this point and
mentions Sandra Harding’s 1987 Feminism and Methodology (Jablonka
2018: x).
7. Cf. Bloom (1997: 14–16) for a synthesis of these terms.
8. In Bloom’s study the poet is always a white male, and the reader is also
always a “he.”
9. In A Map of Misreading , Bloom connects writing to reading by equating
the critical act of misprision, which is at the root of poetic influence,
to “the necessary critical acts performed by every strong reader upon
every text he encounters. The influence-relation governs reading as it
governs writing, and reading is therefore a miswriting just as writing is
a misreading” (1980: 3).
10. For more details on some of Bakhtin’s main ideas, such as “polyphony,”
“monologism” and “heteroglossia,” see Chapter 3 “Departing from
Tolstoy: Polyphony and Monologism” (sect. “Reading with Bakhtin,”
pp. 57–61).
11. Now in the essays collection Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to
Literature and Art (1980).
12. Kristeva will later propose, instead of the term intertextuality that “has
often been understood in the banal sense of ‘study of sources’,” the
term transposition, “because it specifies that the passage from one signi-
fying system to another demands a new articulation of the thetic—of
22 M.-L. CENEDESE
enunciative and denotative positionality” (qtd. in Becker-Leckrone 2005:

107).
13. Emphasis Barthes’s.
14. “As for the Text, it reads without the inscription of the Father” (Barthes
1990b: 161). It is important to point out that Barthes is not making a
direct polemical reference to Bloom, who published The Anxiety of Influ-
ence in January 1973. At the same time, since Bloom says he originally
wrote his book in the summer of 1967 and revised it in the following
years, we could speculate whether in the meantime he might have had
access to Barthes’ essays, which were published respectively in Mantéia
V , 1968 and Revue d’esthétique 3, 1971 (cf. Bloom 1997: xi; Barthes
1990: 13). However, such a speculation goes beside the scope of this
book and is not necessary to its argument.
15. On this aspect, see also the following passage from Kershaw: “It is impor-
tant not to exaggerate the significance of literary allusions, though they
do function as both ‘sources’ and ‘influences’. The identification of such
‘sources’ can never provide a complete explanation of a given text, and
the analysis of literary influences should not lead to a search for some
point of textual origin. Concrete relations do exist between works of liter-
ature, and they can be traced, but the search for influences must not be
fetishised. It is perhaps helpful to keep in mind the image of a web of
interrelations, and to reject the idea of a chain of causality leading back
to some point of origin” (Kershaw 2010: 50).
16. Wallen refers to systemic processes such as state archives (in his case, the
Stasi archive).
17. I am grateful to my friend and colleague, Samira Saramo, for these useful
references.
18. The creative process being part of one’s identity, which the archive
“actively shapes and produces” (Wallen 2009: 269).
19. For a comprehensive bibliography with publication details, cf. Lienhardt
and Philipponnat (2010: 441–444).
20. For a study of “the Némirovsky question,” cf. Suleiman (2016); see her
“Introduction,” p. 10, for a brief mention of the first exhibitions in New
York (2008) and Paris (2011).
21. “L’humeur vagabonde” radio broadcast with Némirovsky’s biographers
Olivier Philipponat and Patrick Lienhardt, France Inter 13 September
2007 (INA—DL R VIS 20070913 FIT 12).
22. Given the fairly recent events involving this institution that mobilized a
great number of people in France and internationally, I would like to
add a few words about it here, as a testament of active support for such
a fundamental institution and others alike. The Bibliothèque Marguerite
Durand is the Paris city library specialized in the history of women,
feminism and gender, founded in 1932 in the 5th arrondissement and
since 1989 housed in the 13th next to the médiathèque Jean-Pierre

Melville (see: Archives du féminisme, “Bibliothèque Marguerite Durand”).
In 2016 the Municipality of Paris had planned to transfer this archive
to the Bibliothèque historique de la ville de Paris (BHVP) in order to
give it “a central and prestigious” space where its content would have
been better promoted and enhanced. Fearing the opposite, syndicates and
notable intellectuals and scholars opposed the project. Mobilized around
the collective Sauvons la BMD (http://sauvonslabmd.fr), they organized
several demonstrations throughout 2017 (the last one on 18 November
2017). Finally, the project was cancelled by the Mayor of Paris, Anne
Hidalgo, in December 2017 (see e.g. Archives du féminisme, “Sauvons
la bibliothèque Marguerite Durand !” ; Moran 2017. Listen also to
podcast La Poudre, épisode Bonus – Bibliothèque Marguerite Durand,
2/11/2017). The library reopened on 14 February 2020.
23. Angela Kershaw’s Before Auschwitz (2010) aims precisely at situating
Némirovsky’s works “in relation to the literary field in which they were
produced” (2).
24. Indeed, Wallen also suggests that archival materials “exceed what can be
remembered and are not screened by the filters with which we understand
and view ourselves” (269–270).
25. “Her” refers to the protagonist of the novel, Ada Sinner. Similar references
to Dostoevsky also recur in the short stories “Ida” (1934, Némirovsky
2006) and “Espoirs” (1938, Némirovsky 2004). Cf. Chapter 5 n8.
26. There are no records on the subject of these radio conferences, since they
were neither recorded nor published in Cahiers de Radio Paris (Lienhardt
and Philipponnat 2009: 609 n53).
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PART I
Tolstoy: Creative Reception

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Great Plains, the, 274.
Great Slave Lake, 214, 247, 254.
Greenland, 8, 11.
Grenville, Sir Richard, 67, 68.
Griffin, the, 133.
Grijalva, Captain, 140.
Grosseliez, 207, 208.
Gunnbiorn, 8.
Half Moon, 105–107.

Harrisburg founded, 162.
Hartford, 104.
Hatteras, Cape, 65.
Hawkins, Sir John, 59.
Hearne, Mr., 210, 213–217.
Hennepin, 133, 134.
Hercules, Pillars of, 7.
Herjulfson, Bjarni, 8.
Hochelaga, 53, 54.
Holmes, William, 103.
Hontan, Baron La, 138, 247.
Hudson, Henry, 105–108.
Hudson River, 50, 106.
Hudson’s Bay, 108, 137, 206–208, 210–213, 269, 270.
Hudson’s Bay Company, 138, 206, 208–217.
Hudson’s Straits, 210.
Huguenot colonists, 57–62, 165.
Hunt, William, 225‒232.
Huron, Lake, 115.
Huron Indians, 115, 126.
Illinois River, 132.

Independence, War of, 162.
Indians, conflicts with, 105, 110, 126, 153–156, 158, 167, 222,
226.
Indian princess, 42;
King, 54;
War challenge, 96;
Ceremony in honor of the dead, 122;
Concert, 263;
Scalp dance, 264.
Indians:—174, 179, 214, 219, 229, 244.
Algonquins, 110, 112, 115–117.
Apache, 149, 150, 184, 258, 260–264, 267, 268.
Arapaho, 242.
Blackfeet, 228.
Cherokees, 159, 168–172.
Cheyennes, 228, 242.
Chickasaw, 43, 168.
Chippeway, 122, 129, 179–181, 238.
Comanche, 136, 184.
Creek, 158.
Crow, 228, 229.
Flathead, 98.
Huron, 115, 116.
Illinois, 130.
Iroquois, 113, 116, 123, 124, 127, 134.
Mohawk, 116, 123, 126, 127.
Navajoe, 184, 264, 266, 268.
Nez Percés, 197.
♦Onguiaharas, 122.
♦ ‘Onquilaharas’ replaced with ‘Onguiaharas’
Osage, 181.
Ottoe, 184.
Pawnee, 181, 234.
Pequod, 153–156.
Root, 247.
Seneca, 116, 127, 133.
Shoshone, 187, 229, 247, 254, 256.
Sioux, 128, 134, 177, 185, 225, 238.
Snake, 195, 196.
Zuni, 265.
Indians enslaved, 156, 158.
Indians, Penn’s treaty with the, 160.
Indiana, 173.
Iroquois Indians, 113, 116, 123, 124, 127, 134.
Isabella of Castile, 19.
Itasca Lake, 239.
James, Captain, 207.
James, Captain, 234–236.
Jamestown, 73, 76, 78–81, 110.
Jarvis, E. W., 272.
Jesuit Missionaries, 84, 119, 120, 126, 148, 149, 167.
Jesuits, Loss of power, 150.
Jesuit, a heroic, 124.
♦Jogues, Isaac, Jesuit Missionary, 123–125.
♦ ‘Joques’ replaced with ‘Jogues’
John II. of Portugal, 14.

Kansas, 241, 246.
Karsefue, 10.
Kennebec River, 88.
Kentucky, 168–172.
Kino, Eusebius Francis, 148.
Kirk, Mr., 118.
Knight, John, 209, 210.
La Paz, 146.
Lake of the Woods, 238.
Lane, Ralph, 68.
Latter-Day Saints, 255.
Laudonnière, René de, 58, 61.
Law, John, 166.
Laws, Mr., 258.
League of the Colonies, 157.
Le Gran Quivera, 259.
Leech Lake, 180, 233.
Leif the Lucky, 9.
Le Moyne, Father, 126.
Leon, Juan Ponce de, 33–35.
Lewis, Captain, 184–198.
Lion Caldron, 230.
Long, Major, 234–238.
Long Island, 9.
Long Island Sound, 87, 109.
Louisiana, 135, 166, 167, 168;
Ceded to United States, 173.
Louisville founded, 172.
Lost colony, the, 69, 70.
Luna, Don Tristan de, 47.
M’Dougal, Mr., 220–224.

Mackenzie, Alexander, 213, 217–219.
Mackenzie River, 214, 217.
Mackinaw, 225.
Mad River, 230.
Madoc, 11.
Magellan, 32, 49.
Magnus Colorado, Indian chief, 262.
Maine, 82, 85, 86.
Mandan Indians, 186, 227.
Manhattan Island, 106, 110.
Marco Polo, 12.
Marquette, James, 129–133.
Martha’s Vineyard, 71.
Maryland founded, 80.
Mason, Captain John, 156.
Massachusetts, 71.
Massasoit, 95, 102.
Matagorda, Bay of, 135.
Maurepas Lake, 164.
Mavilla, Indian village, 42.
Mayflower, the, 93.
Meares, Captain John, 202–204.
Mendoza, 140, 145.
Menendez, Pedro, 60–63.
Merrimac River, 99.
Mesnard, René, 128.
Mexico, 140, 144.
Mexico, Gulf of, 30, 135.
Michigan, 236.
Michigan, Lake, 120, 133, 237.
Middleton, Captain, 210.
Minnesota River, 237.
Missionaries, 119, 120.
Missionary colonists, 115, 150–152.
Missionary settlements, 119, 120.
Mississippi River, 35, 43, 44, 129, 132, 138, 164–166, 170,
176, 178, 180, 233, 234, 239.
Mississippi Scheme, 166.
Missouri River, 131, 184–194.
Great Bend, 186, 226.
Source of, 194.
Mitchigamea, Indian village, 132.
Mobile Bay, 164.
Mohawk Indians, 116, 123, 126, 127.
Monterey Bay, 146.
Montreal, 53, 114, 120.
Monts, De, 83.
Moore, Captain, 210, 211.
Mormons, 255, 256.
Mount Desert, 84.
Narvaez, Pamphilo de, 37, 38.

Natchez founded, 165.
Navajoe Indians, 184, 264–266, 268.
Nebraska River, 234, 236, 241, 246.
New Amsterdam, 110.
New England, 92–104.
Newfoundland, 9, 52, 64.
New Hampshire, 86, 88.
New Haven, 157.
New Jersey, 109.
New Mexico, 136, 174, 258.
New Netherland, 109, 128.
New Orleans, 166.
Newport, Captain, 72, 76, 77.
New York, 110.
New York, Harbor of, 50, 106.
Nez Percés, 197.
Niagara River, 122, 133.
Niagara Falls, 122.
Nipissing Lake, 115.
Nizza, Fra Marco da, 141–144.
Nootka Sound, 201.
Northmen, the, 11.
North-west Company, 212, 213, 217.
Nova Scotia, 9, 88, 269.
Nunez, Alvaro, 141.
Oglethorpe, General, 159.

Ohio River, 170;
State, 171, 172.
Ohio Company, 167, 172.
Oldham, John, 89, 153.
Omaha, 226.
Ontario, Lake, 119, 127.
♦Onguiaharas Indians, 122.
♦ ‘Onquiaharas’ replaced with ‘Onguiaharas’
Opechancanough, Indian Chief, 73.

Ortiz, Juan, 40.
Oswego River, 127.
Osage Indians, 181.
Ottawa River, 114.
Ottoe Indians, 184.
Pacific Ocean, Balboa discovers the, 32.

Palliser, Captain, 271.
Parker, Dr., 259.
Pawnee Indians, 181, 234.
Pearl fisheries, 150.
Penn, William, 159–161.
Pennsylvania, 160.
Penobscot River, 82.
Pensacola Harbor, discovery of, 41.
Pensacola River, 164.
Peoria Lake, 134.
Pequod Indians, 153–156.
Perez, 16, 17, 18, 23.
Philadelphia, 161.
Pictured Rocks, 123.
Pigart, Claude, Jesuit missionary, 122, 123.
Pike, Major, 176–183.
Pike’s Peak, 235, 242.
Pipe of Peace, 130, 131, 178, 227.
Pittsburg, 162.
Plymouth Company, 87, 88.
Pocahontas, 75, 79.
Pontchartrain, Lake, 164.
Port Royal, 58.
Portsmouth founded, 88.
Potomac River, 75.
Potawatomie Indians, 236.
Powhatan, 75, 77.
Providence founded, 102.
Puritans, the, 89–91;
Embarkation of, 92;
First landing, 93;
Land at Plymouth, 94;
Threatened by Indians, 96;
Settlements by, 99, 105.
Quebec, 53, 112, 116.

Quakers, 161.
Railroads, 268, 271–275.
Raleigh, Sir Walter, 64, 65, 67, 70.
Red Cedar Lake, 180.
Red River, 166, 169, 182.
Red River of the North, 238.
Rhode Island, 9.
Ribault, John, 57–62.
Rio Bravo de Norte, 183.
Rio Grande River, 260.
Roanoake Colony, 67–69.
Rocky Mountains, 190, 193, 194, 234, 242–247, 256.
Root Indians, 247.
Rose’s Edward, conspiracy against Hunt, 228.
Rupert, Prince, 208.
Russian Exploration, 200.
Sacramento, 256.
Sacramento River, 253.
Salle, Robert Cavalier de la, 133–136.
Salmon, 219.
Salt Lake, 236.
Salt Lake City, 248, 256.
San Diego, 146, 150.
San Domingo, 22.
San Francisco, 151, 240.
San Xavier del Bac, ruins of, 149.
Santa Fé, 184.
Saskatchewan River, 137, 272.
Savannah River, 158.
Saybrook, 104, 156.
Scalp dance, 264.
Schoolcraft, Mr., 238, 239.
Scotch colonists, 88.
Seneca Indians, 116, 127, 133.
Shawmut Point, 99.
Ship Island, 164.
Shoshone Indians, 187, 229, 247, 254, 256.
Sierra Nevada Mountains, 251.
Sioux Indians, 128, 134, 177, 185, 225, 238.
Skraellings, 9.
Slaves first landed at Jamestown, 79.
Slave Lake, 217.
Slave River, 217.
Smith, Captain John, 72–78, 85.
Smith, Captain, 210, 211.
Smith, Joe, 255.
Snake River, 230, 248.
Snake Indians, 195, 196.
Sothel, Seth, 158.
Soto, Hernando de, 39, 46.
South Pass, 245, 254.
Southern Pacific Railway, 268.
Spanish Explorations and Settlements, 30–48, 60–63,
140–146.
Spanish power in Mexico, Overthrow of, 152.
Standish, Captain Miles, 93, 97, 98.
Stansbury, Captain, 256.
Steck, Dr., 258.
Stewart family, Murder of, 268.
Stone, Captain, murder of, 152.
St. Anthony’s Falls, 134.
St. Augustine, 62.
St. John’s River, 57.
St. Lawrence, Gulf of, 29, 52.
St. Lawrence River, 52, 112–118, 178, 237, 238.
St. Louis, 131, 135, 225.
St. Mary’s, 81.
Superior, Lake, 123.
Sutter’s Fort, 240, 253.
Swedish colonists, 110.
Tampa Bay, 37.

Tennessee, 172.
Texas, 135, 136;
ceded to the United States, 174.
Thinkleet Indians, 219.
Thorstein, 10.
Thorvald, 9.
Tonti, 165.
Tonquin, the, 220;
loss of, 221, 224.
Ulloa, Francisco de, 141.

United States,
Beginning of, 157;
Extension of, 173;
Northern boundary, 270.
Vaca, Cabeca de, 38, 39.

Vancouver, 204.
Verrazano of Florence, 37.
Verrazano, Giovanni, 49–51.
Vespucci, Amerigo, 25.
Vines, Richard, 87, 89.
Virginia, first settlement, 68.
Viscaino, Sebastian, 146, 188.
Voyage up the Missouri, Hunt’s, 225–228.
Voyage down the Snake and Columbia, Hunt’s, 230–232.
Walloons, 109.
Welsh, 12.
West India Company, 109.
White, John, 69.
White Mountains, 87.
Wilkes, Captain, 240.
Williams, Roger, 101–103, 155.
Wisconsin River, 130, 132, 138, 177.
Windsor, 104.
Winnipeg, Lake, 233, 238, 272.
Winthrop, John, 99, 101.
Yellowstone River, 187, 246.

Yellow Fever in Louisiana, 166.
Yerba Buena, 239, 251.
Young, Brigham, 255.
Zeni, the Brothers, 12.

Zuni, Ruins of, 265.
Zunis Indians, 265.
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Irene Nemirovskys Russian Influences Tolstoy Dostoevsky and Chekhov 1St Edition Marta Laura Cenedese Full Chapter PDF

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Irène Némirovsky's Russian Influences:

Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Chekhov 1st

Weird IR: Deviant Cases in International Relations

Sediment Provenance. Influences on Compositional Change

Feminist IR in Europe Maria Stern

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More information about this series at

ISSN 2634-6478 ISSN 2634-6486 (electronic)

Many of the most significant European writers and literary movements

space and time as a result of technological innovations in the fields of

and postmodernism. Rather, the aim is to encourage work that highlights

be that in all European languages the history and theorization of the

I spent several weeks researching Némirovsky’s archives at the Institut

love and support are an incommensurable loss. This book is dedicated to

All writings by Irène Némirovsky, published or unpublished, have been

1 Introduction: Creative Encounters Over Time

Part I Tolstoy: Creative Reception

2 From Russia to France, Via England: Suite française,

3 Departing from Tolstoy: Polyphony and Monologism 55

4 Beyond Tolstoy: Music 77

Part II Dostoevsky: Unconscious Influence

5 Dreams from Underground 95

6 The Abject 117

7 An Anthropology of Suffering 137

Part III Chekhov: Reading in Context

8 La Vie de Tchekhov: A Romanced Biography 157

9 La Vie de Tchekhov in the Twenty-First Century 183

10 Conclusion: A Russian Suite 199

Abbreviations of Irène Némirovsky’s work

Abbreviations of Leo Tolstoy’s work

Abbreviations of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s work

Abbreviations of Archival Sources

Introduction: Creative Encounters Over Time

© The Author(s) 2021 1

Creative Reception and the Ethics of Influence

minds” that took place in interwar Paris between Némirovsky, Tolstoy,

encounter of her own. Therefore, where the word influence is concerned,

at the same time it encourages her to speculate, or better yet, to envision

“ethics of influence.” In Chapters 8 and 9, this thought will underline my

Influence, Intertextuality, Readers and Writers

traces an agonistic/rebellious aesthetic going from an older writer (the

filiation; the citations which go to make up a text are anonymous, untrace-

ambiguity, reminds us of the importance of subjectivity and creativity in

The Archive and Affective Reading

Némirovsky’s early notebooks and first literary works (her juvenilia, so

the Institut national de l’audiovisuel (INA–National Audiovisual Insti-

Outline of the Book

researchers that seeks to emulate the unfurling of the creative flow in

workings of the novel, music is an element that provides the “expansion”

Part III turns to Anton Chekhov, playwright and indefatigable short-

Stemberger (2013: 57). However, Lienhardt and Philipponnat also nod to

enunciative and denotative positionality” (qtd. in Becker-Leckrone 2005:

since 1989 housed in the 13th next to the médiathèque Jean-Pierre

Bassnett, Susan. 2007. “Influence and Intertextuality: A Reappraisal.” Forum for