Mixing fiction, history, psychoanalysis, and personal fantasy, "Teresa, My Love" follows Sylvia Leclercq, a French psychoanalyst, academic, and incurable insomniac, as she falls for the sixteenth-century Saint Teresa of Avila and becomes consumed with charting her life. Traveling to Spain, Leclercq, Kristeva's probing alterego, visits the sites and embodiments of the famous mystic and awakens to her own desire for faith, connection, and rebellion.One of Kristeva's most passionate and transporting works, "Teresa, My Love" interchanges biography, autobiography, analysis, dramatic dialogue, musical scores, and images of paintings and sculptures to embed the reader in Leclercq's — and Kristeva's — journey. Born in 1515, Teresa of Avila survived the Spanish Inquisition and was a key reformer of the Carmelite Order. Her experience of ecstasy, which she intimately described in her writings, released her from her body and led to a complete realization of her consciousness, a state Kristeva explores in relation to present-day political failures, religious fundamentalism, and cultural malaise. Incorporating notes from her own psychoanalytic practice, as well as literary and philosophical references, Kristeva builds a fascinating dual diagnosis of contemporary society and the individual psyche while sharing unprecedented insights into her own character.
Биографии и Мемуары18+Julia Kristeva
Teresa, My Love: An Imagined Life of the Saint of Avila
For my father
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DeAgostini/Leemage.
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akg-images/Pirozzi.
ABBREVIATIONS
CHRONOLOGY OF WORKS
1560–1563
1–3
1562
First draft of
1563
First draft of the
1565
1566–1567
1567
of the Discalced Nuns
1569
New series of lesser
: 8–27
1573
, chaps. 1–26
1575–1576
4–5
1576
; continuation of
, chaps. 21–27
1577
1577–1580
(almost 200)
1581
6
1580–1582
Completion of
(chaps. 28–31)
1581–1582
Final letters (around 100)
The
REFERENCES
The English translations used for all quotations from Teresa of Avil a come from the following sources.
Any italics in quotations have been added by Julia Kristeva.
We are not angels, but we have a body.
Or perhaps there is only a single mind, in which everybody has a share, a mind to which all of us look, isolated though each of us is within a private body, just as at the theater.
The flung-back face of a woman asleep, or perhaps she has already died of pleasure, her open mouth the avid door to an empty body that fills before our eyes with a boiling of marble folds…You must recall that sculpture by Bernini,