Caderea, de Albert Camus
Posted: December 12, 2011 Filed under: Romana | Tags: Camus, Classics, Monologue Leave a comment »
Editura: Rao, 2009, limba: romana, traducere din franceza de Georgeta Horodinca
Cat curaj, nu? In mod normal nu m-as fi apropiat de cartea asta nici sa fiu platita, din cauza unei imagini distorsionate pe care o am despre Camus in urma unor lecturi care in amintirile mele de-a lungul anilor au devenit extraordinar de deprimante, desi in timp ce eram in mijlocul lor eram cat se poate de multumita. Nu stiu exact cum sa explic efectul asta, si cu Sartre mi se intampla la fel. Probabil ca subiectele in sine sunt ingrozitor de pedante, dar cartile sunt asa de bine scrise incat atunci cand te afunzi in ele ai un oarecare sentiment de confort care contracareaza norul de disperare in care sunt invaluite lumile lor. Si tocmai motivul pentru care scriu aici despre Caderea este printre altele ca sa imi aduc aminte ca nu Camus este problema ci amintirea lui Camus, si deci a-l citi nu provoaca depresia, ci ocazional cand ma voi gandi la carte o voi vedea probabil sub o lumina deprimanta, ma voi intreba cum am putut sa o citesc si asta imi va spori admiratia fata de propria persoana fiindca iata cand vreau ma mobilizez. Deci numai consecinte pozitive. Oricum ar fi, nici o sansa pe lume ca eu sa fi citit romanul in alte circumstante decat cele care s-au prezentat sambata asta: vineri seara m-am vazut cu coordonatoarea de doctorat care a facut niste eforturi fara vlaga si de forma sa ma motiveze. Chiar si asa, de mantuiala, tentativele au functionat intrucatva (ma intreb de ce ar fi capabila sa trezeasca in mine daca si-ar da intr-adevar interesul) si m-am gandit, cum subiectul tezei mele este fix caderea (don’t ask), ca poate ar fi bine sa citesc acest roman, chiar daca s-ar dovedi ca nu are nimic de-a face (are un pic de tot). Si apoi, a doua zi, mergand spre Grenoble cu trenul, nu aveam nici casti nici cartea pe care o citesc acum, doar Kindle-ul care contine o lista de carti intitulata ‘De citit pentru Stefana’ si in capul listei, la A de la Albert, fix asta. Asa ca am strans din dinti si m-am apucat.
Evident, din moment ce scriu despre ea, intr-un final mi-a placut. Probabil mi-ar fi placut mai mult cand eram adolescenta, am avut aceeasi senzatie citind Lupul de Stepa de Hesse. Intreg romanul este un monolog, ghicim replicile care i se dau naratorului/monologatorului/ personajului, insa ele sunt trecute sub tacere de scriitor, sunt foarte rare si singurul lor rol este, pe langa cel de a declansa raspunsuri care altfel s-ar fi strecurat mai greu in monolog, sa scuture din cand in cand cititorul un pic toropit de atata vorbarie. Didacticismul nu este foarte deranjant fiindca de la un moment dat se disipeaza intr-un delir religios febril a carui autenticitate a ramas in mintea mea neclara. Ambiguitatea asta am impresia m-a facut sa continui si sa imi creasca interesul fata de personaj; asta si, ca de obicei, ambianta generala care inoata in fum si ceturi fiindca totul se petrece intr-un bar sordid din Amsterdam, sau pe insule friguroase si umede in jurul orasului.
by Caliap
Personajul atat de volubil care este urmarit prin spelunci si prin porturi este un amestec complex de farsor, profet, filosof, burghez cumsecade si adolescent intarziat. In jurul lui, celelalte personaje care intra ocazional in raza vizuala, sunt fantome cu trasaturi nedefinite care provoaca o usoara agitatie in ceata inconjuratoare, insa nimic de natura sa lase urme sau consecinte. Prin comparatie, personajul interlocutorului tacut pare mai usor identificabil de-a lungul romanului, (pentru ca la sfarsit sa fie de-a dreptul clar, dar asta e alta poveste, fiindca imi voi fi credincioasa mie insami si nu voi vorbi despre final nici macar aici unde nu conteaza chiar asa mult) probabil fiindca cititorul este uimit de adresarea directa care il face sa asume in mod inconstient pozitia ascultatorului. De aici pana a empatiza cu personajul absent, rabdator si silentios nu e decat un pas. Toate procedeele sau trucurile sau stratagemele astea converg catre o singura consecinta, foarte surprinzatoare in ceea ce ma priveste: am ajuns sa imi pun intrebari in legatura cu viata si comportamentul meu, si sa imi inscenez dileme morale cu iz masochist ca sa imi demonstrez ca sunt o vaca. Toate astea sunt reactii pe care nu le-am mai avut de multa vreme in legatura cu o carte, fiindca sunt la un stadiu foarte insolent al existentei si tocmai de aceea spuneam ca probabil acum vreo zece ani romanul ar fi lasat o impresie inca si mai puternica asupra constiintei mele. Nu stiu daca sa ma bucur sau nu ca l-am citit abia acum.
Fiindca toata aceasta confesiune demonstreaza ca orice gest este interesat, ca orice dovada de altruism este rizibila, ca viata de cuplu este o tortura si ca ipocrizia ne mananca din interior pana ne lasa goliti de substanta. Nimic nou sub soare, nu? Cu atat mai mult, impactul pe care lectura asta l-a avut asupra mea este remarcabil fiindca am prins obieciul sa ma detasez de toate discursurile similare, ca o cititoare experimentata si pe alocuri blazata care sunt. Camus m-a luat insa prin surprindere, cu forta si cu hotarare si m-a scuturat profund de cateva ori pana mi-am venit in simtiri adica pana cand am inceput sa resimt ce spune si sa ma gandesc ca cine stie, poate el de fapt nu e deprimant, e realist. Nu cred ca acum cei care citesc ceea ce am scris se vor inghesui in biblioteci si librarii cautand Caderea, nu cred ca suna foarte apetisant; insa nadajduiesc ca nu am produs efectul contrar si ca daca o sa dati vreodata din intamplare peste aceasta carte, o voi numerosi si entuziasti cititori ai mei, nu o luati la fuga urland. Cititi-o si pe asta, mai ales daca va simtiti prea bine.
Les toutes premières choses, par Hubert Klimko
Posted: December 7, 2011 Filed under: French | Tags: Contemporary, Eastern Europe, Hubert Klimko, magical realism, Romania Leave a comment »
Ed. Belfond, 2011, Langue: français, traduit du polonais par Véronique Patte
Pendant mon déménagement si long si compliqué si palpitant, j’ai perdu quelques bonnes habitudes: courir, vérifier mes mails, aller sur The Sartorialist, m’y prendre à l’avance pour prévoir certains cadeaux pour certaines personnes, lire et écrire ici. Mais aujourd’hui, déménagement quasiment fini, (on essaie d’ignorer les immenses boîtes IKEA jamais ouvertes qui trainent dans le salon attendant que quelqu’un ait pitié pour aider les Billy accomplir leur destin et devenir des vraies bibliothèques une fois pour toutes) je n’ai plus d’excuses et en plus j’ai internet. Le mien, je veux dire, pas volé aux voisins. Ce matin donc, ressentant le changement dans l’air et reniflant l’exasperation de mes correspondants virtuels et l’impossibilité de continuer comme ça, je me suis levée de bonne heure et j’ai fini le roman d’Hubert Klimko pour pouvoir partager mes opinions ici. Je ne suis pas encore allée sur ma boite mail, mais c’est prévu.
Mais Hubert avant tout: il est drôôôle! J’ai eu l’impression de parcourir un livre écrit par plaisir, sans efforts et sans angoisses, surtout car le début ne ressemble pas du tout à la fin au niveau stylistique, à mon avis , et personne n’a l’air de s’en soucier et ça c’est bien. Parce que franchement moi aussi je m’en fous, tant que ce que je lis me plaît. Qui dit que la cohésion est forcément une vertu? Ce roman est une de ces autobiographies où la fiction et la réalité se mêlent à un point où je crois que même l’auteur a des peines à décéler l’une de l’autre: le début du roman le dit, d’ailleurs, car là il fait le choix des versions alternatives racontant sa naissance. Et elles sont toutes fantastiques, semblant être sorties d’un fond folklorique et burlesque (comme Rabelais, pas comme Dita Von Teese) qui m’a donné l’impression au tout début du roman qu’après le réalisme magique islandais j’allais plonger dans le réalisme magique est-européen (avec toujours une touche de l’Islande, car Hubert Klimko est polonais, mais il a vécu en Islande aussi – coïncidences coïncidences…). Mais en fait pas du tout et ça ne m’a pas déplu, car j’avais juste envie de réalisme tout court en ce moment. C’est pour ça que je dis que le début n’a rien à voire avec le reste du livre. L’ambiance générale n’est que trop connue, car en Europe de l’Est on est tous des frères ou c’est ce qu’on aime dire sans cesse et c’est vrai que les Roumains sont un peu le mouton noir de la famille, mais ça n’empêche, on a tous grandi ensemble. J’ai retrouvé donc l’air un peu gris des villes, l’odeur de l’abattoir qui est tout près des quartiers habités et pas très aux normes, la pauvreté générale et le désir de partir loin, le plus loin possible. C’était marrant, il raconte qu’une partie de sa famille vient de Roumanie et il n’en a pas l’air d’être très fier: ils sont les bizarroïdes de la ville. Ca m’a fait rire.
Pas de chat dans ce roman, mais cette photo me semble parfaite, for some reason. De Caliap, of course.
Il y a dans le roman, au plein milieu, une autre histoire de famille qui était bien plus impressionnante que celle des grands parents roumains: celle des grands parents polonais de la campagne, à côté de Cracovie. C’était juste incroyable comment il a réussi un changement radical d’ambiance dans un instant et comment il a infusé ce chapitre d’un charme sérein et un peu triste, remplaçant la grisaille de sa ville par le bleu des ciels de campagne sans même essayer de décrire les différences entre les deux endroits. Ce chapitre m’a transporté dans un tout autre univers et j’ai eu l’impression que la lecture, tout comme la vie du roman, avait complètement changé de rythme et les couleurs étaient dévenues saturées et plus belles qu’avant. C’était un instant court mais bouleversant et c’est encore une fois que j’ai eu l’impression de commencer un autre roman, par un autre Hubert Klimko. Mais on s’y fait, et alors bam, un autre changement de monde, cette fois moins frappant, car le narrateur-personnage prend la route pour aller vivre une aventure européenne en mouvement perpetuel : entre jobs, villes, pays et amis qui n’ont rien, mais absolument rien en commun les uns avec les autres. Le tout devient un labyrinthe hilarant de connexions et absurdités et coïncidences. Le tout sous l’auspice d’une ombre de superstition semblant guider la vie du personnage, qui loin d’être dérangeante ou bête reste le seul lien visible avec ces grands parents extraordinaires et l’air plus propre et raréfie du monde qu’ils habitaient. C’est en fait le même fond folklorique dont je parlais tout à l’heure, qui n’est ni recherché ni mis en avant, mais qui se dévoile tout seul dans des attitudes et des mots et qui encore une fois me fait penser aux gens de chez moi. Peut-être aussi parce que je ne pourrai pas retourner pour Noël.
La fin est elle aussi surprenante, on sent déjà la réalité prendre le dessus de la fiction dans le récit autobiographique et on a droit à une litanie des soucis et des frustrations de l’auteur polonais confronté au ridicule d’un marché du livre qui se veut en cours de développement mais qui ne reste pourtant qu’une blague dans les anciens pays communistes. Cela m’a fait un peu mal et pour une fois c’est quelque chose que je n’aurais pas voulu retrouver, mais bon, après ça change car il repart à l’étranger et ça va mieux. La fin fin fin, elle est très belle et elle m’a fait penser à une autre merveilleuse histoire des deux cygnes nommés Marcel et Achille, écrite par Mlle Aude Lenoble et qui est elle même le résultat des coïncidences magico-réalistes de la vraie vie. Mais je ne dirai pas plus. Lisez Hubert Klimko, lisez Aude Lenoble aussi, même si ses livres sont vraiment difficiles à trouver, et très précieux.
C'est en Roumanie mais c'est un peu pareil
Kubla Khan, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Posted: November 21, 2011 Filed under: English | Tags: Classics, Poetry 1 Comment »Yes, that. Because I have absolutely no time on my hands these days (moving to an apartment with nothing in it requires a great deal of effort, dedication and hesitations on the Ikea website followed by long lines in the Ikea store) but because I miss my blog and the writing, even if it hasn’t been that long since my last post. I also missed the music of a Coleridge poem and so I decided to paste it here just to remind myself of it and to sing the praise of the wonderful iambic pentameter without which the world would be a dreadful place. So here goes, be hypnotized ye mortals:
KUBLA KHAN
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea. 5
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 10
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device, 35
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played, 40
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me.
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long, 45
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 50
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Turn About, by William Faulkner
Posted: November 14, 2011 Filed under: English | Tags: Anthology, Faulkner, World War I Leave a comment »
Great Modern Short Stories, Random House, 1942, Language: English
I have just finished reading this lesser known Faulkner short story and have fallen in love with the man all over again. My 1942 anthology of short stories keeps delivering gem after gem of awesomeness and I couldn’t be more grateful for it.
Faulkner was probably indirectly one of the main reasons I’ve started this blog. A long time ago, during a Theory of Literature class, a young professor at my University (the one all the girls in first year were infatuated with and who had earned my respect for the passion with which he had spoken about books during the first two classes we had already had – me not being the infatuated type, of course) asked us to read The Bear, by Faulkner, and then tell him what the Truth was. I re-read the Bear, trying to figure out the Truth but mostly being bewildered at the task and understanding it about just as much as anyone reading this is now. I had a few ideas but they seemed a bit unimpressive. We got to the following class, one of the most confusing ones of my life, with everyone shouting out different insane or less insane hypotheses all of which were of course not the right answer. To this day, I have no idea what the Truth was or if he actually revealed it to us. I have a feeling he did and it had nothing to do with the contents of the book and that I was deeply disappointed. I am not sure, however. Anyway, what this led to was a significant amount of insecurity on my part, which coupled with some remarks he went on to make about people reading things a certain way and others reading them another way and a certain use of terms I was not familiar with, managed to swiftly persuade me that I did not know how to read. I had spent a good part of my life up to then doing just that and all of a sudden it dawned on me that I had been doing it the wrong way and moreover that I was not aware of any other way. It took me a long time to recover from what was almost an identity crisis and draw up the courage to speak about books again since by the time the first year of university ended I was sure I was very stupid. That is why today, all mended up and my usual cockiness reacquired, I am so adamant about being honest about literature and reading for pleasure. Because I am sure now that he was wrong and I am right and I represent the people, the 99%, whereas he, as a member of the 1% is somewhat of an intellectual bully and one of those who do more harm than good to literature by intimidating all readers out of their wits and out of libraries. So, I say occupy Yoknapatawpha!
So, all this anecdote was just my way of saying that ever since I got past my shyness of Faulkner, I have taken my revenge by enjoying him immensely and letting myself go with the wonderful flow of his prose without asking questions that are not there and meditating upon those that did indeed come up upon reading his works. Out of everything I’ve read by him so far, this particular short story is one of the more conventional ones. However, it is deeply disturbingly beautiful and manages to capture the main character’s thoughts in a way that is strongly reminiscent of The Sound and the Fury, but without even a glimpse of stream of consciousness techniquness. (Not that I don’t like stream of consciousness, on the contrary I think I am its biggest fan alive.) I love love love works of fiction where the characters don’t explain themselves and are not explained and this is one of them and this is also why I love Mad Men, but that is the subject of a different conversation I think. The story is set during the First World War, in a European port where British and American troops are stationed together and from where they launch daily or nightly attacks on Germany and territories belonging to the Central Powers. Fighting together does not however make them understand each other better and it isn’t until some personal contact is established that reciprocal spite is overcome. Bogard, the American aviation captain and the kid, a British naval officer make a pair of complicated and fascinating figures and complement each other without ostentation. Strangely, in spite of his logorrhea, the British 17 year old boy remains much more of a mystery than Bogard (in whose head we seem to be in spite of the absence of any stream of consciousness) and I couldn’t help but wonder whether his childlike enthusiasm is a sign of innocence and misunderstanding of danger or of some kind of screwed up cynicism that makes him get his kick out of constantly being on the verge of death. Ronnie, his mate, is like a silent backdrop against which he can unfold his verboseness – as if each one of them had assumed and stuck to a well defined role and a ritual in order to make their task bearable and to not go insane with fear.
Against what you might possibly think, even if it does speak of friendship and mutual respect, this is a rugged, non-didactical story. I will again mention the fact that it has been included in that 1942 anthology and it seems as if, once more, the editors were trying to prove to their public the strong bond that existed between the American and British people, a relationship worth fighting for. However, more than launching into a hymn to comradeship, Faulkner seems to engage into a meditation on spite and prejudice. The Americans are persuaded of their valor, discipline and superiority over the English soldiers who they have come to the rescue of. Besides Captain Bogard, who is the most open-minded of them all, none of them will get to acknowledge the horrifying conditions in which the British divisions fight. The Americans, fresh to the war and physically remote from it (since they are fighting above land) also seem to still be able to hang on to principles and be stiff about rules and spit on misbehaviour, whereas the British soldiers are merry, drunk, sleeping in the gutters and impossible to tell apart because they are all so so young. And this is precisely why the atmosphere in the story becomes unbearable at some point; their desperation of having nothing more to lose becomes almost thick and tangible. The feeling of loneliness generated by the scene where they ride together in a tiny boat facing a gigantic enemy in the open sea seems to linger still, long after having shut the book and long after listening to some music to chase away the chills. Stories like this always make me painfully acknowledge what my peaceful existence has been built on. This being said, I will leave you with PJ Harvey whose last album makes me feel precisely what this short story has made me feel. Besides, this video is perfect.
Casa somnului, de Jonathan Coe
Posted: November 13, 2011 Filed under: English | Tags: Contemporary, Jonathan Coe, psychology 3 Comments »
Editura Polirom, 2001, Limba: romana, traducere din engleza de Radu Paraschivescu
A trebuit sa las sa treaca un pic de timp intre momentul in care am terminat cartea asta si redactarea unui post despre ea fiindca eram foarte interesata sa vad ce ramane. Nu pot spune ca s-a sedimentat cine stie ce in cateva zile, insa mi-a scazut resentimentul generat de faptul ca nu mi-a indeplinit asteptarile initiale si am reusit intre timp sa apreciez directia in care a mers pana la urma. Jonathan Coe este inca un autor pe care nu l-am mai citit niciodata, de unde si surpriza probabil.
Casa somnului este o lectura extrem de placuta, atat de placuta incat uneori ma intrebam daca placerea nu este vinovata. Cand firul narativ a inceput sa se complice iar actiunea sa devina, fara un avertisment prealabil, exuberanta si plina de surprize, am devenit convinsa ca este o placere vinovata. Apropiindu-ma de sfarsit, unde loviturile de teatru se succed cu o rapiditate naucitoare, am devenit de-a dreptul furioasa, ceea ce nu m-a impiedicat, evident, sa devorez in continuare fiecare pagina, facand pronosticuri debile despre rezolvarea finala. Ei, debile cum erau, aproape toate s-au adeverit, ceea ce m-a enervat si mai tare, sporindu-mi pe de alta parte placerea. Un adevarat cerc vicios din care am iesit doar amintindu-mi ca scopul meu de cititoare este sa intru in lumea unui roman fara idei preconcepute si daca nu mi se pare prea idiot ca sa il termin, la iesire sa fiu onesta in privinta a ceea ce am citit, incercand sa stau departe de pretentiile unei analize academice. (Nu ca as putea, acum, sa fim seriosi, sa fac o analiza academica. Nu, ca sa nu creada cineva ca pot da nu vreau. Nu pot si nici nu vreau si daca uneori pare ca devin academica si ca stiu despre ce vorbesc, e absolut accidental fiindca dupa cum am dezvaluit intr-un post anterior; nu mai am de multa vreme uneltele necesare si nici nu stiu daca le-am avut cu adevarat vreodata. Asa, bun, ca sa fie clar.) Pot astazi spune, asadar, cu mana pe inima, ca romanul asta mi-a placut. Categoric. Nu mi-a dat frisoane intelectuale, nici nu m-a bulversat pentru totdeauna, insa l-am citit cu pofta, fiindca are o atmosfera, scriitura e fluida si m-a invatat o gramada de lucruri despre somn.
Cum emana ceva inefabil ce eu voi numi englezitate prin fiecare silaba, l-am vazut ca pe o combinatie intre recent cititul Sa nu ma parasesti al lui Kazuo Ishiguro si Durabila iubire al lui Ian McEwan: aluzia unei atmosfere academice care insa nu devine cadrul principal al actiunii, personajele tacute, povestile de dragoste obsesiva si chestiunile de etica (medicala?) il apropie de Sa nu ma parasesti, iar voluptatea cu care autorul plonjeaza in detalii asupra diferitelor patologii aminteste de Ian McEwan. Nu sunt extrem de entuziasmata de obicei de acele pasaje din carti din care deduc faptul ca scriitorul a petrecut cel putin un an in biblioteca in prealabil si acum face tot posibilul sa incerce sa redea complexitatea informatiilor obtinute incercand sa pastreze un simulacru de legatura cu actiunea, prin niste fire fictionale extrem de subtiri pe care incearca sa le impleteasca subtil dar de cele mai multe ori fara succes cu dizertatia academica in care s-a lansat. Howgh. Pe de alta parte, desi ingreuneaza lectura functionand de cele mai multe ori ca niste bolovani in derularea naratiunii, acestea sunt momentele in care un alt fel de interes decat cel literar este stimulat si care ofera satisfactia despre care toooot vorbesc mereu, satisfactia data de faptul ca iata, si astazi ai invatat ceva nou. Si pe deasupra nici nu a trebuit sa te obosesti sa mergi tu insuti/ati sa cauti, ci informatiile au venit la tine in timp ce tu te relaxai cu un roman simpatic, evitand sa te gandesti ca viata e grea si ca afara ploua.
Totul pare mohorat in roman, dar nu fara farmec. Tonurile de gri se suprapun creand o imagine foarte precisa despre Ashdown situat pe o faleza sinistra si batuta de vanturi, despre micul oras universitar nenumit si despre cafeneaua unde isi pierd vremea studentii. Totul este luminat de o singura scena la malul marii, care functioneaza ca o contrapondere la negurile, vantul si ploaia care strabat fara mila cam fiecare scena a romanului (sau poate doar in mintea mea, nu stiu sigur). Mi s-a parut extrem de inteligent cum acel moment, care devine cheia romanului si la care multe personaje se refera ca fiind unul din cele mai fericite ale vietii lor, are propria viata si caldura. Totul devine deodata ars de soare si imaginile un pic neclare, trasaturile personajelor se dizolva din cauza stralucirii emanate de scena. Apoi apele cenusii se reinchid peste fragmentul insorit, facandu-l sa para o amintire a unei vieti apartinand altcuiva si nu lui Sarah si Robert.
Nu as vrea sa dau insa impresia ca mohorala generala a cadrului se reflecta asupra scriiturii, fiindca numeroasele accente comice definesc romanul in aceeasi masura. Mi s-a intamplat sa rad in hohote citindu-l, ascunzandu-ma in baie, ca sa nu trezesc toata casa (jocul de cuvinte e neintentionat, nu ca l-ar fi detectat cineva inainte ca eu sa atrag atentia asupra lui, nu? ). Comicul vine din clasicele qui pro quo-uri care par sa nu isi piarda niciodata din prospetime, dar si din tendinta de a caricaturiza anumite personaje. Asta poate parea ceva negativ, insa dupa cum spuneam mai sus, satisfactia cititorului este nemasurata vazand ridicolul in care cade fara gres un personaj extrem de cretin precum Gregory. Nu e foarte profund, dar face apel la emotii umane de baza – uneori ma gandesc ca un studiu psihologic al persoanelor care citesc Casa somnului ar fi el insusi foarte interesant. Deci, dupa cum spuneam, personajele sunt schitate uneori un pic cam gros, insa asta le da farmec si forta. Poate din cauza similitudinilor cu Sa nu ma parasesti, Sarah nu poate fi in filmul din mintea mea decat Carey Mulligan, iar in Terry tanar il recunosc pe un fost coleg care imi provoca accese de exasperare. Astea sunt semne bune, in opinia mea, semne ca personajele traiesc. Mai mult, in cartea astea, personajele traiesc si respira si se comporta intr-un anumit fel numai si numai pentru placerea cititorului, iar asta este extrem de flatant.
La Main gauche, de Guy de Maupassant
Posted: November 9, 2011 Filed under: French | Tags: Classics, Maupassant, Orientalism, XIX Century Leave a comment »
Editeur : Gallimard , 1999, Langue : Français
Il y a un an ou deux, prise dans les tourments créateurs provoqués par la rédaction de mon mémoire de Master 1 ou 2, je lisais Le rire de Bergson en essayant de découvrir de mon pouvoir visionnaire que je surestime régulièrement l’indécouvrable: la formule du comique. Et alors, pendant que je cherchais la gloire d’une contribution décissive à la réflection académique dans le domaine, pénétrée par l’importance de ma mission, et la mienne aussi implicitement, je tombe sur un truc qui me destabilise et me montre d’un coup la rélativité de ma condition. Oui, une révélation, carrément. Sur les pages de ce livre emprunté à la bibliothèque, un étudiant bien pensant et indigné avait souligné de trois grosses lignes en crayon la phrase “et pourquoi rit-on d’un nègre?” (page 32 dans l”édition PLON) ainsi que l’explication qui disait que “le nègre” était perçu comme un blanc déguisé, en devenant ainsi irresistiblement comique. Trois gros points d’interrogation accompagnaient la diatribe silencieuse de l’étudiant contre ce qu’il considérait sans l’ombre d’un doute le racisme extrême de Bergson. Bien sûr, au début j’ai souri devant son manque de perspective historique et ça m’a donné un très révigorant sentiment d’autosatisfaction. Ma réaction suivante a été de remettre en question tous les principes qu’on tient aujourd’hui pour vrais et absolus, et de m’imaginer comment on sera tous sans doute dans le futur dans la posture de ce pauvre Bergson, victimes des limitations de notre société et de nos convictions. Donc, mon Master n’aura certainement aucune valeur dans le temps, donc facebooooooooooooook.
Récemment, je me suis confrontée à une indignation similaire et très vive, spontanée, en lisant certaines des nouvelles de Maupassant. Cette fois, le sentiment m’appartenait et il restait là en dépit de mes efforts de tout remettre en perspective, afin de ne pas répéter l’erreur de cet étudiant dont je me souvenais très bien. Comme le sentiment m’appartenait et que je pensais malgré tout avoir un peu de raison (je pense toujours avoir raison, même si je dis le contraire), j’ai eu plus de patience à l’analyser et à contempler les choses qu’on demande de nos “génies” réconnus. On leur demande une clarté de vision qui soit parfaitement en concordance avec ce qu’on considère aujourd’hui vrai, clair, net et bon. N’importe quand ils sont nés, ni autres circonstances. Si ce n’est pas toujours le cas, et s’ils n’ont pas su comment faire une sélection favorable des principes qui seraient bons à étaler cent ans plus tard aussi, on la fait nous, maintenant, honteux, en espérant que les jeunes à qui on enseigne certains oeuvres ne trouveront pas les autres. En faisant comme s’ils n’existaient pas. J’ai senti que c’était un peu le cas de Maupassant aussi: à 16 ans, on lit Bel Ami au lycée en France, mais est-ce qu’on va plus loin? J’en sais vraiment rien, mais j’ai bien l’impression que non. Pas en Roumanie, en tout cas. Et alors, de manière automatique et très comique,(selon Bergson, on pourrait être accusé de mécanicité en se faisant de telles réflections donc ça devient risible) on plonge dans une indignation bien apprise devant certaines propositions à connotations racistes et xénophobes. On se doit un pas en arrière pour se redresser et se rapeller que ce n’était pas du tout mais du tout le même monde que le nôtre et que sa vision colonialiste et déformée des pays africains correspondait à un point de vue plutôt ouvert de l’époque, fasciné par l’exotisme, et par la soit-disante animalité des hommes du sud. Ce mouvemet orientaliste, dès qu’on l’accepte et qu’on n’est plus intimidé par sa dimension outrageusement politically incorrect, devient assez fascinant et suscite une imagerie foisonnante, belle même.
La force de Maupassant réside principalement dans ses descriptions, je crois. Mon passage préféré est de loin celui de la pêche nocturne en Algérie, dans les eaux de la Méditérannée, à la lumière des flambeaux selon une coutume locale et à une température insupportable. Des miliers de créatures sortent à la surface, sont capturées et sont partiellement éclairées par les flammes pendant leur agonie. Toutes semblent être surgies de cette énergie du Sud que le narrateur, (et cette fois l’auteur aussi, on le sent), voit comme inexhaustible et rampante, renouvelable et dangereuse. Même mourantes ces belles créatures sans nom, ont l’air farouche et fier et menaçant, des vraies incarnations d’une force vitale incompréhensible aux yeux clairs et propres de l’européen. Les nouvelles ou “contes”, comme Maupassant les appelle, ont souvent le fil narratif tout simple et clair. Les digressions ne sont pas fréquentes, ni l’invention ou les artifices de style. Par contre, comme c’est souvent le cas avec les écrivains de la fin du XIX-ème siècle, qu’ils se caractérisent comme réalistes ou pas, la force de la narration vient justement de l’universalité des sujets abordés, de la véracité des histoires et de leur impact direct et immédiat sur le lecteur. Des histoires des mariages rompus, des maris trompés, d’enfants abandonnés, se succédent dans ce volume sans sombrer dans l’ennui ou le généralisme. C’est grâce aux personnages, j’en suis sûre. Maupassant dessine des figures complexes et contradictoires et fascinantes dans quelques lignes juste et au cours de ce livre je me suis souvent trouvée extrêmement surprise par leur comportement. Le plus déroutant c’est qu’on peut les voir, pourtant, comme des personnages type. Le paysan riche, la jeune ingénue, la courtisane algérienne ne sont jamais réduits à la caricature par leurs caractéristiques les plus pregnantes justement parce que ces traits sont toujours compensés par d’autres qui semblent les contredire tout en les accentuant. Beaucoup de finesse et une vraie écoute et du respect pour l’humanité en général sont évidents de ces portraits, donc il serait vraiment injuste de se limiter à ces divagations qu’aujourd’hui on considère racistes en lisant Maupassant. Je me fais donc une très publique et sincère mea culpa, en demandant des excuses pour mon attitude de journaliste (oui, pas de plus grande insulte dans mon vocabulaire) hystérique écervelée scandalisée par des phrases qu’il y a 20 ans on aurait considére comme innocentes. Pardon, Guy.
Albastru nemarginit aproape transparent, de Ryu Murakami
Posted: November 6, 2011 Filed under: Romana | Tags: Contemporary Leave a comment »
Editura Polirom, 2005, limba: romana, traducere (din japoneza?) de Florin Oprina
Am citit ieri si astazi pentru prima data Ryu Murakami. O mare dilema inainte sa ma apuc sa scriu acest post pe care de altfel nici nu stiu daca il voi termina sau daca il termin daca il voi publica. Fiindca dupa Luka and the Fire of Life cartea asta a fost ca un dus rece dupa care iesi mai urat mirositor decat ai intrat. Acum incerc sa imi dau seama daca asta este in mod necesar un lucru rau sau daca dimpotriva, e nevoie in viata si de dusuri reci care te fac sa mirosi urat. Cu alte cuvinte, nu stiu daca mi-a placut Ryu Murakami suficient incat sa scriu despre el, dar nici daca mi-a displacut suficient incat sa nu scriu. De fapt si aici devin inteleapta, nu se pune problema ca nu mi-ar fi placut scriitura, ci pur si simplu ca exista atatea pasaje care sunt nedeghizat scarboase incat nici cel mai rodat cititor nu cred ca isi poate stapani o grimasa constanta. Si nu cred ca ar trebui sa ma prefac ca nu e asa ca sa fiu mai interesanta. Este foarte greu, cand citesti fara o intentie clara, sa faci diferenta intre placerea intelectuala /izata a lecturii unui text bine scris care transmite un mesaj interesant despre societate, scopul ei si alte asemenea profunzimi si neplacerea clara, nefiltrata si foarte fizica, pe care ti-o provoaca un pasaj care te face sa vomiti. Sau poate doar mie mi-e greu. Tocmai insa imi trece prin minte o teorie, cum ca asta e la originea tuturor confuziilor atat de dese care au ca trist rezultat stigma sau dimpotriva inalta stima fata de romane greu digerabile pe care nimeni nu mai sta sa le aprofundeze fiindca daca e vomitiv inseamna de obicei ca e bun. Nu e cazul lui Ryu Murakami, pe care am reusit sa il apreciez cu adevarat in decursul acestor 200 de pagini presarate cu felii de lamaie. Ceea ce reuseste este remarcabil in ceea ce ma priveste, pentru ca pentru prima data nu sunt plictisita si complet neinteresata de descrieri nesfarsite de tripuri care de care mai exotice. Pentru prima oara, suisurile si coborisurile unei aventuri pe mescalina imi suscita suficient interesul incat sa imi provoace imagini mentale pe care sa nu le uit deindata ce inchid cartea. Asemenea momente in alte descrieri pe care le-am citit par foarte exterioare, impinse pana la teribilism sau frustrate de incapacitatea de a reda in cuvintele naratorului ceea ce autorul insusi a simtit sau ar fi dorit sa simta pe vremea cand inca era un loser. (Scuze, nu m-am putut abtine) Nu de data asta.
Exista un fel de tipar pentru cartile de acest fel, un model mult prea bine cunoscut si exploatat, care spre marea mea surpriza functioneaza foarte bine in Albastru nemarginit, poate fiindca este una din primele carti care il abordeaza (1976). Ma refer la cadrul binecunoscut constituit de grupul de prieteni dezabuzati, societatea nepasatoare si parintii ingrijorati dar ignoranti care cultiva toate anxietatile unui narator ultrasensibil si inteligent, dependent de toate viciile existente si incapabil sa isi gaseasca un scop in viata. Actiunea nu duce catre nimic, stagneaza explorand toate fatetele universului periferic al exclusilor. Suna si este cunoscut, cititorul se implica identificandu-se foarte usor cu naratorul, fiindca el e cel mai inteligent personaj, in mod clar singurul capabil sa se exprime corect si sa mai aiba o bruma de principii, fericit ca acesta a supravietuit sa spuna povestea. Vorbesc atat de des de identificare fiindca pentru cititorul naiv, ca mine insami, consider ca este metoda cea mai sigura de a patrunde in universul unui roman si de a ramane impresionat sau entuziasmat de el. In plus, mi se pare ca jocul autorului cu capacitatea de identificare fata de un personaj este unul din cele mai interesante moduri de a bulversa cititorul, si asta se intampla si in Albastru nemarginit. Intre doua momente de empatie, ratiune si bun-simt, Ryu, personajul principal, nu are scrupule sa fie si instigatorul unor episoade oripilante pentru noi, oamenii bine crescuti si normali, care le parcurgem. Fiindca acum, sa nu ne pacalim, asta este intr-o mare majoritate publicul lui Ryu Murakami si asta este publicul tuturor scriitorilor contemporani. Toti junkie-ii intelectuali pe care i-am vazut citeau filosofie si poeti simbolisti, ca de altfel si personajele din Albastru nemarginit.
Nu imi place sa am o atitudine condescendenta vorbind despre carti, si simt ca sunt pe cale sa alunec in acest pacat, asa ca ma voi indrepta din nou catre ceea ce mi-a placut asa mult in roman, dincolo de lista foarte utila de medicamente pe as putea sa incerc sa mi le procur daca vreodata simt ca o duc prea bine. Motivul pentru care tiparul romanului cu drogati functioneaza asa de bine pentru mine aici, este fiindca este credibil si este credibil datorita minunatei limbi in care se exprima naratorul. Dupa cum spuneam, descrierile sunt de o poezie care uneori imi taia rasuflarea, iar anumite observatii lovesc din plin, sunt atat de perfecte si precise incat m-au lipit instantaneu de carte fix cand ma pregateam sa ma indepartez: “deja nu mai cresc in inaltime”, de exemplu. Episodul meu preferat si cred ca nu sunt singura, este cand Ryu si Lilly pleaca intr-o excursie cu masina noaptea si incepe furtuna, iar ei se gasesc intr-un camp de rosii, la marginea unei baze militare, unde decoleaza un avion cu reactie. Scena asta, luminata alternativ de fulgere, de lumina farurilor si de reflectoarele pistei bazei militare m-a facut sa ma hotarasc sa scriu despre carte si este foarte probabil cea care imi va ramane in minte de fiecare data cand ma voi gandi la Albastru nemarginit de acum si in pururi si in vecie. Asa ca acum iata fotografii cu fulgere.
Luka and the Fire of Life, by Salman Rushdie
Posted: November 3, 2011 Filed under: English | Tags: children's literature, Contemporary, fantasy, Salman Rushdie 5 Comments »
Random House, November 16, 2010, Language: English
I am back and ready to write my thoughts, spin my own yarn for a change and take my time to ramble about this book which has kept me away from my keyboard for about four days. A children’s book! Four whole days to read with undivided attention, taking over my brain and my imagination to such a point that I was simply unable to pick up something else to read quickly and write about just as quickly. Salman Rushdie was the subject of my BA paper one hundred years ago, so it’s safe to say I know him fairly well and greet his every cover with a knowledgeable smile. However, everything changes when Salman Rushdie moves from magic realism mode to fantasy mode, which he had already done before in Haroun and the Sea of Stories, another book I loved but which made my brain hurt. As I was saying before, I am really bad with fantasy and by bad I mean impatient. It’s not that I don’t like it, but generally it is impossibly rich and I get exhausted and don’t understand anything anymore by the middle of it. I do sometimes think that maybe I’m a bit retarded that way and like one of those characters who are too cynical to understand the world of magic and just crawl about in their grey lives and never look up at the blue sky. That’s me in reality, but that’s not me ideally. So, as if to just to prove that, a book will once in a while hypnotize me into its universe where one has no rules to rely on (this might actually be my problem with fantasy, the lack of rules) and will force me to stay there until I finish the damned thing even if it takes me a decade.
Luka and the Fire of Life is a quest, constantly alluding to computer game quests (another thing I really am behind on) but also to legendary quests, with the particularity that the hero is a boy, at the threshold of puberty. The mission he has is that of saving his father, the storyteller Rashid Khalifa (in which one easily recognizes Salman Rushdie himself -the fact that he has dedicated the book to his son, Milan, also helps) from his Big Sleep by feeding him the stolen Fire of Life. Yes, one very demanding father-son relationship. On the other hand, we also know that Luka, being Haroun’s little brother, is expected to have a fantastic adventure of his own, so this is like his coming of age voyage and his initiation within the clan of Blah, the Shah of which is Rashid himself. Because he talks so much. The whole thing eventually turns out to be, therefore, a trip inside his father’s fantasy and trust me, that’s a complicated place to travel through. Because, you see, magic realism is one thing: one has something to hold on to, reality is there, but just distorted from time to time in wonderful or scary ways in a sense that is always somehow predictable. Renouncing, like Luka did, actual reality to go into the World of Stories and try to make heads or tails of it requires a tremendous amount of confidence in the author’s willingness and ability of making you feel welcome.
There are things in this book that made me remember what I loved about fairy- tales as a kid and there are other things making me remember why I have developed such a passion for Salman Rushdie as an adult in the first place. I will start with the things that I loved thinking about as a child. First and foremost and always at the top of my wishlists: a flying carpet. In this case, King Solomon’s flying carpet (I had never known he owned one before reading this book). This particular miraculous vehicle has the unheard of ability of shrinking to the size of a handkerchief and extending immensely as well, so as to transport any number of people and/ or stuff. I imagined it emerald green with a fringe, even though I can’t remember if the color was mentioned in the book or not. Another thing-I-loved-to-think-about and wished to be: a beautiful flame-haired warrior princess with a name to match – Soraya. My favorite character today, but also someone I would have positively worshiped 20 years ago, an icy and rude girl with a heart of gold. Another personal favorite: a glistening river full of magical creatures, on which the hero glides in his boat. So, already two modes of transportation that I would most likely have killed for as a kid and might commit illegal deeds in order to obtain even today. Also: stars moving in the sky and shining very brightly, the difference between right and left (on the left there was the palace of the king, on the right there was a parking lot – this one is mine, not from Salman Rushdie), and flying at extremely high speeds.
What appealed most to my adult mind was, as always, the humor. I can’t even begin to explain what a tremendous difference in perception there is between a book that makes me laugh and one that doesn’t. And while I know that this is not the most mature of criteria, I find it immensely important for the author to not take himself too seriously: when coming across humor, it’s as if one gets a sense of the spontaneity of writing and the joy of the whole enterprise of creating a book. The author becomes just a partner for the ride and great company. Even more so if the humor stems from irreverence. In Luka and the Fire of Life, the ancient gods from all extinct civilizations hang out together like retired people and get bored pretending they are still relevant. Prometheus goes under the nickname Old Boy and giggling references are made to his titanic nudity – since he’s a titan and the goddesses of beauty have fighting matches in the mud every day to conquer the title of loveliest of them all. There’s a coyote speaking like Machete and excessively polite rats who are the scum of the earth. When it’s raining hard, watr cats (cats made of water) fall from the sky. The dogs are not there, though, dogs are nice in this book. And also, when the heroes reach the giant whirlpool of time and try to fly over it, so high that they reach the Karman line, something like this happens something like this happens something like this happens something like this happens something like this happens until they manage to get past it and on to the next level in the game.
The imagery in the book is absolutely luxuriant, and it seems that as it also happened with Sjon’s novel before, I can only describe the highlights of the novel without actually making a very valid point or interpretation. I can only say that it has caused me to plunge headlong into these worlds upon worlds of miraculous creatures and kicked my imagination in the ass making me go back in time to when I could still calmly consider fairies and princesses and talking animals as part of a regular day in the life of any 5-year old. If only I had more patience for fantasy!
This is roughly how I imagined the Mountain of Knowledge when it turned into a grassy hill
Le lexique nomade 2011
Posted: October 30, 2011 Filed under: French | Tags: Anthology, Contemporary Leave a comment »
Editions Christian Bourgois, 2011, langue: français (textes traduits par les traducteurs habituels de chaque auteur)
Comme je viens de dire dans mon dernier poste en anglais, je ressentais le besoin d’écrire un post en français pour que toute cette démarche trilingue fasse au moins semblant d’être équitable. Il a été difficile de me décider, car je voulais écrire sur un roman cette fois, mais le dernier roman en français que j’ai lu m’a tellement déplu que je n’ai pas pu le finir et je l’ai abandonné à trois quarts, regrettant ma ténacité et la perte de temps. Je ne dirai pas de quoi il s’agit, c’est un des grands. Je viens de commencer des nouvelles de Maupassant mais je ne sais pas si elles figureront ici, parce que meeh…Donc, je me suis arrêtée sur le choix évident mais extrêmement subjectif du Lexique Nomade, un bouquin qui est comme une excursion parmi les univers des écrivains contemporains (d’où le nomadisme je crois) et une excellente lecture pour un dimanche après-midi indécis.
Je suis subjective d’habitude, comme nous tous et tout ce blog tourne autour du fait que je l’assume. Dans ce cas, pourtant, c’est presque révoltant, car je parle d’un bouquin dont j’ai témoigné la naissance, pendant que je travaillais aux AIR de Lyon, cette année (allez regarder sur leur site ce que c’est, vous verrez, c’est génial). L’idée de ce volume est d’établir un lexique de mots clés centraux à l’écriture des auteurs invités. Les écrivains choisissent un mot qu’ils estiment être essentiel à leur travail et ils en donnent la définition selon leur guise: une définition type dictionnaire, de quelques lignes, ou des pages entières de texte tournant autour du concept choisi. C’est vrai, cela ne fait pas une lecture très uniforme ou homogène, mais c’est ça son charme. C’est un luxe de pouvoir avoir des mostres d’écriture d’une cinquantaine d’écrivains contemporains, de pouvoir choisir qui on veut connaitre mieux, qui nous a déçu. Leur demander de choisir un mot cher et le définir, c’est en fait leur demander de se définir, eux-mêmes et même si certains l’ont fait un peu à l’arrache, ou en récyclant des vieilles idées, c’est toujours fascinant de comprendre ce que c’est qui émeut un auteur. Il y a presque dans tous les textes ce moment où on a l’impression de voir à travers tous les procédés littéraires, à travers toute la fausse modestie et les poses, pénétrer dans l’intimité de leurs bureaux et de leurs nuits d’insomnie (ah, le vieux cliché) et comprendre clairement pourquoi ou comment ils écrivent.
Je pense ici par exemple au texte de Gilbert Gatore, exaspéré par l’écriture, ou à Srdjan Valjarevic, qui trouve de la tranquilité en écrivant, ou à Carlos Liscano et Yanick Lahens, qui se réfugient tous les deux dans leurs silences. Comme d’habitude, les idées se répondent souvent et s’entrelacent formant des fils qui semblent subtilement mais très fortement lier certains auteurs l’un à l’autre. Ces correspondances sont naturelles dans une anthologie établie par un éditeur qui sélectionne les textes, ici elles sont plus miraculeuses, car les invités ne se connaissent pas et croyez-moi personne ne leur dit quoi écrire, ils sont complétement libres de choisir leurs thèmes (et même, malheureusement, d’envoyer leurs textes deux jours après la date limite au grand désespoir des petits nains qui traduisent, corrigent, impriment et diffusent ces créations). C’est intéressant à noter que, mis devant cette tâche de se mettre à nu devant leur public, les écrivains, mêmes les plus prosaïques, (je suis brillante ce soir, que quelqu’un arrête ce torrent d’originalité) semblent avoir une tendance à tourner vers la poésie. Pas forcément dans la forme, mais dans le rhythme des phrases et dans la fréquence des intonations dramatiques, on les voit légérement déstabilisés devant cette forme courte, désireux de donner à leurs mots plus de poids. C’est charmant. Les propositions deviennent sentencieuses et les points en fin de phrase tombent solennelement comme des coups de tonnère. Boum, comme dans mon blog.
Ma définition préférée est aussi la plus courte (hm, quelle coïncidence inquiétante) et elle a été écrite par l’auteur israélien David Grossman : “COURAGE – Ce que nous appelons courage, parfois, n’est ni plus ni moins qu’une aversion pour la honte qu’il y aurait à voir faire le mal sans intervenir.” Je n’ai rien lu de David Grossman, il est sur ma liste de priorités, et cela non pas justement grâce à son discours émouvant pendant les Assises, mais aussi grâce à cette courte définition dans laquelle je me reconnais complétement. Abilio Estevez semble raconter aussi mon enfance lorsqu’il décrit son obsession pour le voyage et comment ses lectures et ses auteurs préférés, ont comme les miens, alimenté cette soif du départ, “car moi aussi, comme eux, je pensais que tout était forcément mieux ailleurs, loin, dans un pays lointain où tout était luxe, calme, ordre, plaisir et volupté.” Eh, oui, là je le cite en parlant de moi, parce que ce serait mon mot aussi, voyage, si j’étais écrivain et si quelqu’un était intéressé par ma personne et mon écriture et ma fabuleusité en général. Même si je n’habitais pas sur une île comme lui, nous avons eu le même expérience parce que j’étais en Roumanie, les portes fermées, nulle part où aller par manque de passeport, d’argent et surtout de courage.
Les traces des voyages vues par Caliap
Great Modern Short Stories, selected by Bennet A. Cerf
Posted: October 27, 2011 Filed under: English | Tags: Anthology, World War II Leave a comment »
Yes, yet another post in English, against my very reasonable efforts to bring linguistic diversity into my reading and into my writing. This has two causes: the obvious one- I read in English a whole lotta lot, (especially since I got my Kindle, it is much easier to find e-books in English than in any other language) and the less obvious one of not actually being able to read that quickly. I have set a somewhat unreasonable goal to try and write at least once a day, during the week, just to make sure I don’t lose the habit. This poses a tiny logistical problem, which is that I normally cannot finish a book in one day so as to be able to fawn over it here immediately. Moreover, I said I’d only write about what I love, which means that even if I do have this rhythm, I have to love the book enough to write about it. Great dilemma. This takes me to why yet another post in English, since today I have decided to write about this collection of short stories I haven’t finished yet. The book is, of course, in English and it is here that I read Galsworthy’s Apple Tree that I was talking about earlier. So today I can get away with writing about the collection, and tomorrow, or whenever, with writing about the individual stories. Pretty ingenious, huh?
I am not, however, as lazy as it may seem, because this book is really something special. I must say, I did have a French alternative, but could not bring myself to not write about this great volume. I bought the book about a year ago in a small thrift English bookshop in Grenoble (The Bookworm Café) and I paid something like 3 euros for it. I never thought about it again and sort of forgot it on the shelf for all this time, until I had run out of books to read and I took it out on a whim. Now, I have recently been arguing that electronic books are not the devil and that we should not wallow in sadness and despair for the fate of the paperback, since the contents of the book is important and not its form. This, of course, is my new rhetoric, since before getting my Kindle, I was saying the exact opposite things, talking about the scent of books and being in libraries, etc. Today, all this seems very snobbish to me, so I have but contempt for nostalgia. This, however, before I was proved wrong again, by this particular volume, who has become one of my new favorite things. It is your normal, run-of-the-mill grey and sober paperback, but even as I did not pay a second thought to the object itself, I did notice that I loved how natural it felt to read. As if it had been a book all its life; it knows its job, you open it and stays open, you can hold it in one hand since it’s not too heavy, the pages are not too yellow, they don’t stick together and the cover is not falling apart. Really, it’s everything a normal book is supposed to be, including discreet. It does not attract attention to itself, but lets the contents do the talking and maybe this is why I forgot it on a shelf for so long.
So, I finally started reading it. I tried to re-read Heart of Darkness, which is the first short-story in the book (never managed to finish it, even though I do like it. I think I don’t enjoy it), then I read The Apple Tree, then The Prussian Officer, then Miss Brill, and went on merrily until I got to the American short stories (in the second half of the novel) and while on the train, I don’t know what prompted me to look at the book more carefully, and saw the name on the first page, written in ink : O. Lévy then instantly got this image of the well-educated Jewish intellectual who had owned it before me, then thought huh how strange, I wonder where he bought it and then saw that it had been published by Random House in1942, in New York. First, what struck me, was the realization that that perfectly functioning, discreet object, was 60 years old and I had never given it a day over 20. Then that it had been published during the war. And only then, the very clear (yet of course, completely unverifiable and imaginary) story of this book and of its French Jewish owner started to unfold in my head. So there, so much for “the object is just an object, it’s what’s inside that matters”.
So, what does an editor decide to publish in troubled times in a very affordable format? Stories that, as the foreword states, “will live forever”. Immortality, of course, it’s what they would be trying to bring to the table, and reason and intelligence. I read somewhere, I can’t remember where, that during the Second World War they established spontaneous libraries in shelters across Europe and at the end of the war, the records were kept and analyzed. They had all types of books there, and what had been borrowed mostly was not, as one would have expected in those times of extreme poverty, do-it-yourself manuals or cookbooks, but philosophy and classics. What would happen today in similar circumstances I would not venture to speculate, and hope I never find out, but these things do give you more faith in civilization and humans. It also made me feel that the choice of the editor to put English and American novels back to back in the same book must have been a political one, because this division is so accentuated and so strange! It is as if, in order to show the Americans what and who they were fighting for, they felt compelled to stress the fact that they spoke the same language and had the same values so they underlined English and American three times, to show there was no difference.
The best part was that this is how I found out Katherine Mansfield was British, I always thought she was American. And the other best part is that once more, I am shown that I had better bite my tongue before I blab sentential remarks because I will most likely change my mind sooner than I can say Kindle.
