From Goodreads
Prague, Capital of the Twentieth Century: A Surrealist History
Derek Sayer
Like with all surrealist literature, a surrealist history of a surrealist movement makes for a semi-lopsided and disjointed reading experience. I enjoyed this book and it had the same effect on me that most surrealist literature has had. It frustrates me and pushes my boundaries leaving me intrigued, eager for more and ready for a break, simultaneously. The book is a good history, but as with much of my attempt to learn Czech history I have found myself without a firm foundation to many of the things alluded to in this book. That said, the author does give a lot of information in a digestible way that verges on the gluttonous. I probably didn't read this fast enough to retain the whole of it and will need to reread it to fully appreciate it, but I feel like I have a better understanding of Prague having finished the book.
Showing posts with label Surrealism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Surrealism. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
The Street of Crocodiles
There is a whole lot going on in this book. Simultaneously, there is a whole lot of nothing going on. I kind of think that it fits that way. As a collection of short stories there are obviously going to be ones that are better and ones that are worse, this book is no different. Schulz has a great mind for interesting depictions of what would be otherwise mundane events (consider The Night of the Great Season). He also has the surrealist sense of the absurd (consider Birds, my personal favorite).
Overall it was a pretty good book. Some of the parts were really, really funny. Some of the seemed to ramble on a bit and arrive at nowhere. Sometimes that nowhere was worth the journey, Sometimes the rambling wasn't worth the nowhere.
Overall it was a pretty good book. Some of the parts were really, really funny. Some of the seemed to ramble on a bit and arrive at nowhere. Sometimes that nowhere was worth the journey, Sometimes the rambling wasn't worth the nowhere.
Wednesday, January 4, 2017
Assessment of The Eleven Thousand Rods
The Eleven Thousand Rods by Guillaume Apollinaire was the first book I read in 2017. What a doozy of a book! Reading surrealist literature is like playing Russian Roulette. Some times your going to get fascinatingly weird books like Rene Daumal's A Night of Serious Drinking or Andre Breton's classic Nadja. Other times your going to get disgustingly weird books like this or Georges Bataille's Story of the Eye.
There is something admittedly admirable about Apollinaire's craftsmanship in this book. It is obviously well written. But, it isn't a fun read. It's not quite as gross as Bataille's Story of the Eye. But, I think that is only because it is so over the top and because Apollinaire obviously has a sense of humor. If there was any humor in the Story of the Eye I completely failed to see it. I wouldn't recommend this book to anyone I didn't wish to scar. (That is not some error of omission in that last word. I didn't accidentally leave off an 'e'.)
I won't quote much of this book here because I'm a bit embarrassed to admit to having read it. But, as a testament to the craftsmanship in Apollinaire's work and as a nod to his sense of humor (which is funny, but again embarrassing to admit I find it funny), I will note one thing. After engaging in a bit of murder and worse Mony (the main character) slips off the train. "The double murder not he Orient Express supplied the papers with news for six months. The murderers were not found and the crime was attributed to Jack the Ripper, whose back's broad enough" (Apollinaire, 53). I laughed an audible laugh at this line. There are a lot of little asides like this in this twisted novella. I'd write more about it; but, I must go shower...
There is something admittedly admirable about Apollinaire's craftsmanship in this book. It is obviously well written. But, it isn't a fun read. It's not quite as gross as Bataille's Story of the Eye. But, I think that is only because it is so over the top and because Apollinaire obviously has a sense of humor. If there was any humor in the Story of the Eye I completely failed to see it. I wouldn't recommend this book to anyone I didn't wish to scar. (That is not some error of omission in that last word. I didn't accidentally leave off an 'e'.)
I won't quote much of this book here because I'm a bit embarrassed to admit to having read it. But, as a testament to the craftsmanship in Apollinaire's work and as a nod to his sense of humor (which is funny, but again embarrassing to admit I find it funny), I will note one thing. After engaging in a bit of murder and worse Mony (the main character) slips off the train. "The double murder not he Orient Express supplied the papers with news for six months. The murderers were not found and the crime was attributed to Jack the Ripper, whose back's broad enough" (Apollinaire, 53). I laughed an audible laugh at this line. There are a lot of little asides like this in this twisted novella. I'd write more about it; but, I must go shower...
Saturday, November 12, 2016
Micromegas & Other Short Fictions Assessment
I finished Micromégas and Other Short Fictions by Voltaire about five days ago. Generally my assessments on this blog about books I have finished have been mercifully brief. But, my obsession with Voltaire demands something a bit more.
I rated this book (a Penguin) with three stars. I noted on my review that "Some people on this app labeled Candide as dated and thus, out of touch with the current character of this age. I wholeheartedly disagreed and argued the timeless nature of the work. Had they argued that some of the fictions in this book were the case I would have still argued agains them, but not as wholeheartedly. As an anthology this book is great. Voltaire is incredibly easy to read, profound and cuts to the bone. But because it is an anthology there are better and worse stories in it. Some of the stories demand you read the footnotes, while others can be simply enjoyed free of historical context.
Pot-Poori and the Account of the illness, confession, death and apparition of the Jesuit Breathier necessitate a glance back at the footnotes. Without reading the footnotes Pot-Pouri reads a bit like surrealist fiction (I'm not entirely convince it isn't). Micromégas and The History of the Travels of Scarmentado can just stand alone as humorous satire without demanding one know exactly what is being satirized. If you like Candide, you'll enjoy this. If you love Candide (as I do), you'll really enjoy this. If you don't like Candide, you're wrong."
This would be about the end of most of my assessments. Then I would write a few quotes that I found interesting or highlight some passages that I think would be useful later in my studies. But, since I want to really get to know Voltaire, I'm going to a story-by-story assessment. So, I'll be posting over and over on this book. But, it won't be a back-to-back-to-back sort of endeavor. I'll be doing it to break up the dry copying of my notes on Chalmer's What is this thing called science? Based on my handwriting and notes from 2006 I enjoyed the work. But, at the moment I'm not reliving my excitement...
Saturday, October 8, 2016
Notes on Les Chants De Maldoror
Well. What can I say about Les Chants De Maldoror by Comte de Lautreamont? It is a book. It is a good book. It is a difficult book to read. And honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to be caught in flagrante delicato reading it. It's about as beautiful as a chance encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on a dissecting table. Honestly, it's a rough read. It's a celebration of evil and besides that it's way out there. Much of it is incredibly dark. But, I can understand why the surrealists held it up as the godfather of their artistic movement.
While I'd probably need to read it more thoroughly to fully grasp everything that was said in it, there were some points in it that really stuck out to me. In talking about man he writes, "As for me, I presume that he believes in his beauty only from pride, but that he is not really beautiful and that he suspects this, for why does he contemplate the countenance of his fellow man with so much scorn?" (Lautreamont, 18). It's a damning indictment and one that sticks well.
"Legislators of stupid institutions, inventors of narrow morality, keep your distance from me, for I have an impartial mind" (Lautreamont, 231). He celebrates the pride he has, but it is a wicked pride. Although it is truly reprehensible, he does it is an amazing and captivating style. He may be bad but he's perfectly good at it... Again he celebrates his pride. "Human justice has not yet surprised me in flagrante delicatu, despite the incontestable skill of its agents" (Lautreamont, 234).
"The theatre of war is nothing but a vast field of carnage when night reveals her presence and the silent moon appears between the rags of a cloud" (Lautreamont, 236). A pretty, but sad sentence.
"It is possible that in this manner you will succeed in rejoicing extremely the soul of the dead person who is about to take refuge from life in a grave" (Lautreamont, 237). A very pretty way to describe death - a refuge from life in the grave.
There are also fairly funny sentences that are truly surreal in nature. For example, "I began the preceding sentence, I calculate mentally that it would not be useless here to construct the complete avowal of my basic impotence, when it is especially a matter, as at present, of this imposing and unapproachable question" (Lautreamont, 239). "But there will be no more anathemas, possessing the specialty of provoking laughter; fictitious personalities who would have done better to remain in the author's brain" (Lautreamont, 256). And then he made me laugh, in public, caught in the act (in flagrante delicatu). "I no longer recall what I was intending to say, for I do not remember the beginning of the sentence" (Lautreamont, 261).
On a personal note I understood a short tale he told within the story. "He had contracted the habit of getting drunk; during the moments when he returned to the house after having visited the cabaret bars, his madness would become almost immeasurable, and he would strike out indiscriminately at any object that came in sight. But soon, under the protests of his friends, he reformed completely, and sank into a taciturn frame of mind. No one could come near him, not even our mother. He nursed a secret resentment against the idea of duty, which prevented him from having his own way" (Lautreamont, 282). I understand that resentment better than I wish I did.
In the Poésies he writes, "Judgments on poetry have more value than poetry. They are the philosophy of poetry. Philosophy, thus understood, comprises poetry. Poetry cannot do without philosophy. Philosophy can do without poetry." (Lautreamont, 330).
"We must not believe that what Nature has made friendly should be vicious. There has not been a century or a people that has not established imaginary virtues and vices" (Lautreamont, 340).
I think I'd like to reread this, but with a commentary. Or a couple of commentaries. But, as for why the surrealists and why they held it up as a precursor for them, I understand. Breton was amazed when he found the sentence, "as beautiful as the chance encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on an operating table ". He held it up as the beginning of the surrealist aesthetic. Max Ernst used this imagery to define the structure of a surrealist painting. He said that it linked two realities that have nothing to link them in a setting that shouldn't be linked with either of them. That is the essence of surrealism.
While I'd probably need to read it more thoroughly to fully grasp everything that was said in it, there were some points in it that really stuck out to me. In talking about man he writes, "As for me, I presume that he believes in his beauty only from pride, but that he is not really beautiful and that he suspects this, for why does he contemplate the countenance of his fellow man with so much scorn?" (Lautreamont, 18). It's a damning indictment and one that sticks well.
"Legislators of stupid institutions, inventors of narrow morality, keep your distance from me, for I have an impartial mind" (Lautreamont, 231). He celebrates the pride he has, but it is a wicked pride. Although it is truly reprehensible, he does it is an amazing and captivating style. He may be bad but he's perfectly good at it... Again he celebrates his pride. "Human justice has not yet surprised me in flagrante delicatu, despite the incontestable skill of its agents" (Lautreamont, 234).
"The theatre of war is nothing but a vast field of carnage when night reveals her presence and the silent moon appears between the rags of a cloud" (Lautreamont, 236). A pretty, but sad sentence.
"It is possible that in this manner you will succeed in rejoicing extremely the soul of the dead person who is about to take refuge from life in a grave" (Lautreamont, 237). A very pretty way to describe death - a refuge from life in the grave.
There are also fairly funny sentences that are truly surreal in nature. For example, "I began the preceding sentence, I calculate mentally that it would not be useless here to construct the complete avowal of my basic impotence, when it is especially a matter, as at present, of this imposing and unapproachable question" (Lautreamont, 239). "But there will be no more anathemas, possessing the specialty of provoking laughter; fictitious personalities who would have done better to remain in the author's brain" (Lautreamont, 256). And then he made me laugh, in public, caught in the act (in flagrante delicatu). "I no longer recall what I was intending to say, for I do not remember the beginning of the sentence" (Lautreamont, 261).
On a personal note I understood a short tale he told within the story. "He had contracted the habit of getting drunk; during the moments when he returned to the house after having visited the cabaret bars, his madness would become almost immeasurable, and he would strike out indiscriminately at any object that came in sight. But soon, under the protests of his friends, he reformed completely, and sank into a taciturn frame of mind. No one could come near him, not even our mother. He nursed a secret resentment against the idea of duty, which prevented him from having his own way" (Lautreamont, 282). I understand that resentment better than I wish I did.
In the Poésies he writes, "Judgments on poetry have more value than poetry. They are the philosophy of poetry. Philosophy, thus understood, comprises poetry. Poetry cannot do without philosophy. Philosophy can do without poetry." (Lautreamont, 330).
"We must not believe that what Nature has made friendly should be vicious. There has not been a century or a people that has not established imaginary virtues and vices" (Lautreamont, 340).
I think I'd like to reread this, but with a commentary. Or a couple of commentaries. But, as for why the surrealists and why they held it up as a precursor for them, I understand. Breton was amazed when he found the sentence, "as beautiful as the chance encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on an operating table ". He held it up as the beginning of the surrealist aesthetic. Max Ernst used this imagery to define the structure of a surrealist painting. He said that it linked two realities that have nothing to link them in a setting that shouldn't be linked with either of them. That is the essence of surrealism.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
I heard only the hum of silence
A Night of Serious Drinking by René Daumal was fantastic. It was a very enjoyable read; and, for those of you following this blog it should come to no surprise to you that I enjoyed it as it is yet another surrealist work of literature. The book is basically satirical in nature and like Voltaire, it's satire is about as subtle as a sledgehammer. And like Voltaire, Daumal's pace is incredibly rapid and absurd. There is a whole host of good satire on philosophy, theology and the human condition throughout the book and it is slam bang full of fantastic one-liners. One such example concerns a simile about suicide (which isn't really a laughing matter but is darkly humorous nonetheless). "There are aerial battles where sound waves bounce back on themselves, start spinning and whirl between heaven and earth, like the indestructible regret of the suicide, who halfway down from the sixth floor all of a sudden no longer wants to die any more" (Daumal, 19).
Again, my obsession with writing a good space/time travel piece saw me take some inspiration from what I was reading. In Daumal I found this passage which I might make use of somehow. "'It's the same here as anywhere else, but here it's made quite clear: space is generated by need. Let's say you'd like to take a walk. You simply project in front of you the necessary space which you walk across and when. The same with time. Just a s spider secretes the thread down which she climbs, so you secrete the time you need to do whatever you have to, and you proceed along this thread which is visible only behind you but usable only had of you. The key its in working it out properly. If the thread is too long, it goes into loops and if it's too short, it snaps'" (Daumal, 38). Future Modern Ancient Greeks stuff.
The builders of a fantastic house were describing it to the protagonist of the story and I had an audible chuckle when they told him about the climate controls. "The temperature is kept exactly at the ideal level for the ideal human organism as defined by our experts. It is the only temperature at which nobody feels comfortable: some shine and others sweat" (Daumal, 45). That's funny!
The definition of reason given in this book is another funny passage. "Reason, n., an imaginary process onto which the responsibility for thinking is off-loaded" (Daumal, 55). It's funny because those who are slavishly devoted to reason are often more dogmatic that those slavishly devoted to a certain comprehension of a religion. It's good sarcasm.
In describing a certain group of people in the asylum, the guide tells the protagonist these people are called The Nibblists. Upon reading the guide's description I realized I might be exactly who the guide was describing. "They spend their time retailing imaginary lives in writing. Some relate what they themselves have experienced and attribute it to characters of their invention so that they might avoid their obligations and indulge all manner of impertinence. The others, through their characters, live out everything they would like to have experienced themselves, in order to have the illusion of having really experienced it" (Daumal, 57). Guilty as charged.
Chapter 20 in part 2 as a whole is hysterical. But, the best line in the chapter is "philosophy teaches how man thinks he thinks; but drinking shows how he really thinks" (Daumal, 59). The humor in this statement is dark and finds its relevance in its truthfulness.
Lastly, Daumal makes reference to Homer and his hero Ulysses. Upon listening to intellectual conversations so tantalizing the protagonist of this story remembers the warnings of his guide. Suddenly, he takes action. "But, remembering the companions of Ulysses, I stuffed those ears with thick plugs of common sense, and, listening with another ear - my trust ear, my only good ear - I heard only the hum of silence" (Daumal, 77). What a good line.
While I still think that I enjoy Queneau more than any other surrealist authors, A Night of Serious Drinking is up at the top of my list. I look forward to reading other books by René Daumal.
Again, my obsession with writing a good space/time travel piece saw me take some inspiration from what I was reading. In Daumal I found this passage which I might make use of somehow. "'It's the same here as anywhere else, but here it's made quite clear: space is generated by need. Let's say you'd like to take a walk. You simply project in front of you the necessary space which you walk across and when. The same with time. Just a s spider secretes the thread down which she climbs, so you secrete the time you need to do whatever you have to, and you proceed along this thread which is visible only behind you but usable only had of you. The key its in working it out properly. If the thread is too long, it goes into loops and if it's too short, it snaps'" (Daumal, 38). Future Modern Ancient Greeks stuff.
The builders of a fantastic house were describing it to the protagonist of the story and I had an audible chuckle when they told him about the climate controls. "The temperature is kept exactly at the ideal level for the ideal human organism as defined by our experts. It is the only temperature at which nobody feels comfortable: some shine and others sweat" (Daumal, 45). That's funny!
The definition of reason given in this book is another funny passage. "Reason, n., an imaginary process onto which the responsibility for thinking is off-loaded" (Daumal, 55). It's funny because those who are slavishly devoted to reason are often more dogmatic that those slavishly devoted to a certain comprehension of a religion. It's good sarcasm.
In describing a certain group of people in the asylum, the guide tells the protagonist these people are called The Nibblists. Upon reading the guide's description I realized I might be exactly who the guide was describing. "They spend their time retailing imaginary lives in writing. Some relate what they themselves have experienced and attribute it to characters of their invention so that they might avoid their obligations and indulge all manner of impertinence. The others, through their characters, live out everything they would like to have experienced themselves, in order to have the illusion of having really experienced it" (Daumal, 57). Guilty as charged.
Chapter 20 in part 2 as a whole is hysterical. But, the best line in the chapter is "philosophy teaches how man thinks he thinks; but drinking shows how he really thinks" (Daumal, 59). The humor in this statement is dark and finds its relevance in its truthfulness.
Lastly, Daumal makes reference to Homer and his hero Ulysses. Upon listening to intellectual conversations so tantalizing the protagonist of this story remembers the warnings of his guide. Suddenly, he takes action. "But, remembering the companions of Ulysses, I stuffed those ears with thick plugs of common sense, and, listening with another ear - my trust ear, my only good ear - I heard only the hum of silence" (Daumal, 77). What a good line.
While I still think that I enjoy Queneau more than any other surrealist authors, A Night of Serious Drinking is up at the top of my list. I look forward to reading other books by René Daumal.
Curiosity Assuaged
Well, well. It has been a considerable amount of time and I am sure you have missed me. My apologies. Much has happened in said considerable amount of time, some more considerable than others. Firstly, I have changed jobs. Twice. Secondly, I've moved into our first purchased home with my wife. Exciting times. But, this is neither here nor there, so let us away and back to the intellectual pursuits.
Since I've last journaled on here, which was in February I haven't been completely intellectually idle. I have read four books - so not incredible prodigious, but not completely unstimulated. The first of which I will assess is Philippe Soupault's Last Nights of Paris. I really enjoyed this one, as seems to be the case with most Surrealist literature (and most French literature for that matter). With its many corridors and narrow rabbit trails however, it seemed to come to an incredibly abrupt ending, which I won't give away. But, I will offer some thoughts on a few passages that stuck out to me.
"Very clearly I was the only one still listening to the discussion of the two comrades, and I was divided between the desire to question and that of keeping my mouth shut in order to learn more" (Soupault, 73). What a great paragraph that is. It captures the feeling of being intrigued and thus, being drawn into question but also the apprehension and the truth of the matter if one would just shut up and listen he would acquire some knowledge.
There is a paragraph in the book dealing with 'chance' that I rather enjoyed. "Chance, said I to myself, is at least sincere in that it does not conceal its deceptions from us. On the contrary it exposes them in broad daylight, and trumpets them at night. It amuses itself, from time to time, by stupefying the world with the shock of a terrible surprise, as if to remind men of its great strength, thinking they might forget its flightiness, its mischief, its whimsicalities. The complacencies of chance are not favors but treacheries: it does not amaze us to save to keep us in its grasp and all that we receive from its hands are not so much gifts it is offering us as pledges we make to remain its slaves in perpetuity, subject to the grievous visitations of its harsh and malicious power" (Soupault, 83-84). It shows the merciless and faceless nature of chance encounters, but strangely shows that chance acts to remind man, negating the very essence of what chance is. It's a fascinating anthropomorphism.
In remarking about some men gambling, Soupault turns his focus on the human emotion of hope. "Near the wickets old men were in the majority and I marveled at the perpetuity of hope" (Soupault, 87). I just get the image of desperate men seeking out against all odds and yet, despite their memories of failure, he still describes the men as hopeful. It is simultaneously inspiring and sad, tragic and happy.
Again in the surrealist style I find some interesting sentences strewn together. It affirms something in the first and then casts doubt on what we just learned in the second. That kind of subtle jarring is one of the things I find most fascinating about surrealism. "Did he know that he had been betrayed in this place? And what is more, was it he whom they had betrayed?" (Soupault, 94). In a way it almost seems like an Abbot and Costello skit.
"Slowly I went on my way, following the day's ascent. While the sun rose and came to greet me, I marveled at being able to live in the midst of mystery without being wonderstruck each second. I admitted that we grow accustomed to the strangest circumstances and smiled with pity thinking of those who refuse to be what is called dupes - who want to know everything and who are not even able to perceive the diurnal mystery which suffuses and bathes them from head to foot" (Soupault, 122). What great irony! In desiring so strongly to know everything those who don't want to be dupes are duped by the mystery surrounding them on a daily basis.
"You loved her without quite loving her. She was feared a little, but above all you were uneasy as much because of her presence as her absence" (Soupault, 132). Great line.
"Dullness would seize them and to drive it off they sought mystery and created phantoms" (Soupault, 132). It sounds like Soupault has walked around in my brain a little.
"Empty handed, I set out upon the discovery of the flight of time and space" (Soupault, 135). Given my recent obsession with time and space in my writings this line stuck out to me.
"Again I felt that disgust which follows curiosity assuaged" (Soupault, 143). My restlessness, my constant groaning and groping for that which I do not want, my need for constant stimulation, all of this I have levied as a punishment for the sins of hyper stimulation. But all this time it was hyper stimulation as a result of a certain disgust I felt when I came to the end of my object du jour of curiosity. "Again I felt that disgust which follows curiosity assuaged". Ennui. Is there any line ever written more French?
Since I've last journaled on here, which was in February I haven't been completely intellectually idle. I have read four books - so not incredible prodigious, but not completely unstimulated. The first of which I will assess is Philippe Soupault's Last Nights of Paris. I really enjoyed this one, as seems to be the case with most Surrealist literature (and most French literature for that matter). With its many corridors and narrow rabbit trails however, it seemed to come to an incredibly abrupt ending, which I won't give away. But, I will offer some thoughts on a few passages that stuck out to me.
"Very clearly I was the only one still listening to the discussion of the two comrades, and I was divided between the desire to question and that of keeping my mouth shut in order to learn more" (Soupault, 73). What a great paragraph that is. It captures the feeling of being intrigued and thus, being drawn into question but also the apprehension and the truth of the matter if one would just shut up and listen he would acquire some knowledge.
There is a paragraph in the book dealing with 'chance' that I rather enjoyed. "Chance, said I to myself, is at least sincere in that it does not conceal its deceptions from us. On the contrary it exposes them in broad daylight, and trumpets them at night. It amuses itself, from time to time, by stupefying the world with the shock of a terrible surprise, as if to remind men of its great strength, thinking they might forget its flightiness, its mischief, its whimsicalities. The complacencies of chance are not favors but treacheries: it does not amaze us to save to keep us in its grasp and all that we receive from its hands are not so much gifts it is offering us as pledges we make to remain its slaves in perpetuity, subject to the grievous visitations of its harsh and malicious power" (Soupault, 83-84). It shows the merciless and faceless nature of chance encounters, but strangely shows that chance acts to remind man, negating the very essence of what chance is. It's a fascinating anthropomorphism.
In remarking about some men gambling, Soupault turns his focus on the human emotion of hope. "Near the wickets old men were in the majority and I marveled at the perpetuity of hope" (Soupault, 87). I just get the image of desperate men seeking out against all odds and yet, despite their memories of failure, he still describes the men as hopeful. It is simultaneously inspiring and sad, tragic and happy.
Again in the surrealist style I find some interesting sentences strewn together. It affirms something in the first and then casts doubt on what we just learned in the second. That kind of subtle jarring is one of the things I find most fascinating about surrealism. "Did he know that he had been betrayed in this place? And what is more, was it he whom they had betrayed?" (Soupault, 94). In a way it almost seems like an Abbot and Costello skit.
"Slowly I went on my way, following the day's ascent. While the sun rose and came to greet me, I marveled at being able to live in the midst of mystery without being wonderstruck each second. I admitted that we grow accustomed to the strangest circumstances and smiled with pity thinking of those who refuse to be what is called dupes - who want to know everything and who are not even able to perceive the diurnal mystery which suffuses and bathes them from head to foot" (Soupault, 122). What great irony! In desiring so strongly to know everything those who don't want to be dupes are duped by the mystery surrounding them on a daily basis.
"You loved her without quite loving her. She was feared a little, but above all you were uneasy as much because of her presence as her absence" (Soupault, 132). Great line.
"Dullness would seize them and to drive it off they sought mystery and created phantoms" (Soupault, 132). It sounds like Soupault has walked around in my brain a little.
"Empty handed, I set out upon the discovery of the flight of time and space" (Soupault, 135). Given my recent obsession with time and space in my writings this line stuck out to me.
"Again I felt that disgust which follows curiosity assuaged" (Soupault, 143). My restlessness, my constant groaning and groping for that which I do not want, my need for constant stimulation, all of this I have levied as a punishment for the sins of hyper stimulation. But all this time it was hyper stimulation as a result of a certain disgust I felt when I came to the end of my object du jour of curiosity. "Again I felt that disgust which follows curiosity assuaged". Ennui. Is there any line ever written more French?
Monday, January 25, 2016
Assessment of Picasso - Gertrude Stein
So I finished Picasso by Gertrude Stein the other day. I wrote on my Good Reads account "It's a bit of a jarring book to follow, but it reveals a lot about Picasso and Stein without revealing a lot of actual events in either of their lives. It's that which makes the read an interesting one. Unfortunately, or fortunately when I read the book I picture Kathy Bates across from me and I as Owen Wilson having Picasso explained to me. Thanks a lot Woody Allen". I gave it a three star rating because she sort of kept repeating and rambling, which I suppose was her intentional style, but it ended up being somewhat repetitive. But, I desperately envy her life so I can't criticize her work too much.
There are a couple of passages that stuck out for me in the book that I'll further explore here.
First, she had a fascinating view on whether people or generations really change. "People really do not change from one generation to another, as far back as we know history people are about the same as they were, they have had the same needs, the same desires, the same virtues and the same qualities, the same defects, indeed nothing changes from one generation to another except the things seen and the things seen make that generation, that is to say nothing changes in people from one generation to another except the way of seeing and being seen, the streets change, the way of being driven in the streets change, the buildings change, the comforts in the houses change, but the people from one generation to another do not change" (Stein, 10). This struck me as I have often wondered whether this generation (mine and the one younger than I) have changed drastically because of the onslaught of negative comments on social media and the internet. But, I have often felt that people haven't changed, only that they've been given an anonymous platform to spew their venom that they've previously spewed only in the confines of personal journals or small circles. Stein seems to have confirmed my feeling that it was the latter. But, from an aesthetics standpoint, Stein points out that the creator in the arts is similar to all the others of his generation, being sensitive in the changes around his generation and thus his art is influenced by those changes.
Second, she made a fascinating point about war. Having just come through the Great War, the War to end all Wars, undoubtedly her views were shaped by such a cataclysmic event. "It is an extraordinary thing but it is true, wars are only a means of publicising the things already accomplished, a change, a complete change, has come about, people no longer think as they were thinking but no one knows it, no one recognises it, no one really knows it except the creators. The others are too busy with the business of life, they cannot what has happened, but the creator, the real creator, does nothing, he is not concerned with the activity of existing, and as he is not active, that is to say as he is not concerned with the activity of existence he is sensitive enough to understand how people are thinking, he is not interested in knowing how they were thinking, his sensitive feeling is concerned in understanding how people live as they are living. The spirit of everybody is changed, a whole people is changed, but mostly nobody knows it and a war forces them to recognise it because during a war the appearance of everything changes very much quicker, but really the entire change has been accomplished and the war is only something which forces everybody to recognise it" (Stein, 29-30). Without claiming to be a historian of any such note, it struck me the similarities between pre-WWI and pre-9/11. There was fear and constant tension in Europe pre-WWI. Everyone was on edge in the government. The people might not have felt it in their everyday lives, but times were changing. When WWI came to an end the change was complete and everyone knew it. The war announced the change. Similarly, 9/11 and the War on Terror announced the change. There were rumblings of something terrible to happen at the dawn of the 21st century. The Lockerbie Bombing, the first attack on the World Trade Towers in 1993 and the Oklahoma City Bombing and various other terrorist events marked the rumblings of a great conflict to come. When 9/11 happened and the subsequent wars in Iraq & Afghanistan came to be, the world was changed. Americans had become more fearful, less optimistic. The times had changed and the wars in the Middle East, coupled with anti-terror measures at home announced the changes that had been going on for at least two decades in the war. The times had changed, the manner of how people think had changed and everybody was made aware of it in war.
But, not everything I took from Stein was as heavy or serious as this. Thirdly, I discovered that Stein's view of the Creator (the Artist) was what I would label as a hipster or a neo-hipster. "Sot that is the way it is, a creator is so completely contemporary that he has the appearance of being ahead of his generation and to calm himself in his daily living he wishes to live with the things in the daily life of the past, he does not wish to live as contemporary as the contemporaries who do not poignantly feel being contemporary. This sounds complicated but it is very simple" (Stein, 31-32).
I also saw in Stein a personal goal of mine as regards to writing and Picasso as my example. "Picasso was possessed by the necessity of emptying himself, of emptying himself completely, of always emptying himself, he is so full of it that all his existence is the repetition of a complete emptying, he must empty himself, he can never empty himself of being Spanish, but he can empty himself of what he has created. So every one says that he changes but really it is not that, he empties himself and the moment he has completed emptying himself he must recommence emptying himself, he fills himself up again so quickly" (Stein, 32-33). I too, am 'so full of it' (Ha), but in seriousness, I have so much energy and so many stories locked in my head and half written out, that I must find a way of emptying myself. I am not concerned that I cannot fill myself back up again quickly, but I must find the drive to empty myself completely and finish some work.
Another fascinating little line made me think hard about knowledge. "Remembered things are not things seen, therefore they are not things known" (Stein, 35). Stein was relating this to Picasso particularly, but it struck me as one who is interested in epistemology. I don't know where to go with it, but it struck me on some level.
Being as I am, currently fascinated with the surrealists and Stein having been at least connected to the surrealists, I found her differentiating between Picasso and the Surrealists fascinating. Picasso was in a period where he was not painting, but only drawing. "During the summer of 1933 he made his only surrealist drawings. Surrealism could console him a little, but not really. The surrealists still see things as every one sees them, they complicate them in a different way but the vision is that of every one else, in short the complication is the complication of the twentieth century but the vision is that of the nineteenth century. Picasso only sees something else, another reality. Complications are always easy but another vision than that of all the world is very rare. That is why geniuses are rare, to complicate things in a new way that is easy, but to see the things in a new way that is really difficult, everything prevents one, habits, schools, daily life, reason, necessities of daily life, indolence, everything prevents one, in fact there are very few geniuses in the world" (Stein, 43). Firstly, this shows what high-esteem Stein gave Picasso. While I find Picasso to be incredible, I personally find Dali to be my favorite artist. Hence, I have a bent towards surrealists. But, it's an interesting way of looking at surrealism as to say they see the world as it is and then work to complicate it.
As I said, Stein tended to repeat herself and sort of weave back and forth throughout the book, but these are the Picasso periods I gathered from her interpretation:
1. The influence of Lautrec (first visit to Paris)
2. The Blue Period (in Barcelona)
3. Rose period
4. The beginning struggle for cubism
5. African
6. Intermediary
7. Real Cubism - a rather green period (what that means I don't know)
8. Grey Period
9. Calligraphy
10. Naturalistic
Stein makes an interesting distinction between the painter and the writer - "After all the egoism of a painter is not at all the egoism of a writer, there is nothing to say about it, it is not. No." (Stein, 46). All I could think of is my own egoism and its comparison to my brothers...
She also made an interesting point about a dry period for Picasso. "Two years of not working. In a way Picasso liked it, it was one responsibility the less, it is nice not having responsibilities, it is like the soldiers during a war, a war is terrible, they said, but during a war one has no responsibility, neither for death, nor for life. So these two years were like that for Picasso, he did not work, it was not for him to decide every moment what he saw, no, poetry for him was something to be made during rather bitter meditations, but agreeably enough, in a cafe" (Stein, 46). I just thought that imagery was rather funny.
There are a couple of passages that stuck out for me in the book that I'll further explore here.
First, she had a fascinating view on whether people or generations really change. "People really do not change from one generation to another, as far back as we know history people are about the same as they were, they have had the same needs, the same desires, the same virtues and the same qualities, the same defects, indeed nothing changes from one generation to another except the things seen and the things seen make that generation, that is to say nothing changes in people from one generation to another except the way of seeing and being seen, the streets change, the way of being driven in the streets change, the buildings change, the comforts in the houses change, but the people from one generation to another do not change" (Stein, 10). This struck me as I have often wondered whether this generation (mine and the one younger than I) have changed drastically because of the onslaught of negative comments on social media and the internet. But, I have often felt that people haven't changed, only that they've been given an anonymous platform to spew their venom that they've previously spewed only in the confines of personal journals or small circles. Stein seems to have confirmed my feeling that it was the latter. But, from an aesthetics standpoint, Stein points out that the creator in the arts is similar to all the others of his generation, being sensitive in the changes around his generation and thus his art is influenced by those changes.
Second, she made a fascinating point about war. Having just come through the Great War, the War to end all Wars, undoubtedly her views were shaped by such a cataclysmic event. "It is an extraordinary thing but it is true, wars are only a means of publicising the things already accomplished, a change, a complete change, has come about, people no longer think as they were thinking but no one knows it, no one recognises it, no one really knows it except the creators. The others are too busy with the business of life, they cannot what has happened, but the creator, the real creator, does nothing, he is not concerned with the activity of existing, and as he is not active, that is to say as he is not concerned with the activity of existence he is sensitive enough to understand how people are thinking, he is not interested in knowing how they were thinking, his sensitive feeling is concerned in understanding how people live as they are living. The spirit of everybody is changed, a whole people is changed, but mostly nobody knows it and a war forces them to recognise it because during a war the appearance of everything changes very much quicker, but really the entire change has been accomplished and the war is only something which forces everybody to recognise it" (Stein, 29-30). Without claiming to be a historian of any such note, it struck me the similarities between pre-WWI and pre-9/11. There was fear and constant tension in Europe pre-WWI. Everyone was on edge in the government. The people might not have felt it in their everyday lives, but times were changing. When WWI came to an end the change was complete and everyone knew it. The war announced the change. Similarly, 9/11 and the War on Terror announced the change. There were rumblings of something terrible to happen at the dawn of the 21st century. The Lockerbie Bombing, the first attack on the World Trade Towers in 1993 and the Oklahoma City Bombing and various other terrorist events marked the rumblings of a great conflict to come. When 9/11 happened and the subsequent wars in Iraq & Afghanistan came to be, the world was changed. Americans had become more fearful, less optimistic. The times had changed and the wars in the Middle East, coupled with anti-terror measures at home announced the changes that had been going on for at least two decades in the war. The times had changed, the manner of how people think had changed and everybody was made aware of it in war.
But, not everything I took from Stein was as heavy or serious as this. Thirdly, I discovered that Stein's view of the Creator (the Artist) was what I would label as a hipster or a neo-hipster. "Sot that is the way it is, a creator is so completely contemporary that he has the appearance of being ahead of his generation and to calm himself in his daily living he wishes to live with the things in the daily life of the past, he does not wish to live as contemporary as the contemporaries who do not poignantly feel being contemporary. This sounds complicated but it is very simple" (Stein, 31-32).
I also saw in Stein a personal goal of mine as regards to writing and Picasso as my example. "Picasso was possessed by the necessity of emptying himself, of emptying himself completely, of always emptying himself, he is so full of it that all his existence is the repetition of a complete emptying, he must empty himself, he can never empty himself of being Spanish, but he can empty himself of what he has created. So every one says that he changes but really it is not that, he empties himself and the moment he has completed emptying himself he must recommence emptying himself, he fills himself up again so quickly" (Stein, 32-33). I too, am 'so full of it' (Ha), but in seriousness, I have so much energy and so many stories locked in my head and half written out, that I must find a way of emptying myself. I am not concerned that I cannot fill myself back up again quickly, but I must find the drive to empty myself completely and finish some work.
Another fascinating little line made me think hard about knowledge. "Remembered things are not things seen, therefore they are not things known" (Stein, 35). Stein was relating this to Picasso particularly, but it struck me as one who is interested in epistemology. I don't know where to go with it, but it struck me on some level.
Being as I am, currently fascinated with the surrealists and Stein having been at least connected to the surrealists, I found her differentiating between Picasso and the Surrealists fascinating. Picasso was in a period where he was not painting, but only drawing. "During the summer of 1933 he made his only surrealist drawings. Surrealism could console him a little, but not really. The surrealists still see things as every one sees them, they complicate them in a different way but the vision is that of every one else, in short the complication is the complication of the twentieth century but the vision is that of the nineteenth century. Picasso only sees something else, another reality. Complications are always easy but another vision than that of all the world is very rare. That is why geniuses are rare, to complicate things in a new way that is easy, but to see the things in a new way that is really difficult, everything prevents one, habits, schools, daily life, reason, necessities of daily life, indolence, everything prevents one, in fact there are very few geniuses in the world" (Stein, 43). Firstly, this shows what high-esteem Stein gave Picasso. While I find Picasso to be incredible, I personally find Dali to be my favorite artist. Hence, I have a bent towards surrealists. But, it's an interesting way of looking at surrealism as to say they see the world as it is and then work to complicate it.
As I said, Stein tended to repeat herself and sort of weave back and forth throughout the book, but these are the Picasso periods I gathered from her interpretation:
1. The influence of Lautrec (first visit to Paris)
2. The Blue Period (in Barcelona)
3. Rose period
4. The beginning struggle for cubism
5. African
6. Intermediary
7. Real Cubism - a rather green period (what that means I don't know)
8. Grey Period
9. Calligraphy
10. Naturalistic
Stein makes an interesting distinction between the painter and the writer - "After all the egoism of a painter is not at all the egoism of a writer, there is nothing to say about it, it is not. No." (Stein, 46). All I could think of is my own egoism and its comparison to my brothers...
She also made an interesting point about a dry period for Picasso. "Two years of not working. In a way Picasso liked it, it was one responsibility the less, it is nice not having responsibilities, it is like the soldiers during a war, a war is terrible, they said, but during a war one has no responsibility, neither for death, nor for life. So these two years were like that for Picasso, he did not work, it was not for him to decide every moment what he saw, no, poetry for him was something to be made during rather bitter meditations, but agreeably enough, in a cafe" (Stein, 46). I just thought that imagery was rather funny.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
Pedro Paramo
I read Juan Rulfo's Pedro Paramo for the first time last night. I kept starting and stopping as I needed to go to bed. But, in the end I wound up staying up til 3 am to finish it. I have to read it again, and soon.
It is a crazy book. The surrealist aspects are grotesque, but not in the way that Bataille's The Story of the Eye is grotesque. Rulfo focuses on death in this book, not unseemly sexual encounters involving copious amounts of piss.
Juan Preciado is instructed by his dying mother to return to her hometown and take some sort of revenge on his father. The town of Comala is a ghost town in a more literal sense of the word. It is a quasi-purgatory where the disembodied souls of the townsfolk live in shame and fear of the dead Pedro Paramo. As I said earlier I have to read it again to grasp the fullness (or lack thereof) of the book. But, a couple things really struck me on this initial reading.
First, when Juan dies, or when he realizes he is dead - I am not sure if he was ever alive in the story or not, he is buried into a grave with Dorotea and the two begin to speak. That first encounter was fascinating. Dorotea takes over the narrative from this point, but her description of her death was truly incredible. She talks about her soul demanding that her body continue working, but the body is speaking to Juan inside their shared grave. The body tells him that she simply opened up her mouth and released the soul.
Second, when Juan encounters the burro driver you have no idea he's dead. Then he doesn't play much of a part for the whole book except to bring about what ever semblance of conclusion you can get. That was interesting too.
Third, and this might have been my favorite story arch within this multi-tiered story is that of Father Renteria. Father Renteria is a priest (whom we find out was killed by one of Pedro's many sons) that has been condemned to purgatory for putting up with Pedro and his horrible ways. Father Renteria even goes over into another town and finds another priest who refuses him absolution. It is a very intriguing story.
I'm finding that I enjoy some of the surrealist stories much better than others. I loved Queneau's Flight of Icarus and Rulfo's Pedro Paramo. I liked Nadja by Andre Breton. I hated The Story of the Eye. I don't think I can say that enough. I guess it's the same with all genres, but while Nadja and Icarus eventually wrapped up somewhat, Pedro and The Story of the Eye really offered no real ending per se. Yet of the four I would (at this moment) rank them my top and bottom of surrealist literature read so far. I guess the surrealist must have been on to something as style tends to outweigh substance in their genre.
It is a crazy book. The surrealist aspects are grotesque, but not in the way that Bataille's The Story of the Eye is grotesque. Rulfo focuses on death in this book, not unseemly sexual encounters involving copious amounts of piss.
Juan Preciado is instructed by his dying mother to return to her hometown and take some sort of revenge on his father. The town of Comala is a ghost town in a more literal sense of the word. It is a quasi-purgatory where the disembodied souls of the townsfolk live in shame and fear of the dead Pedro Paramo. As I said earlier I have to read it again to grasp the fullness (or lack thereof) of the book. But, a couple things really struck me on this initial reading.
First, when Juan dies, or when he realizes he is dead - I am not sure if he was ever alive in the story or not, he is buried into a grave with Dorotea and the two begin to speak. That first encounter was fascinating. Dorotea takes over the narrative from this point, but her description of her death was truly incredible. She talks about her soul demanding that her body continue working, but the body is speaking to Juan inside their shared grave. The body tells him that she simply opened up her mouth and released the soul.
Second, when Juan encounters the burro driver you have no idea he's dead. Then he doesn't play much of a part for the whole book except to bring about what ever semblance of conclusion you can get. That was interesting too.
Third, and this might have been my favorite story arch within this multi-tiered story is that of Father Renteria. Father Renteria is a priest (whom we find out was killed by one of Pedro's many sons) that has been condemned to purgatory for putting up with Pedro and his horrible ways. Father Renteria even goes over into another town and finds another priest who refuses him absolution. It is a very intriguing story.
I'm finding that I enjoy some of the surrealist stories much better than others. I loved Queneau's Flight of Icarus and Rulfo's Pedro Paramo. I liked Nadja by Andre Breton. I hated The Story of the Eye. I don't think I can say that enough. I guess it's the same with all genres, but while Nadja and Icarus eventually wrapped up somewhat, Pedro and The Story of the Eye really offered no real ending per se. Yet of the four I would (at this moment) rank them my top and bottom of surrealist literature read so far. I guess the surrealist must have been on to something as style tends to outweigh substance in their genre.
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Notes on The Flight of Icarus
Generally speaking I don't love to read plays. I like to watch plays, but reading them doesn't normally give me the same satisfaction as seeing them or as reading a novel. But, Raymond Queneau's The Flight of Icarus may have shifted that paradigm for me. I loved this book/play.
Morcol's line to Hubert "Die by all means but keep calm. My intellectual powers have caused me to change my mind" (Queneua, 33) is absolutely a double whammy. What a wonderful way of saying I was wrong without saying I was wrong.
The part about dicknapping on pages 39-40 made me laugh out loud and wake up my wife.
"Doctor: As we say in French: voila le hic.
Sir: Not the hic, the dick."
...
"Morcol: For some reasons of which I am unaware, no doubt because you considered that the work he has undertaken is injurious to his health, to prevent him from continuing it you have dicknapped the principal character of his novel.
Doctor: (stupefied by this neologism) Dicknapped?"
...
"Doctor: Since you don't want any bicarbonate of soda, lie down on that couch and tell me everything that comes into your head; it'll do you good.
Morcol: And will that help me find my Dick?"
Oh my gosh, the sophomoric humor is too much!
It has just dawned on me though that the Doctor unsuccessfully tries to get nearly every character to do the laying down on his couch thing and tell him what pops into their head unsuccessfully. The Surrealists loved psychoanalysis and since Queneau broke from them this might be a jab of repudiation at them.
"The place where the most famous adulteries are consummated and consumed" (Queneau, 53). What a wonderful pun. There are a lot of puns in here, most of which are intended I think, to make the reader groan. This one got a good groan from me.
Scene 34 where Hubert's rivals and friends kidnap the returned Icarus to interrogate him is hysterical. While they are busy pontificating Icarus sneaks out the bathroom window and into the wide world yet again.
Morcol is scouring the Bois de Boulogne in search of Icarus when he is nearly run over by Icarus on the bicycle. "Morcol: Clumsy oaf! I was in a very dangerous situation, there. I'm quite upset. I can't even remember why I'm in the Bois de Boulogne. Let me think... Ah yes. Well, even so, there's not much point in trying to run after him" (Queneau, 122). This was another line that had me laughing and disturbing my wife's slumber.
Morcol reminds me a little bit of Dirk Gently in methodology. Dirk solves the whole crime and the whole person through the interconnectedness of everything. "Morcol: The Bois de Boulogne. Everything leads back there. Reason, flair, intuition, not to mention my method of free association - everything sends me in that direction. Unfortunately the Bois de Boulogne is vast; what's more, it's dangerous. You keep nearly getting run over" (Queneau, 125). Just like Dirk, Morcol is fated to go where it won't end well for him because their methodologies, however odd, are correct.
"I'm giving up, Monsieur Surget. I'm giving up. No more shadowing. And above all, no more shadowing of shadows - meaning insubstantial images of authors' imaginations" (Queneau, 140). A little self-deprecation never hurt anyone.
"Surget: You have no pity.
Morcol: I have some for myself" (Queneau, 140). Man that was another good zinger.
"Well well! so that's where we've got with popular medicine and the pharmaceutical advertisements which are displayed not insidiously but in abundance in the daily and even weekly papers. So that's where we've got: the patient wants to heal himself! Any minute now he'll be wanting to write out his own prescription!" (Queneau, 141). Apparently Queneau and Dr. Lajoie could see the state of 21st century medicine and the advent of WebMD.
"Doctor: It's the paying that counts; you'll see how much good it'll do you" (Queneau, 160). Not much explanation needed there.
Two things that sort of sum up the best part of this story, the characters knowing they are characters, the fiction within the fiction, the surrealism, the meta...
"Icarus: Oh, I'm more read about than a reader" (Queneau, 164). Very good.
"Icarus: How do we know? It may all come to the same thing. They may be the characters of some other sort of author" (Queneau, 166-167)
The part where Icarus is offered Balbine by Monsieur Berrrier as a wife is great.
"Icarus: The thing is, I'm already engaged.
Balbine: Oh God! (she faints in her father's arms)
Icarus: Only I don't particularly want to marry my fiancée, alas.
Balbine (coming out of her coma). Heaven be praised.
Icarus: But I've got what they call a mistress.
Monsieur Berrrier: A liaison. They're made to be broken.
Icarus: And there's a society lady chasing me.
Balbine: Monsieur is very much in demand" (Queneau, 170).
Another thing I just noticed is Monsieur Berrrier's name. In reading it I had not noticed the triple R. It's weird that the mind only sees what it is accustomed to seeing.
Morcol's line to Hubert "Die by all means but keep calm. My intellectual powers have caused me to change my mind" (Queneua, 33) is absolutely a double whammy. What a wonderful way of saying I was wrong without saying I was wrong.
The part about dicknapping on pages 39-40 made me laugh out loud and wake up my wife.
"Doctor: As we say in French: voila le hic.
Sir: Not the hic, the dick."
...
"Morcol: For some reasons of which I am unaware, no doubt because you considered that the work he has undertaken is injurious to his health, to prevent him from continuing it you have dicknapped the principal character of his novel.
Doctor: (stupefied by this neologism) Dicknapped?"
...
"Doctor: Since you don't want any bicarbonate of soda, lie down on that couch and tell me everything that comes into your head; it'll do you good.
Morcol: And will that help me find my Dick?"
Oh my gosh, the sophomoric humor is too much!
It has just dawned on me though that the Doctor unsuccessfully tries to get nearly every character to do the laying down on his couch thing and tell him what pops into their head unsuccessfully. The Surrealists loved psychoanalysis and since Queneau broke from them this might be a jab of repudiation at them.
"The place where the most famous adulteries are consummated and consumed" (Queneau, 53). What a wonderful pun. There are a lot of puns in here, most of which are intended I think, to make the reader groan. This one got a good groan from me.
Scene 34 where Hubert's rivals and friends kidnap the returned Icarus to interrogate him is hysterical. While they are busy pontificating Icarus sneaks out the bathroom window and into the wide world yet again.
Morcol is scouring the Bois de Boulogne in search of Icarus when he is nearly run over by Icarus on the bicycle. "Morcol: Clumsy oaf! I was in a very dangerous situation, there. I'm quite upset. I can't even remember why I'm in the Bois de Boulogne. Let me think... Ah yes. Well, even so, there's not much point in trying to run after him" (Queneau, 122). This was another line that had me laughing and disturbing my wife's slumber.
Morcol reminds me a little bit of Dirk Gently in methodology. Dirk solves the whole crime and the whole person through the interconnectedness of everything. "Morcol: The Bois de Boulogne. Everything leads back there. Reason, flair, intuition, not to mention my method of free association - everything sends me in that direction. Unfortunately the Bois de Boulogne is vast; what's more, it's dangerous. You keep nearly getting run over" (Queneau, 125). Just like Dirk, Morcol is fated to go where it won't end well for him because their methodologies, however odd, are correct.
"I'm giving up, Monsieur Surget. I'm giving up. No more shadowing. And above all, no more shadowing of shadows - meaning insubstantial images of authors' imaginations" (Queneau, 140). A little self-deprecation never hurt anyone.
"Surget: You have no pity.
Morcol: I have some for myself" (Queneau, 140). Man that was another good zinger.
"Well well! so that's where we've got with popular medicine and the pharmaceutical advertisements which are displayed not insidiously but in abundance in the daily and even weekly papers. So that's where we've got: the patient wants to heal himself! Any minute now he'll be wanting to write out his own prescription!" (Queneau, 141). Apparently Queneau and Dr. Lajoie could see the state of 21st century medicine and the advent of WebMD.
"Doctor: It's the paying that counts; you'll see how much good it'll do you" (Queneau, 160). Not much explanation needed there.
Two things that sort of sum up the best part of this story, the characters knowing they are characters, the fiction within the fiction, the surrealism, the meta...
"Icarus: Oh, I'm more read about than a reader" (Queneau, 164). Very good.
"Icarus: How do we know? It may all come to the same thing. They may be the characters of some other sort of author" (Queneau, 166-167)
The part where Icarus is offered Balbine by Monsieur Berrrier as a wife is great.
"Icarus: The thing is, I'm already engaged.
Balbine: Oh God! (she faints in her father's arms)
Icarus: Only I don't particularly want to marry my fiancée, alas.
Balbine (coming out of her coma). Heaven be praised.
Icarus: But I've got what they call a mistress.
Monsieur Berrrier: A liaison. They're made to be broken.
Icarus: And there's a society lady chasing me.
Balbine: Monsieur is very much in demand" (Queneau, 170).
Another thing I just noticed is Monsieur Berrrier's name. In reading it I had not noticed the triple R. It's weird that the mind only sees what it is accustomed to seeing.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Notes on the Story of the Eye
The Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille is the most disgusting book I've ever read. I get that there is some value to his claims, but the language he uses is disturbing. But, since I have a newfound interest in Surrealism in Literature I suffered through it. And, while I wouldn't recommend the book to anyone that I know, I did find some interesting things in it.
"But I was unable to see as far up as the cunt (this name, which I always used with Simone, is, I think, by far the loveliest names for the vagina)" (Bataille, 4). This pretty much sets the tone for the book. It works to shock, which isn't that bad in and of itself. But, my problem with shock is when it is used for the sake of shock itself.
"And indeed, we blithely strolled out as though the woman had been reduced to a family portrait" (Bataille, 11). After witnessing her daughter's lewd sex acts the woman was frozen. I like the sentence and I think it's a good description of what would happen. It also has a vivid imagery.
"Little by little, I even thought I might kill myself, and, taking the revolver in hand, I managed to lose any sense of words like hope or despair" (Bataille, 18). I like that lack of emotional context, the moment where you simply exist without hope or despair. Brute fact.
"We pedalled rapidly, without laughing or speaking, peculiarly satisfied with our mutual presences, akin to one another in the common isolation of lewdness, weariness, and absurdity" (Bataille, 31). I think this sentence sums up about what I don't like about this book. It isn't just that its shocking, or even that it's shocking solely for the sake of being shocking. It is that Bataille is celebrating what ought to be condemned. His characters are reveling in the isolation that their lewdness brings about.
"And it struck me that death was the sole outcome of my erection, and if Simone and I were killed, the the universe of our unbearable personal vision was certain to be replaced by the pure stars, fully unrelated to any external gazes and realizing in a cold state, without human delays or detours, something that strikes me as the goal of my sexual licentiousness: a geometric incandescence (among other things, the coinciding point of life and death, being and nothingness), perfectly fulgurating" Bataille, 33). Here again, I find why this book disturbs me so much. Once again, Bataille is celebrating what shouldn't be celebrated. Death was going to be the outcome of his erection, but in that death he was finding nirvana. He found the point of nothingness and being colliding to be so desirable that he was willing to debase himself in any means necessary to get there.
What is also disturbing is some of his descriptions. It's a lengthy section so I'm just going to paraphrase. Bataille states that "I began writing with no precise goal, animated chiefly by a desire to forget, at least for the time being, the things I can be or do personally. Thus, at first, I thought that the character speaking in the first person had no relation to me" (Bataille, 89). Fine, sometimes I come up with sick things on paper, things that I never intended because I wrote something with no precise goal in mind. That's how I normally write a story. But, when you find a connection between an innocent event like your brother scaring you and a group of girls in childhood and the things written in the book there is a sickness underlying your thought process.
"I never linger over such memories, for they have long since lost any emotional significance for me. There was no way I could restore them to life except by transforming them and making them unrecognizable, at first glance, to my eyes, solely because during that deformation they acquired the lewdest of meanings" (Bataille, 96). I found much of this book absolutely repugnant. But, this paragraph I found to be profoundly sad. To reignite his memories he had to deform them and debase them. That is truly a sad thing to me.
"In 1920, I changed again, I stopped believing in anything but my future chances. My piety was merely an attempt at evasion: I wanted to escape my destiny at any price, I was abandoning my father. Today, I know I am 'blind', immeasurable, I am man 'abandoned' on the globe like my father at N. No one on earth or in heaven cared about my father's dying terror. Still, I believe he faced up to it, as always. What a 'horrible pride,' at moments, in Dad's blind smile!" (Bataille, 101). I found this profoundly sad again. First, I disagree wholly with the premise that religion is an attempt at evasion. That is simply philosophically unfounded in spite of years of trying to make this fact. Second, to hold on to pride in the face of such things for pride's sake solely is as revolting and wrongheaded as to be shocking for the sake of being shocking.
"But I was unable to see as far up as the cunt (this name, which I always used with Simone, is, I think, by far the loveliest names for the vagina)" (Bataille, 4). This pretty much sets the tone for the book. It works to shock, which isn't that bad in and of itself. But, my problem with shock is when it is used for the sake of shock itself.
"And indeed, we blithely strolled out as though the woman had been reduced to a family portrait" (Bataille, 11). After witnessing her daughter's lewd sex acts the woman was frozen. I like the sentence and I think it's a good description of what would happen. It also has a vivid imagery.
"Little by little, I even thought I might kill myself, and, taking the revolver in hand, I managed to lose any sense of words like hope or despair" (Bataille, 18). I like that lack of emotional context, the moment where you simply exist without hope or despair. Brute fact.
"We pedalled rapidly, without laughing or speaking, peculiarly satisfied with our mutual presences, akin to one another in the common isolation of lewdness, weariness, and absurdity" (Bataille, 31). I think this sentence sums up about what I don't like about this book. It isn't just that its shocking, or even that it's shocking solely for the sake of being shocking. It is that Bataille is celebrating what ought to be condemned. His characters are reveling in the isolation that their lewdness brings about.
"And it struck me that death was the sole outcome of my erection, and if Simone and I were killed, the the universe of our unbearable personal vision was certain to be replaced by the pure stars, fully unrelated to any external gazes and realizing in a cold state, without human delays or detours, something that strikes me as the goal of my sexual licentiousness: a geometric incandescence (among other things, the coinciding point of life and death, being and nothingness), perfectly fulgurating" Bataille, 33). Here again, I find why this book disturbs me so much. Once again, Bataille is celebrating what shouldn't be celebrated. Death was going to be the outcome of his erection, but in that death he was finding nirvana. He found the point of nothingness and being colliding to be so desirable that he was willing to debase himself in any means necessary to get there.
What is also disturbing is some of his descriptions. It's a lengthy section so I'm just going to paraphrase. Bataille states that "I began writing with no precise goal, animated chiefly by a desire to forget, at least for the time being, the things I can be or do personally. Thus, at first, I thought that the character speaking in the first person had no relation to me" (Bataille, 89). Fine, sometimes I come up with sick things on paper, things that I never intended because I wrote something with no precise goal in mind. That's how I normally write a story. But, when you find a connection between an innocent event like your brother scaring you and a group of girls in childhood and the things written in the book there is a sickness underlying your thought process.
"I never linger over such memories, for they have long since lost any emotional significance for me. There was no way I could restore them to life except by transforming them and making them unrecognizable, at first glance, to my eyes, solely because during that deformation they acquired the lewdest of meanings" (Bataille, 96). I found much of this book absolutely repugnant. But, this paragraph I found to be profoundly sad. To reignite his memories he had to deform them and debase them. That is truly a sad thing to me.
"In 1920, I changed again, I stopped believing in anything but my future chances. My piety was merely an attempt at evasion: I wanted to escape my destiny at any price, I was abandoning my father. Today, I know I am 'blind', immeasurable, I am man 'abandoned' on the globe like my father at N. No one on earth or in heaven cared about my father's dying terror. Still, I believe he faced up to it, as always. What a 'horrible pride,' at moments, in Dad's blind smile!" (Bataille, 101). I found this profoundly sad again. First, I disagree wholly with the premise that religion is an attempt at evasion. That is simply philosophically unfounded in spite of years of trying to make this fact. Second, to hold on to pride in the face of such things for pride's sake solely is as revolting and wrongheaded as to be shocking for the sake of being shocking.
I Finished The Trade
Today, July 15, 2015 I finished a short story. Well, I finished the first draft of the story. Now I'm going to give it to my wife to edit for grammatical mistakes.
The name of this story is called: The Trade, Or, How I was Banished From France. There are a couple of things about this that are interesting to me. First, it's the first short story that I've ever used myself and my wife as characters. Second, it is amazing how what I am reading at the time really impacts my writing. I'm nearly finished with Kurt Vonnegut's Timequake and halfway through this first draft I suddenly became conscious of the impact that Vonnegut was having on my writing. I hope that I haven't simply mimicked or copied him, but there is at least in my mind, an obvious tone. Thankfully, I had finished the Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille before I came up with that story. I don't think I'd like to do a memoir-style short story in that story involving my wife.
The name of this story is called: The Trade, Or, How I was Banished From France. There are a couple of things about this that are interesting to me. First, it's the first short story that I've ever used myself and my wife as characters. Second, it is amazing how what I am reading at the time really impacts my writing. I'm nearly finished with Kurt Vonnegut's Timequake and halfway through this first draft I suddenly became conscious of the impact that Vonnegut was having on my writing. I hope that I haven't simply mimicked or copied him, but there is at least in my mind, an obvious tone. Thankfully, I had finished the Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille before I came up with that story. I don't think I'd like to do a memoir-style short story in that story involving my wife.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Aesthetic Notes on Nadja
There is much about surrealist aesthetics that I don't understand. Here are some notes on Aesthetics from André Breton's Nadja.
Aesthetics:
"Chirico
acknowledged at the time that he could paint only when surprised (surprised
first of all) by certain arrangements of objects, and that the entire enigma of
revelation consisted for him in the word: surprise" (Breton, 15). Breton
goes on to note that the art that Chirico created certainly was linked with the
object that inspired it, but only in a way that two brothers resemble on
another or as a dream about a person resembles the actual person. Firstly, the
dream part is a part of the surrealist fascination with dreams. But, the
element of surprise seems to be essential to understanding the Surrealist
aesthetic desire as well. I was not familiar with De Chirico until I looked him
up, but after seeing some of his more famous paintings like Love Song,
The Red Tower and The
Disquieting Muses I realized I had at least seen some of his works. They encapsulate
(at least his work during his 'metaphysical' period) what I've always
considered surrealism's enjoyable aspects.
"I
insist on knowing the names, on being interested only in books left ajar, like
doors; I will not go looking for keys" (Breton, 18). This seems an
interesting aesthetic ideal for Breton considering the surrealist paintings. I
guess in some extent the door is left ajar in that a painting or drawing in
that style naturally opens itself to multiple vantage points and
interpretations. But, on the other hand the door seems firmly closed to getting
to the meaning behind the works.
There
is a long passage on Breton's concept of beauty after the dots on page 159
through the final page 160. But the final sentence of the book seems to
articulate Breton's view on beauty well enough. "Beauty will be convulsive
or will not be at all". If something therefore, doesn't cause an unconscious
reaction then it isn't beauty at all. Convulsions aren't usually something that
I incorporate into my ideas of pleasurable experiences, but there are of course
muscle convulsions that are. It's just an ugly word to associate with
beauty.
Literary Notes on Nadja
There are a number of ways of reading a book. But, the whole purpose of this blog was to hone my skills as a writer and glean literary technique to incorporate into my own style. Basically this is my fake book to steal other writers' style. I want to read as much and incorporate as much in such a subtle manner that nobody notices that I've stolen it. That said, the main reason to read a work of fiction is to enjoy the book and revel in its literary beauty. So, here are some of the literary qualities about Nadja by André Breton that I enjoyed the most.
Literary:
"I
insist on knowing the names, on being interested only in books left ajar, like
doors; I will not go looking for keys" (Breton, 18). I love the word
'ajar'. It just seems to make everything pop out from around it. But, the
imagery about not wanting to search for keys to unlock a book is just a good
image.
"I
cannot see, as I hurry along, what could constitute for me, even without my
knowing it, a magnetic pole in either space or time" (Breton, 32). In this
little passage of the book Breton notes that if you visit Paris you can't help
but see him because he always ends up in a single place. This struck me because
of my idea to write a story about the Maria Maggiore, a basilica in Rome that
no matter what happened on our vacation, Erin and I would inevitably end up in
its piazza when we were lost. This happened every day of our Rome vacation.
Perhaps, there was a magnetic pole in either space or time located somewhere
beneath it? Or it was itself a magnetic pole?
"A
faint smile may have been wandering across her face" (Breton, 64). This is
just a beautifully simple sentence that encapsulates the moment.
"Those
provisional moments of grace, real death-traps of the soul, an abyss, an abyss
into which the splendidly mournful bird of divination has vanished again"
(Breton, 91). It's a good juxtaposition of opposites and the unexpected.
Normally one would associate grace, even momentary grace as something to enjoy,
but Breton calls them death-traps and an abyss.
"Be
careful: everything fades, everything vanishes Something must remain of
us..." (Breton, 100). I think this might be the highlight of the love
Nadja has for Breton. At this point things are breaking down, both Nadja's
sanity and Breton's stomach for being with her. His fear is beginning to win
over his love, which is sad. Nadja holds on for the immortality of the love by
begging him to write a book about her (which she gains because he has). Nadja
achieves immortalization of their love, even as the love is breaking
down.
"The
well-known lack of frontiers between non-madness and madness does not induce me
to accord a different value to the perceptions and ideas which are the result
of one or the other" (Breton, 144). Once again Breton achieves an
excellent juxtaposition.
"For
fear of being fettered, never to be embraced at all" (Breton, 159). What a
profoundly sad notion.
Philosophical Notes on Nadja
I finished Nadja by André Breton yesterday and am somewhat still digesting it. It is pretty out there in literary style, but it was not nearly as difficult in reading Hopscotch by Julio Cortázar. But there were stylistic similarities - the most notable of which were the various asides that the main characters had when you weren't sure if they were speaking or using interior monologue. I wish I had read Nadja first because I think that it would have helped me read Hopscotch. But, I'll read a couple more Surrealist novels before I reread Hopscotch and hopefully that will make the hopscotching reading of Hopscotch a little easier. But, that is neither here nor there.
Philosophical Concepts:
"What I must have ceased to be in order to be who I am" (Breton, 11). This idea of renunciation or to put it in economic terms, the opportunity cost of becoming who you are by ceasing who you were was just a fascinating thought for me.
"I strive, in relation to other men, to discover the nature, if not the necessity, of my difference from them" (Breton, 13). In this we see Breton struggling to discover once again who he is, by comparing himself to others to see who he is by negation. He is not the other by necessity.
The slope facts and the cliff facts that Breton references on page 20 is interesting to think about. Here he has a hierarchy of facts, some of which only he can be the witness of and others he flatters himself that he possesses the full details. But, some of those facts deny a person rational acknowledgement and it is only by "our very instinct of self-preservation to enable us to do so" (Breton, 20). Breton seems to state that some facts are so inescapable, so brute and thus, so horrifying that we can only escape them through a matter of self-preservation.
Breton has some interesting views on the moral value of work. "I am forced to accept the notion of work as a material necessity, and in this regard I strongly favor its better, that is its fairer, division. I admit life's grim obligations make it a necessity, but never that I should believe in its value, revere my own or that of other men" (Breton, 59-60). To Breton, work is a means to an end, a necessary evil. The only good that can come from work is the material gains that come from it, not the character that it can provide.
"But it's so easy to return slowly toward the Rue Lafayette, the Rue du Faubourg Poissoniere - to begin by going back to the very spot where we were" (Breton, 74). Interestingly, after leaving Nadja at her door where he discovers that she is at the extreme limit of the surrealist aspiration, he questions what now? So he goes back to where he was; to begin again anew. I'm not sure if this is to repeat the cycle, or if it is an act of cowardice.
"Unless you have been inside a sanitarium you do not know that madmen are made there, just as criminals are made in our reformatories. Is there anything more detestable than these systems of so-called social conservation which, for a peccadillo, some initial and exterior rejection of respectability or common sense, hurl an individual among others whose association can only be harmful to him and, above all, systematically deprive him of relations with everyone whose moral or practical sense is more firmly established than his own?" (Breton, 139). This is such a scathing rebuke of Breton's societal surroundings about prisons and mental health professionals. Madmen are made in the madhouse. Criminals are made in the prison system. And, what's worse, its done systematically. It's not an accident. The system is tragically flawed and will always produce those results. In spite of Breton writing in 1928 France, the same still stands here in 21st century. The criminals are hardened in their reforming prisons. Criminals are made in the prison system.
"The most absolute sense of love or revolution...involved the negation of everything else" (Breton, 153). This is a very true thing. Love and revolution require total commitment to the cause. That said, I find the surrealist touch here a bit interesting. There seems to be an equating going on between love and revolution as if they are one in the same.
"But that is the way of the world, isn't it, the outer world, that is - a matter of sleep-walking" (154). Again the surrealist applies the opposite of reality. The outer world is the sleep-walking world. Does this mean that the inner world, the world of sleep and dreams is the world of awareness?
The Hegel quote in the end is interesting: "each man hopes and believes he is better than the world which is his, but the man who is better merely expresses this same world better than the others" (Breton, 159).
Philosophical Concepts:
"What I must have ceased to be in order to be who I am" (Breton, 11). This idea of renunciation or to put it in economic terms, the opportunity cost of becoming who you are by ceasing who you were was just a fascinating thought for me.
"I strive, in relation to other men, to discover the nature, if not the necessity, of my difference from them" (Breton, 13). In this we see Breton struggling to discover once again who he is, by comparing himself to others to see who he is by negation. He is not the other by necessity.
The slope facts and the cliff facts that Breton references on page 20 is interesting to think about. Here he has a hierarchy of facts, some of which only he can be the witness of and others he flatters himself that he possesses the full details. But, some of those facts deny a person rational acknowledgement and it is only by "our very instinct of self-preservation to enable us to do so" (Breton, 20). Breton seems to state that some facts are so inescapable, so brute and thus, so horrifying that we can only escape them through a matter of self-preservation.
Breton has some interesting views on the moral value of work. "I am forced to accept the notion of work as a material necessity, and in this regard I strongly favor its better, that is its fairer, division. I admit life's grim obligations make it a necessity, but never that I should believe in its value, revere my own or that of other men" (Breton, 59-60). To Breton, work is a means to an end, a necessary evil. The only good that can come from work is the material gains that come from it, not the character that it can provide.
"But it's so easy to return slowly toward the Rue Lafayette, the Rue du Faubourg Poissoniere - to begin by going back to the very spot where we were" (Breton, 74). Interestingly, after leaving Nadja at her door where he discovers that she is at the extreme limit of the surrealist aspiration, he questions what now? So he goes back to where he was; to begin again anew. I'm not sure if this is to repeat the cycle, or if it is an act of cowardice.
"Unless you have been inside a sanitarium you do not know that madmen are made there, just as criminals are made in our reformatories. Is there anything more detestable than these systems of so-called social conservation which, for a peccadillo, some initial and exterior rejection of respectability or common sense, hurl an individual among others whose association can only be harmful to him and, above all, systematically deprive him of relations with everyone whose moral or practical sense is more firmly established than his own?" (Breton, 139). This is such a scathing rebuke of Breton's societal surroundings about prisons and mental health professionals. Madmen are made in the madhouse. Criminals are made in the prison system. And, what's worse, its done systematically. It's not an accident. The system is tragically flawed and will always produce those results. In spite of Breton writing in 1928 France, the same still stands here in 21st century. The criminals are hardened in their reforming prisons. Criminals are made in the prison system.
"The most absolute sense of love or revolution...involved the negation of everything else" (Breton, 153). This is a very true thing. Love and revolution require total commitment to the cause. That said, I find the surrealist touch here a bit interesting. There seems to be an equating going on between love and revolution as if they are one in the same.
"But that is the way of the world, isn't it, the outer world, that is - a matter of sleep-walking" (154). Again the surrealist applies the opposite of reality. The outer world is the sleep-walking world. Does this mean that the inner world, the world of sleep and dreams is the world of awareness?
The Hegel quote in the end is interesting: "each man hopes and believes he is better than the world which is his, but the man who is better merely expresses this same world better than the others" (Breton, 159).
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