“Let us admit, going over the Atlantic was a tragic mistake…”
Edward Dahlberg, The Flea of Sodom (New Directions, 1950), pp. 15.
Last night Paris was attacked in an unimaginable act of hate. I hope for peace, in Paris and elsewhere, as unlikely a prospect it may seem. Condolences to those affected by the tragedy. Our thoughts go out to those Parisians whose lives will be affected by increased security measures. We love you, and we share your tears. – J.S.
Lazarillo de Tormes (1554) – Anonymous (trans. Mark Alpert, 1969)
Life Is a Dream (1635) – Pedro Calderón de la Barca (trans. Gwynne Edwards, 1991)
‘Letter to Sor Filatea de la Cruz’ (c. 1690) – Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz (trans. Edith Grossman, 2014)
Marginalia on Casanova (1939) – Miklós Szentkuthy (trans. Tim Wilkinson, 2012)
‘The Approach to Al’Mustaim’ (1936) – J.L. Borges (trans. Andrew Hurley)
‘Cows in Half Mourning’ – Arno Schmidt (trans. John E. Woods)
The Sun King: Louis XIV at Versailles (1966) – Nancy Mitford (in progress)
Clues, Myths, and the Historical Method (1986) – Carlo Ginzburg (trans. John & Anne Tedeschi, 1989)
But Is It Art? (2002) – Cynthia Freeland
Sort l’assassin, entre le spectre (2006) – Pierre Senges
This is the first in a series of posts where I do a write-up of a French book that is not yet translated into English. – JS
What drew me to read Anne Garréta’s Ciels liquides (Grasset, 1990) was its interesting premise: it is (according to the Oulipo Compendium) “the paradoxical view of a narrator’s loss of language.”
It’s also beautifully unsettling and hallucinatory. The hallucinations start in the barn of the narrator’s ancestral farm.
I was sinking down.
My shadow was still floating up at the surface, breathing, looking around, uttering sounds in reaction to the thousand stimuli around it. Down below, I was slowly sinking, pulled down by the whirlpool, the slow spiral, always lower. The barn had come to rest on the bottom, swallowed up under many miles of intensely churning fluid, the rumor of the word, endlessly stirred. (p. 20, my translation)
After an accident in the barn and a stay in the hospital, the narrator lives for a while in a dark closet, having lost all capability for speech or writing. Later, he takes up residence in a cemetery, living inside a crypt, and goes to work at night in a morgue. In one scene, he dissects a corpse that appears to be his twin or döppelganger. There are countless beautiful descriptions of experiences that are beyond words, dissociative states.
I was without language. There was no language to account for the state I was in. The strangest thing seems now to me not to have been the amnesia that made it impossible for me to recognize and use words, whether spoken or written, but to have lived constantly suspended at the edge of another translation of a meaning which I felt screaming inside me, fugitive, whose force remained incommunicable, beneath the orbit of words. (p. 120, my translation)
It would be great to see this wonderfully weird book translated and published in English. I’m also looking forward to reading Garréta’s Pas Un Jour (2002).
Next spring (2015), Deep Vellum will publish Garréta’s first book, Sphinx (Grasset, 1986) in a translation by Emma Ramadan. Over at Deep Vellum’s website, there are some English excerpts of Garréta’s work with some good links.
Maddy’s desk faced the west window, which was even wider than the south or north. In his swivel chair past and present found shape: steel and white enamel plasticompo and the button that ran the swivel won only a tense counterpoise from the truth that this chair was in idea the same swivel Thomas Jefferson invented.
– Joseph McElroy, Hind’s Kidnap, Harper & Row, 1969. P. 53.
Jefferson’s revolving Windsor chair which he purchased in 1775-76. The writing arm was added later at Monticello. (Courtesy of the American Philosophical Society)
“The Marquise of O.”, “The Earthquake in Chile,” “Betrothal in San Domingo” (1810?) – Heinrich von Kleist (trans. David Constantine)
“The Nose” (1840?) – Nikolai Gogol
The Black Spider (1842) – Jeremias Gotthelf (trans. Susan Bernofsky)
A Season in Hell (1873) – Arthur Rimbaud (trans. Bertrand Mathieu; re-read)
Prancing Nigger (1924) – Ronald Firbank
Time Regained (1926) – Marcel Proust
Poets in a Landscape (1957) – Gilbert Highet
The Buenos Aires Affair (1973) – Manuel Puig
A Hall of Uselessness (2011) – Simon Leys
I threw the question out on Twitter, “is Erich Auerbach’s Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature (1953) the greatest single work of literary criticism ever written?” I think it probably is, but I was hoping some other readers might contradict me or suggest some other worthy candidates for the distinction. Then I thought about it some more. So here’s some whoppers of literary criticism; I’ve read only a handful of these, and I’m sure as hell missing a lot in the few years between 335 B.C. and 1930 A.D. So, as always, comments are welcome and encouraged, below or on Twitter (@jsief).
* * *
Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature (1953) – Erich Auerbach
History of English Prose Rhythm (1912) – George Saintsbury
Orality and Literacy (1982) – Walter J. Ong
Anatomy of Criticism (1957) – Northrop Frye (suggested by @bswbarootes)
The Novel: An Alternative History, 2 vols. (2010) – Steven Moore
The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony (1989) – Roberto Calasso (trans. Tim Parks)
Seven Types of Ambiguity (1930) – William Empson (suggested by @JustinPfefferle)
The Well-Wrought Urn: Studies in the Structure of Poetry (1947) – Cleanth Brooks (suggested by @bswbarootes)
The Mirror and the Lamp: Romantic Theory and Critical Tradition (1953) – M.H. Abrams
Biographia Literaria (1817) – Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Rhetoric of Fiction (1961) – Wayne C. Booth
The Sense of an Ending (1967) – Frank Kermode
The Counterfeiters, The Stoic Comedians, The Mechanic Muse (1968-1987) – Hugh Kenner
The Banquet Years (1955) – Roger Shattuck
Classical English Rhetoric (2010) – Ward Farnsworth
I don’t read enough books as they come out to pompously draw up a “best books of the year” list, but I do take in a lot of contemporary criticism, so I’m deluged with commentary on the big releases of the year as well as some of the little ones. I don’t think I will ever touch The Goldfinch, The Luminaries, or Bleeding Edge, The Flamethrowers, The Kraus Project, or any of the other books that I’ve read so much about this year, but here are some of the books that I might eventually track down.
‘Then it came, like a crackling of wood twigs over the ridge, came with the sharp and furious bark of a million drops of oil crackling suddenly into combustion, a cacophony of barks louder and louder as Apollo-Saturn fifteen seconds ahead of its own sound cleared the lift tower to a cheer which could have been a cry of anguish from that near-audience watching; then came the earsplitting bark of a thousand machine guns firing at once, and Aquarius shook through his feet at the fury of this combat assault, and heard the thunderous murmur of Niagaras of flame roaring conceivably louder than the loudest thunders he had ever heard and the earth began to shake and would not stop, it quivered through his feet standing on the wood of the bleachers, an apocalyptic fury of sound equal to some conception of the sound of your death in the roar of a drowning hour, a nightmare of sound, and he heard himself saying, “Oh, my God! oh, my God! oh, my God! oh, my God! oh, my God! oh, my God!” but not his voice, almost like the Italian girl saying “fenomenal,” and the sound of the rocket beat with the true blood of fear in his ears, hot in all the intimacy of a forming of heat, as if one’s ear were in the caldron of a vast burning of air, heavens of oxygen being born and consumed in this ascension of the rocket, and a poor moment of vertigo at the thought that man now had something with which to speak to God — the fire was white as a torch and long as the rocket itself, a tail of fire, a face, yes now the rocket looked like a thin and pointed witch’s hat, and the flames from its base were the blazing eyes of the witch. Forked like saw teeth was the base of the flame which quivered through the lens of the binoculars. Upwards. As the rocket keened over and went up and out to sea, one could no longer watch its stage, only the flame from its base. Now it seemed to rise like a ball of fire, like a new sun mounting the sky, a flame elevating itself.’
– from Norman Mailer’s Of a Fire on the Moon (1970), p. 93. Signet Classics paperback.