Without Taking the Easy Way Out

May 29, 2015 § Leave a comment

Jean-Philippe Toussaint, Urgency and Patience

With this preparatory phase carried to its extremity, the danger lies in never starting the novel (Barthes’ syndrome, in a way), like the narrator of Television who, due to exaggerated scruples and anxiety from the exigencies of perfectionism, settles for a constant state of readiness to write “without taking the easy way out and actually doing so”.

Writing/Not Writing

May 29, 2015 § Leave a comment

Jean-Philippe Toussaint, Television (1997)

I reflected that, if your goal is to write, not writing is surely at least as important as writing.

In Solitude

May 27, 2015 § Leave a comment

“In solitude you don’t need to make an impression on the world, so the world has some opportunity to make an impression on you.”
Claire-Louise Bennett, “Claire-Louise Bennett on Writing Pond,” The Irish Times 26 May 2014

The Magnificent Mystery of Everything

May 27, 2015 § Leave a comment

Claire-Louise Bennett, “Claire-Louise Bennett on Writing Pond,” The Irish Times 26 May 2014

… I remember that transition, if you can call it that. How all that felt boundless and primal, profound and bizarre, became dreary and doctrinaire. It was at precisely this juncture that I began to write. The function of this impulsive activity was not to make sense of things, the opposite in fact — I wrote in order to keep rationality and purpose at bay, to prolong and bask in the rhythmic chaos of existence, to remain adrift from the social contract and luxuriate in the magnificent mystery of everything. I was writing, not to connect with other people, but to experience and augment my affinity with the universe. It was, after all, the whole cosmos I felt a part of and wished to respond to — not just my small portion of it, the here and now of my specific, increasingly circuitous, circumstances — but everything, everywhere, always.

Out of all the artistic mediums literature is perhaps the most anthropocentric, and so, once I decided I wanted to make a book, I immediately encountered many difficulties as I tried to get to grips with the sorts of things that normally go into one. Narrative, for example, stonewalled me right from the off – I couldn’t take to it at all. Hardly surprising: narrative, after all, is not simply a literary device — according to narrative theory the capacity to tell stories is a basic human strategy which enables us to develop and reinforce a cogent and enduring sense of self. Identities are forged in this way, rendering us visible, surveyable; other people can say they know who we are. But who I am is not what I am or how I am; my identity is not all of me, it doesn’t even come close — it is simply a function of me, an aspect that has significance and viability within the social framework, but nowhere else.

Yet, despite its partiality, it is this portion we are duty-bound to cultivate and uphold throughout the course of our entire lifetime. This boundaried and stable self — the social being — doesn’t concern me very much. What I want to delve into and express in my work is the peregrine self — the being who is fluid, exotic, and nebulous — what a very distinguished individual might disdainfully refer to as a “wishy-washy sort”, who ought to “pull themselves together”.

How then to convey the permutations of a formless entity through a medium inherently geared towards the manifestation of a clean-edged and consistent character? Quite the conundrum. However, in contrast to literature’s integral social dimension, the act of writing itself is almost entirely antisocial — indeed, lots of writers will tell you just how lonely writing is. It’s true, writing is a gloriously solitudinous place. And it was there, in that zone, I wanted to sink, without succumbing to the pull of narrative drive, which is always more or less in reach, like a ghastly, bedevilling, rudder.

Solitude, by its nature, doesn’t have much of a plot and it doesn’t throw up too many events either. Life, from the outside, becomes rather small. Yet in that tight spot one’s awareness and sensitivity intensifies to such an extent that the daily round, no matter how unvarying it has become, is a conduit to a more transcendent contact with reality so that, for example, objects are not simply insensate functional things, but materials, substances, which have an aura, an energy — even, occasionally, a numinosity. Categories lose their hold and the surrounding environment is rewritten and revealed. What Italo Calvino calls “anthropocentric parochialism” has been given the slip, and the world again feels at once ancient and fresh, intimate and indifferent, porous and immaculate.

… In solitude you don’t need to make an impression on the world, so the world has some opportunity to make an impression on you.

Pushing Harder on the Gas

May 16, 2015 § Leave a comment

Tim Smyth. Rev. of Memory Theatre, by Simon Critchley. The Stinging Fly 30 (Spring 2015): 113.

In real life, Critchley has commented to Andrew Gallix that Memory Theatre is him “looking back in the rearview mirror as [he pushes] harder on the gas”.

To Be Phosphate of Calcium is Enough

May 14, 2015 § Leave a comment

“With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.”
John Berger, and our faces, my heart, brief as photos

Unhoused

May 11, 2015 § Leave a comment

Andrea Barrett, “Andrea Barrett, The Art of Fiction No. 180″ by Elizabeth Gaffney, The Paris Review 168 (Winter 2003)

INTERVIEWER
Do you think this feeling of not being at home is part of what made you into a writer?

BARRETT
Sure. I’ve never known a writer who didn’t feel ill at ease in the world. Have you? We all feel unhoused in some sense. That’s part of why we write. We feel we don’t fit in, that this world is not our world, that though we may move in it, we’re not of it. Different experiences in our lives may enforce or ameliorate that, but I think if they ameliorate it totally, we stop writing. You don’t need to write a novel if you feel at home in the world. We write about the world because it doesn’t make sense to us. Through writing, maybe we can penetrate it, elucidate it, somehow make it comprehensible. If I had ever found the place where I was perfectly at home, who knows what I would have done? Maybe I would have been a biologist after all. No great loss if that had been the case, but it didn’t work out that way.

See Mary Ruefle.

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