The Outside

July 6, 2014 § Leave a comment

Tao Lin, “Actually, He’s Doing Pretty O.K.: Karl Ove Knausgaard Arrives in New York,” New York Observer 6 June 2014

Mr. Knausgaard said he wanted to write from “a perspective outside humanity.” He defined the sublime as “the perspective outside of humanity” and said, “It’s impossible to get there by language, because language is humanity — that’s inside, so how can you get outside? And in the book I want to get outside, all the time, and it’s impossible.

Horreur Vacui

July 5, 2014 § Leave a comment

Eric Beck Rubin, “Avoided: On Georges Perec,” Los Angeles Review of Books 20 May 2014

… This is what sets Georges Perec apart. His work does not cover, ignore, or defer. It embraces, submits, activates. It contemplates horreur vacui in all its horreur and vacui. … The E that is nowhere in La Disparition turns out to be everywhere. Many talk about making absence present. Perec never talks about it. He does it. … Perec’s variety of form, however, can only temporarily distract the reader from his maniacal focus on one and only one subject: the void. Like its cosmological incarnation, the black hole, the void turns all light into darkness by taking in everything and making it into nothing. It is not satisfied until it brings the universe under its reign. … In W, or The Memory of Childhood, Perec tells us “them” are those who, like his mother, were killed in the Holocaust, who were extinguished in the void of the camps, which left no record of their existences. When Perec asks himself why he writes, he says it is to redress the scandal of their silence. His way of accomplishing this is to make their silence as loud as possible, to increase dimensions of the void.

Finally, amid Gaspard Wincklers — real and fake — and the memory of his mother, Perec places himself among the missing, subjecting himself to the full, destructive Perec treatment. He writes how his name is derived from “Peretz,” a Hebrew word he translates poetically but not inaccurately as “hole.” He recalls how, as a left-handed person made to write right-handed, he got into the habit of inverting his first initial, G, so it appeared as a question mark. He is a Jew, he writes, since both his parents were Jews, but he was baptized a Catholic on 30 October 1943. He tells us how he escaped occupied Paris on an orphan’s transport, though he was not an orphan. Later he explains that he survived a German raid on his school in Grenoble because his birth certificate falsely listed his parents as André and Cécile instead of Icek and Cyrla. Perec makes it evident that he has only survived the war by virtue of losing himself. By the end of W, or The Memory of Childhood, Perec has ensured that all parts of him equal nothing. He has turned a living, breathing individual, with a personal and family history, a place in the world, a record of actions and contributions, into free-floating particles of dust, like all the others.

Now that you have the legend, you can confidently venture into the world atlas of Perec’s output. The maps seem to be covering different times and places — what does the massive novel La Vie mode d’emploi (Life: A User’s Manual), the detailed description of the life of a Paris apartment block, have to do with the slim story Le Voyage d’hiver (A Winter’s Journey), the tale of a newly discovered book whose style and contents specifically predate a number of French classics? But the territory, once approached, becomes familiar. Gaspard Winckler appears in Life: A User’s Manual as a craftsman who cuts the story into 99 pieces (the 100th tantalizingly missing), and the great book at the center of A Winter’s Journey is lost during the course of the Second World War: no copies of the book, no sign to prove it existed (even if the proof is everywhere, in every book you read). Like the 100th puzzle piece, Anton Vowl, Gaspard Winckler, Georges Perec and all his work, it is lost in the void. …

Nothing Happens

July 5, 2014 § Leave a comment

Mark O’Connell, “The MacGuffinist,” The Slate Book Review 2 June 2014

The only thing these books really have in common is the fact that nothing much happens in any of them. Which is to say that what happens in these books is, primarily, Geoff Dyer’s writing. One of his more impressive gifts is the ability to create a sense of momentum within essentially static narratives; the way in which nothing happens, in his work, can often have the aura of spectacle. [...] The subject of a Geoff Dyer book is only ever the pretext, the flimsiest excuse, for a book by Geoff Dyer. In books like Out of Sheer Rage and Zona, for instance, the topic itself — D.H. Lawrence, Tarkovsky’s film Stalker — is always essentially in service of the writing, which is exactly the opposite of how nonfiction is set up to operate.

Disturbing the Silence of Heaven

June 23, 2014 § Leave a comment

Simone Weil, Gavity and Grace

If only I could see a landscape as it is when I am not there. But when I am in any place I disturb the silence of heaven by the beating of my heart. [See Stan Brakhage.]

But With What Kinds of Words?

June 23, 2014 § Leave a comment

Maurice Blanchot, The Unavowable Community

Wittgenstein’s all too famous and all too often repeated precept, “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent” — given that by enunciating it he has not been able to impose silence on himself — does indicate that in the final analysis one has to talk in order to remain silent. But with what kinds of words? [See Kojève.]

Un Autre possible du même livre

June 23, 2014 § Leave a comment

Elisabeth Philippe, “L’Eternel retour,” Les Inrockuptibles 963 (14-20 May 2014): 86

Sans doute Duras comprend-elle d’autant mieux cette constante réappropriation de son oeuvre qu’elle-même n’a jamais cessé de la retravailler, multipliant les versions d’un même texte, expérimentant chaque fois “un autre possible du même livre” (Ecrire), au point d’être accusée de s’autopasticher.

Letting Words Fail

June 19, 2014 § Leave a comment

Alison Entrekin, “Clarice Lispector’s ‘New World of Feeling,'” Music & Literature 4 (2014)

If anything, one senses in places that language is an insufficient medium, so to speak, and that she would rather let words or grammar fall short of what she wants to say than try to house what she has to say within the limitations of language. Or, as the character Joana hints in Near to the Wild Heart, “The moment I try to speak not only do I fail to express what I feel but what I feel slowly becomes what I say.”

The Land of the Is-Itself

June 17, 2014 § Leave a comment

Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

Beyond thought there are no words: it is itself. My painting has no words: it is beyond thought. In this land of the is-itself I am pure crystalline ecstasy. It is itself. I am myself. You are yourself.

Whatever is Lurking Beyond Thought

June 16, 2014 § Leave a comment

Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

I am after whatever is lurking beyond thought.

Reach Into Silence

June 8, 2014 § Leave a comment

TS Eliot, “Burnt Norton,” The Four Quartets

Words, after speech, reach / Into the silence [via].

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