This review of Jean-Yves Jouannais’s Artistes sans oeuvres: I Would Prefer Not To appeared in the Times Literary Supplement dated 25 September 2009 (No 5556, p. 30):

Nothing At All

With his bovine-sounding surname, Félicien Marboeuf (1852-1924) seemed destined to cross paths with Flaubert. He was the inspiration for the character of Frédéric Moreau in L’Education sentimentale, which left him feeling like a figment of someone else’s imagination. In order to wrest control of his destiny, he resolved to become an author, but Marboeuf entertained such a lofty idea of literature that his works were to remain imaginary and thus a legend was born. Proust — who compared silent authors à la Marboeuf to dormant volcanoes — gushed that every single page he had chosen not to write was sheer perfection.

Or did he? One of the main reasons why Marboeuf never produced anything is that he never existed. Jean-Yves Jouannais planted this Borgesian prank at the heart of Artistes sans oeuvres when the book was first published in 1997. The character subsequently took on a life of his own, resurfacing as the subject of a recent group exhibition and, more famously, in Bartleby & Co., Enrique Vila-Matas’s exploration of the “literature of the No”. Here the Spanish author repays the debt he owes to Jouannais’s cult essay (which had been out of print until now) by prefacing this new edition.

Marboeuf has come to symbolize all the anonymous “Artists without works” past and present. Through him, Jouannais stigmatizes the careerists who churn out new material simply to reaffirm their status or iinflate their egos, as well as the publishers who flood the market with the “little narrative trinkets” they pass off as literature on the three-for-two tables of bookshops. In so doing, he delineates a rival tradition rooted in the opposition to the commodification of the arts that accompanied industrialization. A prime example is provided by the fin-de-siècle dandies who reacted to this phenomenon by producing nothing but gestures. More significantly, Walter Pater’s contention that experience — not “the fruit of experience” — was an end in itself, led to a redefinition of art as the very experience of life. A desire to turn one’s existence into poetry — as exemplified by Arthur Cravan, Jacques Vaché or Neal Cassady — would lie at the heart of all the major twentieth-century avant-gardes. “My art is that of living”, Marcel Duchamp famously declared, “Each second, each breath is a work which is inscribed nowhere, which is neither visual nor cerebral; it’s a sort of constant euphoria.”

Jouannais never makes the absurd claim that creating nothing is better than creating something: like Emil Cioran, he has little time for what he calls the “failure fundamentalists”. He does not dwell on the Keatsian notion (also found in Rousseau and Goethe) that unheard melodies are sweeter, or wonder why the attempts at a merger between life and art have so often resulted in death. Jouannais’s “Artists without works” are essentially of a sunny disposition. They are dilettantes, driven solely by their own enjoyment; cultural skivers who never feel that they owe it to posterity, let alone their public, to be productive. They let time do its work and are often militantly lazy — like Albert Cossery, the francophone writer of Egyptian origin who, on a good day, would fashion a single carefully crafted sentence, or the American artist Albert M. Fine who is quoted as saying: “If I did anything less it would cease to be art”. It is this divine indolence which differentiates Artistes sans oeuvres from darker essays on the subject.

Some of the most interesting passages in the book concern those larger-than-life figures (Félix Fénéon, Arthur Cravan, Jacques Vaché, Jacques Rigaut, Roberto Bazlen) who entered the literary pantheon as characters in other writers’ novels rather than through their own. Cravan, Vaché and Cassady — who embodied respectively the spirits of Dada, Surrealism and Beat — published virtually nothing during their lifetimes. Naturally, phantom works abound here, from Stendhal’s numerous unfinished novels to the unpublished manuscripts of the Brautigan Library (modelled on the library in Richard Brautigan’s The Abortion) through to Roland Barthes’s criticism, which provided him with the perfect excuse not to write the novel he dreamed of. Jouannais also considers summarizers such as Fénéon, whose “elliptical novels” were no longer than haiku, or Borges, who compiled synopses of fictitious novels so that no one would have to waste time writing or reading them. In fact, the Argentinian’s entire oeuvre — haunted as it is by the possibility of its own silence — is reinterpreted as a paradoxical “pre-emptive production” designed to spare the already overcrowded bookshelves of the Library of Babel. Borges’s Pierre Ménard (along with Bouvard, Pécuchet and Bartleby) is, of course, one of the patron saints of the copiers, another category surveyed in these pages. The destroyers (Virgil, Kafka, Bruno Schulz et al.) who seek to cover their aesthetic tracks only get a brief look-in, Jouannais being more interested in the long line of erasers starting with Man Ray’s 1924 “Lautgedicht” (an obliterated poem) and including such works as Robert Rauschenberg’s “Erased de Kooning Drawing”, Yves Klein’s infamous empty exhibition or Walter Ruttmann’s “blind” film. The author argues convincingly — in a style both eloquent and elegant — that Cravan’s proto-Dadaist provocations, Rigaut’s suicide or Brautigan’s notorious kitchen shoot-outs should be construed as poetic gestures in their own right. Deliberately misquoting Flaubert, he concludes that the works of these so-called “Artists without works” are “present everywhere and visible nowhere”, which may explain why they are so often misunderstood.

Este ano li mais um do Cossery – As Cores da Infâmia. Faltam-me 5. Qualquer dia chateio-me e compro os restantes, ao contrário do que escrevi aqui. Gosto demasiadamente deste sacana preguiçoso para ir doseando a sua leitura.

Esperamos 15 anos até o escritor egípcio nos apresentar a sua última obra, As Cores da Infâmia, depois de ter publicado em 1984 Uma Ambição no Deserto. Um manancial precioso, carregado da mais pura ironia, onde os vencedores são sempre os mendigos que têm como ocupação o roubo. O protagonista é Ossama, um ladrão astucioso que se veste como os ricos. Num dos seus trabalhos, rouba a carteira a um promotor imobiliário. Lá encontra uma carta que prova a responsabilidade do promotor no desabamento de um prédio que causou a morte a vários inquilinos. O centro da intriga é este. Depois é só rir com o mundo caótico apresentado por este escritor egípcio, onde o roubo ilegal dos pobres é mais legitimo que o dos poderosos.

Leiam lá alguns excertos,

- É isso mesmo que te reprovo. Não há nada de mais imoral do que roubar sem riscos. É o risco que nos diferencia dos banqueiros e dos seus émulos que praticam o roubo legalizado com a cobertura do governo. Não te inculquei a minha arte para te tornares um ladrão de cinema cuja única preocupação é não desagradar ao seu público” (p. 72)

“Nenhum regime político impedirá de roubar. Estou certo de que sempre poderei exercer a minha profissão. E esta certeza não existe em nenhuma outra categoria de trabalhadores. Alguma vez viste um ladrão no desemprego? (p. 87)

Nenhum escritor me arranca mais sorrisos do que este maldito.

E pronto. Foi rápido. Uns dias de descanso à beira-mar, com muito sol, de vez em quando alguma chuva e até a presença constante do Incrível Homem Bala que prometia ser disparado a mais de 200 Km/h (se o espectáculo não incluísse animais, jamais teria perdido este prodígio da natureza).

Li muito e descansei ainda mais. Que o Diabo leve a Mosca Azul de John Franklin Bardin, As Cores da Infâmia de Albert Cossery e Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland de Lewis Carrol acompanharam-me uma semana e mais uns dias, a par dos jornais. Deu ainda para ver O Labirinto do Fauno de Guillermo del Toro e as duas primeiras temporadas da série OZ, de Tom Fontana.

É bom regressar a Lisboa, com o saco cheio de areia, as energias recarregadas e muitas vontades para realizar. Não, a tese ainda não está terminada. Está quase. Desde Maio que é assim: quase. Mas, entretanto, o absurdo voltará a respirar, tem de ser, é mesmo assim.

“Nessuno scrittore ha descritto in modo più acuto e implacabile la vita di coloro che formano l’immensa folla sommersa”. [Henry Miller]

‘La violenza e il riso’ di Albert Cossery, pubblicato in Italia da Barbès Editore con la bella traduzione di Véronique Seguin è uno dei libri più importanti del geniale scrittore egiziano scomparso l’anno scorso e che per anni è stato candidato al Premio Nobel.
—
Libri News segnala:

Diario dalla galera di Imre Kertész – Bompiani

—

La violenza e il riso di Albert Cossery - Barbès Editore

Titolo: La violenza e il riso
Genere: Libri Narrativa Straniera
Autore: Albert Cossery
Traduzione: Véronique Seguin
Editore: Barbes
Anno: 2009
Collana: Intersections
Informazioni: pg. 180
Codice EAN: 9788862940344

Prezzo Book Shop: € 9,60
Prezzo di listino: € 12,00
Sconto: € 2,40 (20%)

IL LIBRO – Una città governata da un tiranno grottesco e ridicolo. Un gruppo di oppositori che decide di combatterlo utilizzando la derisione, orchestrando una campagna d’opinione che scatena l’ilarità di tutta la popolazione.

Una fiaba che racconta con ironia feroce il tema prediletto dello scrittore egiziano: la forza degli uomini liberi contro l’idiozia dei potenti.

L’AUTORE – Albert Cossery nasce al Cairo nel 1913, ma si trasferisce a Parigi nel 1945. Amico di Albert Camus, Boris Vian, Alberto Giacometti e Jean Genet, diventa un protagonista della vita bohemienne del secondo dopoguerra, “Gli uomini dimenticati da Dio”, pubblicato al Cairo nel 1941, viene subito tradotto in numerose lingue.

Dopo decenni vissuti in modestia in un piccolo albergo del Quartier Latin di Parigi, è morto nel 2008, a 95 anni.

.

Marianne, Vox Populo, Vox Dei !

Cette voix m’irrite. Ces messages aussi. Je raccroche, aujourd’hui je n’ai pas envie de les écouter.

Il faisait un peu beau aujourd’hui. Mais c’était un soleil tourmenté par la grisaille, avec une température en petite forme. Un mois d’août à moitié pourri quoi…

Aujourd’hui, j’ai décidé de vous faire un post gratuit, comme ça, sans raisons particulières. En même temps, je crois que vous y êtes habitués à ces posts “gratuits”. Après la ramasse “skybloggienne”, aujourd’hui c’est: “Tendez-la main, et prenez-moi ce putain de post gratuit !”

De la littérature pour les “oufs” !

Ouais, je commence par déféquer illico sur Faïza Guène. Désolé de l’urgence à vous l’avouer, mais ce type de torchons plébiscités par l’élite bien-pensante germano-pratine vous ramone de drôles d’envies. Celles de relire “Rêves de Fer”, ou Nabe tiens…

Bon, dans un premier temps, je voulais surtout parler de littérature. Pas de Faïza Guène. Alors autant faire dans le concis: embrayons joyeusement sur les derniers livres lus, et qui pour moi, valent le mérite qu’on en parle, à défaut de pouvoir vous donner envie de les lire.

Albert Cossery – Mendiants et orgueilleux

Albert Cossery

Albert vient de décéder. C’est passé inaperçu. C’était le 22 juin dernier. L’homme qui aura su pénétrer mieux que quiconque la nonchalance et la pauvreté noyés dans de la grandeur d’âme s’est éteint. Assurément l’un des grands de la littérature française, et l’un des seuls à mériter le respect du côté de St-Germain.

Irvine Welsh – Une ordure

Filth, un roman “cochon” !

Irvine, je l’évoquais déjà au détour de la jubilation ordurière des Boulognes Boys. Et c’est vrai qu’il leur colle bien au cul avec son Brigadier au ténia soliloque. Mais avant d’assumer les insanités que vous avez taggué dans les toilettes au bureau – “Patrick t’es un gros PD !”, on retiendra cette phrase culte, à sortir à tous vos collègues, dès lors qu’on vous emmerde de trop: “Tu peux lécher mon cul, il est parfumé au Bacon !”

Fédor Dostoievsky – Les bourgeois de Paris

Fédor, il bouffait du bourgeois au petit-déjeuner !

Je ne vous ferai pas l’injure de vous présenter Fédor. Seulement quand le génie de l’écrivain Russe rencontre le cynisme parisien, on peut pas vraiment dire que l’eau se complète au Gaz ! Visionnaire, cette satyre féroce mais guillerette brosse un portrait sans complaisance qui rencontre de l’écho même aujourd’hui. Indispensable à tous ceux qui méprisent ces imbéciles en Vélib’ !

Marc Villard – Le coup du sombrero

Me souviens que Recoba en faisait des beaux !

Le touche à tout vendange une nouvelle fois au-dessus du but. Et c’est ce genre de pointus raccroc qu’on aime chez lui. Le 3/4 de couverture lui rend admirablement service :

” – Papa, j’ai regardé ta boîte, lebourreau@hotmail.com. Deux Japonaises veulent que tu partes au Japon, ce sont des dingues du sombrero. Si tu n’y vas pas, l’une des deux se coupe le sein droit.

- Et l’autre ?

- Elle dit que seul De Rossi a sorti un double sombrero.

- C’est faux. Réponds à ces salopes nippones que ton père est l’auteur d’un double sombrero en seconde mi-temps de Lamberville/Neauphle-le-Château, mars 1996. Je ne vais pas me laisser emmerder par des bridés qui passent leurs week-ends à lorgner des sumos.

– Je lui écris ça, alors ?

- Of course. Il y a des jours comme celui-ci qui me dépriment. Je me fais tellement chier que je vais écrire un livre. Un gros de quarante-cinq pages.”

De toutes façons, un livre dédié à Maradona, et portant un épigraphe de Robert Smith, ça ne peut être que bon, non ?

Henry de Monfreid – La croisière du Haschich

Henry, un formidable aventurier

Henry de Monfreid fut un homme insaisissable. Parce qu’il est d’abord resté libre. Mais si j’ajoute qu’il s’agit là de l’un des plus grands aventurier du XXème siècle, vous attendiez quoi ? Push OFF “Lost, les disparus”, et remettez-vous à rêver d’aventures, toutes plus vivantes que vécues par notre inénarrable contrebandier Français, perdu dans cette corne d’Afrique aux milles visages !

Et tant qu’à faire, redécouvrez Louis Garneray, et dites-bien à Stevenson que son île au trésor ne fut bonne qu’à renflouer l’imagerie Disney !

…

Bon, et pour ceux qui préfèrent les images et le son:

Bouli Lanners, d’abord, parce que c’est un type que j’aime.

Eldorado by Bouli

Oui, j’aime ce mec, et vous devriez aussi, parce qu’il chante parfaitement bien “Sunny” de Bobby Hebb et qu’en plus, il filme mieux le “Ch’nord” que Dany Boon.

Eldorado

Et Adam Sandler pour finir, parce que je le croyais définitivement mort et perdu pour la comédie, mais qu’il semble s’être enfin réveillé de sa torpeur de nanardeur.

Zohan, prochainement sur Tokyo – Senbei, gaffe à tes tiffs !

Don’t mess with the Zohan !

…

Les chinois à Paris – Carmeng

This appeared in Dazed Digital on 16 July 2008:

Albert Cossery’s Last Siesta in Paris

The cult author, famous for his indolence and libido, closes his eyes for the last time

Albert Cossery was a lazy old sod — a relic from the past who looked, of late, as if he felt he had outstayed his welcome. Always dressed to the nines, this dandy anarchist could be observed sitting in the legendary Café de Flore, casting an Olympian eye over the aimless crowds outside, biding his time. His militant idleness coupled with a strange mummified existence blurred the boundary between life and death for so long that his passing away, last month, could almost have gone unnoticed — had he not been a living legend.

The cult author moved to Paris from his native Cairo in 1945 and soon became a fixture of the Saint-Germain-des-Prés boho scene. His friends included some of the most influential writers and artists of the last century: Sartre, Genet, Vian, Queneau, Tzara, Giacometti and others. Lawrence Durrell championed his first book — a brilliant collection of short stories entitled Men God Forgot (1940) — and Henry Miller ensured it got published Stateside. He even picked up girls — lots of them — with Albert Camus. According to legend (that word again), Durrell informed the American secret services that Cossery could not possibly be a spy, as they suspected, because he spent most of his time shagging. By the early 90s, he was claiming more than 3,000 female conquests.

Sex aside, Cossery never believed in exerting himself. His very name evokes divine indolence: avoir la cosse is a colloquial expression meaning to be bone idle. True to his moniker, he spent his life resisting any work ethic that prevents people from enjoying “the Edenic simplicity of the world”. He often showed off his delicate hands, explaining, somewhat provocatively, that they had not toiled in 2,000 years. And when a journalist inevitably enquired why he wrote, he answered that he hoped his books would prompt readers to pack in their jobs.

For Cossery, idleness was more than a way of life. It afforded him the greatest luxury of all: the time to contemplate — to think or observe — and therefore the opportunity to be fully alive, “minute by minute”. This accounts for the constant connection he establishes between destitution and nobility, which is reflected, for instance, in the beautiful descriptions of glistening gobbets of spit, or light playing upon puddles of piss. The author claimed that he always felt like the son of a king, even when he was penniless — or rather, especially when he was penniless, just like the university professor in Proud Beggars (1955) who finally feels like a million dollars after electing to become a pauper. The lesson here is that those who reject (or are deprived of) material wealth gain access to a heightened state of consciousness. When Cossery died, the French Culture Minister described him as a “prince”, even though he owned little more than the clogs he had just popped.

All his works (for want of a more congenial word) focus on the members of this aristocratic underclass — the holy hooligans who wear their hashish-smoke halos raffishly askew and jump through the eyes of needles like so many biblical camels. Cossery was not just their poet laureate: he considered himself as a fully unpaid-up member of the idle poor and certainly put his lack of money where his mouth was. Long before downshifting became trendy among trustafarians, he checked into a small hotel room and lived off handouts and publishing rights. Not so much because property is theft but because it can rob you of your soul.

Cossery’s anti-work ethos and all-round laziness only partly account for his limited output (a mere eight books in sixty-five years). He was a typical Platonic author who saw his works as imperfect reflections of an unattainable ideal. As such, he despised hackwork, often only producing a single perfectly-honed sentence a week. No wonder his last novel — a slim volume called Les Couleurs de l’infamie (1999) — was fifteen years in the making.

This unattainable literary ideal is symbolised by his characters’ noble dreams. Cossery’s anti-heroes are for ever lost in sleep or reverie, as if they were hankering after some prelapsarian state of perfect vegetative bliss. In the aptly-titled The Lazy Ones (1948), a character remains bedridden, out of choice, for a whole year; another opts for celibacy in order to preserve his sacred sleep patterns. In an early short story, the inhabitants of an impoverished neighbourhood are prepared to kill off those who have the nerve to disturb their slumber before noon. Some characters are even afraid to move lest they should break the magic spell of their daydreams. The author himself revelled in the out-of-time experience afforded by sleep, which is hardly surprising given that what he called living “minute by minute” meant, in practice, living the same minute over and over again Groudhog Day-style.

Time stood still for Cossery as soon as he settled in Paris. In 1945, he checked in to a small room in a hotel called La Louisiane on Rue de Seine and remained there until his recent demise. Every day, he would get up at noon (like his characters), dress up in his habitual dandified fashion and make his way to the Brasserie Lipp for a spot of lunch. From there, he would usually repair to the Café de Flore or the Deux Magots before going home for his all-important siesta. Repeat ad infinitum. A similar case of arrested development can be found in the books, which are all, without exception, set in the Middle East, although Cossery, of course, spent most of his life in France. His French style even mimicks the Arabic of his youth. One of the most haunting passages in Men God Forgot is the description of a crude fresco representing a motionless sailing boat on the Nile, frozen in time, refusing to move on.

Cossery described sleep as “death’s brother” and one can wonder if this refusal to turn his back on the glory days of Saint-Germain-des-Prés did not hide a desire for the big sleep: the eternal here and now. The author’s later years give a distinct impression of slow exhaustion. In 1998, he fell silent as a result of cancer and the following year he stopped writing, claiming that he no longer had anything to say.

For almost fifteen years (the time it took him to write his last book), I lived just up the road from Cossery. Whenever I got home in the small hours — usually a little worse for wear — my thoughts would turn to the “Voltaire of the Nile” sleeping in his diminutive mausoleum. It was a comforting thought, like a sailing boat that will never sail away.

The next time you walk down Rue de Seine, tread lightly: Albert Cossery sleeps on. Shh!

“Albert Cossery’s Last Siesta” appeared on Dazed Digital on 16 July 2008. Here’s the opening paragraph:

“Albert Cossery was a lazy old sod — a relic from the past who looked, of late, as if he felt he had outstayed his welcome. Always dressed to the nines, this dandy anarchist could be observed sitting in the legendary Café de Flore, casting an Olympian eye over the aimless crowds outside, biding his time. His militant idleness coupled with a strange mummified existence blurred the boundary between life and death for so long that his passing away, last month, could almost have gone unnoticed — had he not been a living legend.”

Gohar

…”Le dénuement de cette chambre avait pour Gohar la beauté de l’insaisissable, il y respirait un air d’optimisme et de liberté. La plupart des meubles et des objets usuels outrageaient sa vue, car ils ne pouvaient offrir aucun aliment à son besoin de fantaisie humaine. Seuls les êtres dans leurs folies innombrables, avaient le don de le divertir.”

Yégen

“Il n’y avait en lui aucune ressemblance avec l’homme de lettres soucieux de sa carrière et de sa réputation immortelle; il ne recherchait ni la gloire, ni l’admiration. Les poèmes de Yégen étaient composés avec les simples mots quotidiens; ils étaient à la portée de compréhension d’un enfant comme d’un adulte, sentis avec un instinct infaillible de la vie dans ce qu’elle a de plus authentique.”

“Son estime allait plutôt à des gens quelconque, qui n’étaient ni poètes, ni penseurs, ni ministres, mais simplement habités par une joie jamais éteinte. La vraie valeur de Yégen se mesurait à la quantité de joie contenue dans chaque être.”

La foule

Certes, la misère marquait leurs vêtements composés de hardes innommables, inscrivait son empreinte indélébile sur les corps hâves et décharnés; elle n’arrivait pas cependant à effacer de leurs visages la criante allégresse d’être encore vivants.”

La torture

“La torture était devenue une des formes de la vie dans une société civilisée. On ne pouvait rien contre un cancer de l’estomac, encore moins contre la terreur instituée par des hommes pour opprimer d’autres hommes. Yégen acceptait les brutalités policières au même titre que les maladies incurables et les cataclysmes de la nature.”

[Mendiants et orgueilleux / Albert Cossery. – Ed. Joëlle Losfeld, 2005]

Phrases sélectionnées par Réjane.

This appeared in Guardian Books on 8 July 2008:

Albert Cossery Loved Men God Forgot

The Egyptian lived radically lazily on the Left Bank, challenging social norms with books devoid of materialism and ambition

My blog on the late Albert Cossery appeared on Guardian Unlimited today:

“Albert Cossery was a living legend — until he died a few weeks ago. The Egyptian author was one of the last links to the glory days when Paris was the capital of world culture, with Saint-Germain-des-Prés its swinging epicentre.

Having already sampled the louche pleasures of interbellum Montparnasse, Cossery left Cairo in 1945 and relocated to the Left Bank where he hung out on a nightly basis with Genet, Giacometti, Gréco, Queneau, Sartre, Tzara, Vian et al. His first book, Men God Forgot, was published in the States courtesy of Henry Miller, one of his biggest fans. Accompanied by Camus, he cruised the streets of the Latin Quarter, soon acquiring something of a reputation as a Levantine lover. Indeed, by the early 90s he was boasting that he had bedded more than 3,000 women which, if true, would put him right up there in Simenon’s priapic super league. When the American secret services suspected him of being a spy, Lawrence Durrell — another close friend — pointed out that he was far too busy shagging.”

More here.

]]> http://absurdo.wordpress.com/2008/06/24/um-preguicoso-inteligente-e-alguem-que-reflectiu-acerca-do-mundo-em-que-vive/ Tue, 24 Jun 2008 21:11:25 +0000 Eduarda Sousa http://absurdo.wordpress.com/2008/06/24/um-preguicoso-inteligente-e-alguem-que-reflectiu-acerca-do-mundo-em-que-vive/

Albert Cossery [1913 - 2008]

Morreu. Lá fora. Nos livros, continuará a existir. Mas que maltrapilho, este mandrião. Mendigos e Altivos, Os Homens Esquecidos de Deus (escrevi sobre ele aqui) e Conversas com Albert Cossery são os 3 livros que já vivem em mim. Os restantes, editados pela Antígona, serão lidos ao longo da vida. Sim, porque este estupor preguiçoso só escreveu 8 livros. Não o quero ler de uma vez só, mas aos poucochinhos e preguiçosamente. Porque me ensinaste isso, Voltaire do Nilo.

Morreu Albert Cossery. Escritor francês de origem egípcia. Morreu com 95 anos dedicados quase na totalidade à preguiça. Mas uma preguiça muito especial. Muito difícil de compreender.

Cossery só escreveu 8 livros em toda a sua vida. Poucos tendo em conta que a sua vida durou 95 anos.

A filosofia pessoal de Cossery é bastante simples. Mas não simplista. Existe o Bem e o existe o Mal.

O Bem é a preguiça, a reflexividade, a calma interior.

O Mal é o trabalho. Não o trabalho por si só, mas o trabalho encarado apenas como a única coisa que existe na vida, a corrida para o trabalho, a agitação das pessoas parecidas a armários com pernas correndo desesperadamente para a frente como galinhas sem cabeça, convencidas que tem algum objectivo diferente do que apenas correr para a frente. E depois morrer a correr para a frente.

Cossery viveu desde 1945 em Paris num quarto de hotel. É egípcio de nascimento. Não ambicionava possuir uma bela casa ou um potente carro. Não viajava. Quase nunca saia de França ou até mesmo de Paris.

Apenas saia de dia para a rua e observava o movimento das pessoas e reflectia sobre isso. Para simbolizar a sua ideia de preguiça reflexiva Cossery decidiu apenas escrever uma linha por dia, relacionada com cada livro que escrevia. Daí,evidentemente, apenas ter escrito 8 livros desde 1945 em diante. Um livro a cada 8 anos.

Escrevia apenas para afirmar a presença de si próprio no Planeta, na terra. Nas suas histórias não há história, argumento, guião. Existe apenas um acidente (um assassinato, um prédio que cai, uma situação num bordel…) que gera o resto da narrativa e gera as personagens.

E as personagens de Cossery são qualquer coisa de muito especial. Como são qualquer coisa de especial, e Cossery situa-as no Egipto, são pessoas que conheceu, misturadas com escárnio e ironia. Quando se lê um livro de Cossery somos desafiados em todas as nossas certezas e percebemos que estamos a levar um soco no estômago, quer em relação às nossas próprias atitudes, quer em relação a atitudes que vemos nos outros.

Num livro de Cossery que tenho existem inúmeras (todas) personagens bizarras. Um delas é um funcionário público que quer fazer uma revolução. Nunca mais olhei para os funcionários públicos da mesma maneira nem para revolucionários após ter lido Cossery.

Existem bombistas anarquistas, prostitutas virgens, chefes de polícia corruptos, funcionários públicos candidatos a revolucionários, mendigos, prostitutas, transeuntes irónicos, pequenos burgueses desconfiados, candidatos a poeta, etc.

A desconstrução de Cossery não é feita usando a ideologia, não existe ideologia em Cossery. Apenas existe a qualidade da escrita do senhor, que era de tal forma elevada, que a maneira como o funcionário público revolucionário é retratado fazem imediatamente perceber que o que ali estava nada era.

E depois comparamos com o que vemos por aí. Este é um dos méritos de Cossery. Era irónico, caustico, observador, reflexivo. Tudo ao contrário do que a sociedade actual pede.

Cultivava as personagens do anti herói nos seus romances. Detestava os arrivistas, os candidatos a protagonistas heróicos. Tinha especial predilecção por escrever cenas de livros que se passavam em bordeis, onde o conjunto de personagens que lá se encontravam e os diálogos que travavam apenas nos deixam perplexos.

As personagens mais pobres ou afastadas da sociedade ocupavam um enorme lugar de destaque em Cossery, mas eram personagens sempre cheias de sentido de humor, ironia, escárnio e quase sempre optimistas.

Cito uma parte de uma entrevista em 1990.

“No Oriente, as pessoas não tem pressa, dispõem de tempo para reflectir. Olhe, qualquer pé descalço, no Egipto, precisamente por ter tempo para reflectir, saí-se com coisas formidáveis. Porque a vida é muito simples, e tudo é feito para que pareça complicada.As personagens que descrevo viviam assim, como as descrevo. A partir do momento em que uma pessoa não tem qualquer ambição de dinheiro,de orgulho, ou de poder, a vida torna-se de repente formidável. Há quarenta e cinco anos que estou em França e nada fiz para que os meus livros fossem traduzidos. Nunca dei um passo para o sucesso. São os editores que vem ter comigo”.

Cossery escrevia para que quem o lesse não fosse trabalhar no dia seguinte.

Aconselho para começar a Leitura do “Livro Mendigos e Altivos” – Editora Antígona. Um soco no estômago.

Não aconselho a pessoas muito novas, porque podem interpretar erradamente o que ali está.

]]> http://naturewriting.wordpress.com/2008/06/23/hommage-a-albert-cossery-decede-le-dimanche-22-juin-2008/ Mon, 23 Jun 2008 15:45:11 +0000 memoire2silence http://naturewriting.wordpress.com/2008/06/23/hommage-a-albert-cossery-decede-le-dimanche-22-juin-2008/

Deux citations pour vous donner envie de découvrir ou de relire : “Mendiants et orgueilleux” d’Albert Cossery, auteur égyptien habitant dans un hôtel à Paris depuis 1945 et disparu un dimanche, jour symbolique, jour de repos, lui qui aimait tant la paresse…

L’esprit :

“Gohar vivait dans la plus stricte économie de moyens matériels. La notion du plus élémentaire confort était depuis longtemps bannie de sa mémoire. Il détestait s’entourer d’objets ; les objets recélaient les germes latents de la misère, la pire de toutes, la misère inanimée ; celle qui engendre fatalement la mélancolie par sa présence sans issue. Non pas qu’il fût sensible aux apparences de la misère ; il ne reconnaissait à celle-ci aucune valeur tangible, elle demeurai toujours pour lui une abstraction.”

et

la manière et l’humour :

” Un peu plus loin, il sourit en voyant l’immanquable mendiant accroupi dans un coin habituel. C’était toujours le même rite qui se déroulait : chaque fois qu’il passait devant lui, Gohar n’avait pas d’argent ; alors il s’excusait, et une conversation, d’un intérêt savoureux, s’engageait entre eux. Gohar le connaissait depuis longtemps et appréciait sa compagnie. C’était un mendiant d’un genre assez spécial, en ce sens qu’il ne formulait aucune plainte et ne souffrait d’aucune infirmité. Au contraire, il resplendissait de santé, et sa galabieh intacte était presque propre. Il avait un regard perçant qui trahissait le mendiant professionnel apte à juger d’un seul coup son client. Gohar l’admirait de n’avoir même pas songé à sauvegarder les apparences. Dans la confusion générale, personne ne semblait attacher de l’importance à son état de mendiant sain et florissant. Parmi tant d’absurdités réelles, le fait de mendier paraissait un travail comme un autre, le seul travail raisonnable d’ailleurs. Il occupait toujours la même place, avec la même dignité qu’un fonctionnaire derrière son bureau. Les gens lui jetaient une obole en passant. Parfois, il interpelait le donateur : il venait de tomber sur une pièce fausse. Alors commençaient d’interminables palabres, où les injures avaient le poids de l’éternité. Il parlait d’appeler la police. Cela finissait toujours à son avantage.

Gohar s’arrêta pour le saluer.

_ Salut sur toi, dit le mendiant. Je te voyais venir de loin ; je t’attendais.

_ Je m’excuse, dit Gohar. Je n’ai pas d’argent ; ce sera la prochaine fois.

_ Qui t’a dit que je voulais de l’argent ?

_ Pourquoi pas ? Je pourrais croire que tu me dédaignes.

_ Loin de moi cette pensée, protesta le mendiant? Ta seule vue m’enchante ; j’aime bavarder avec toi. Tu vaux plus par ta présence que tous les trésors de la terre.

_ Tu me flattes, dit Goher. Les affaires vont bien ?

-Dieu est grand ! Répondit le mendiant. Mais qu’importe les affaires. Il y a tant de joies dans l’existence. Tu ne connais pas l’histoire des élections ?

_ Non, je ne lis jamais les journaux ?

_ Celle-là n’était pas dans les journaux. C’est quelqu’un qui me l’a racontée.

_ Alors je t’écoute.

_ Et bien ! Cela s’est passé il y a quelque temps dans un petit village de Basse-Egypte, pendant les élections pour le maire. Quand les employés du gouvernement ouvrirent les urnes, ils s’aperçurent que la majorité des bulletins de vote portaient le nom de Barghout. Les employés du gouvernement ne connaissaient pas ce nom-là ; il n’était sur la liste d’aucun parti. Affolés, ils allèrent aux renseignements et furent sidérés d’apprendre que Barghout était le nom d’un âne très estimé pour sa sagesse dans tout le village. Presque tous les habitants avaient voté pour lui. Qu’est-ce que tu penses de cette histoire ?

Gohar respira avec allégresse ; il était ravi. “Ils sont ignorants et illettrés, pensa-t-il, pourtant ils viennent de faire la chose la plus intelligente que le monde ait connue depuis qu’il y a des élections.” Le comportement de ces paysans perdus au fond de leur village était le témoignage réconfortant sans lequel la vie deviendrait impossible. Gohar était anéanti d’admiration. La nature de sa joie était si pénétrante qu’il resta un moment épouvanté à regarder le mendiant. Un milan vint se poser sur la chaussée, à quelques pas d’eux, fureta du bec à la recherche de quelque pourriture, ne trouva rien et reprit son vol.

_ Admirable ! s’exclama Gohar. Et comment se termine l’histoire ?

_ Certainement, il ne fut pas élu. Tu penses bien, un âne à quatre pattes ! Ce qu’ils voulaient, en haut lieu, c’était un âne à deux pattes.

_ Pour une histoire aussi merveilleuse, tu mérites vraiment quelque chose. Tu as réjoui mon cœur. Que puis-je faire pour toi ?

_ Ton amitié me suffit, dit le mendiant. Je savais d’avance que tu apprécierais.

_ Tu me combles d’honneur, dit Gohar. A un de ces jours, j’espère. “

[Mendiants et orgueilleux (1955) / Albert Cossery. - in Oeuvres complètes : tome . - éd. Joëlle Losfeld, 2005]

Silence

Pour en savoir plus :

Les livres de Cossery ont été réunis en 2 tomes chez l’excellente maison d’édition de Joëlle Losfeld. L’énumération des titres des romans et recueils de nouvelles d’ A. C. donnent envie de les lire :

Mendiants et orgueilleux (1955)

Les hommes oubliés de Dieu (1941)

La maison de la mort certaine (1944)

Un complot de saltimbanques (1948)

Les fainéants de la vallée fertile (1964)

La violence et la dérision (1984)

Les couleurs de l’infamie (1999)

Peu de livres en définitive… par un contemplatif cynique…

un peu à la manière d’un autre, un même, un pareil, aux initiales semblables A.C., Albert Cohen, et dont l’esprit cynique des personnages (les oncles de Solal) et la jubilation constante permettent de rapprocher les œuvres de ces deux géants solitaires.

Vous pourrez lire gratuitement, encore pendant quelques jours, l’article hommage paru ce jour dans Libération:  ” Cossery, la dernière sieste par Christophe Ayad“

La notice bibliographique de Wikipedia, l’encyclopédie collaborative.

et ce jeune homme de 94 ans avait un MySpace !

Pour commander les livres : votre libraire local ou une librairie en ligne nommée bibliosurf...

Um idiota preguiçoso continua sempre a ser um idiota! E um preguiçoso inteligente é alguém que reflectiu acerca do mundo em que vive. Não se trata, pois, de preguiça. É tempo de reflexão. E quanto mais preguiçoso fores, mais tempo tens para reflectir. E é por isso que, no oriente, isso se designa por filosofia oriental…A maior parte das pessoas tem tempo. Quanto mais se desce para sul, mais encontramos profetas, magos, pessoas que reflectiram sobre o mundo.

hoje há menos um motivo para sorrir.