(In ascolto: Comme moi – Edith Piaf)

A proposito di Parigi

Leggevo il diario di viaggio di un mio amico, Alessio, che sta trascorrendo qualche giorno in quel di Parigi. E mi sono ritrovato in queste sue parole, che ben rispecchiano quelle che furono anche le mie prime impressioni sulla città:

Sono qui solo da due giorni, e domani torno a casa, troppo poco il tempo trascorso qui per dare giudizi. Al primo impatto, però, questa città mi appare eccezionale.
Tutto grande, tutto gigantesco, eppure il solito aspetto confusionario delle grandi metropoli qui non si percepisce. Capisco chi ama questa città, e capisco chi decide di rimanerci dopo esserci stato una volta soltanto.

Nulla di più vero, pensavo. E’ un’infatuazione che non ha mai fine, Parigi.
Le volte che ci sono stato ho avuto sotto gli occhi il posto dove poter realizzare quel tipo di felicità che sembra esistere solo nei libri e in qualche rapido scorcio di vita.

In questi giorni, tra l’altro, sto leggendo “Le illusioni perdute” di Balzac, e quando ho incontrato questo paragrafo, non ho potuto fare a meno che sottolinearlo per bene. Per cui lo riporto per intero:

Questa è la città degli scrittori, dei pensatori, dei poeti. Qui solamente si coltiva la gloria, e io conosco le belle messi che essa oggi produce. Solo qui gli scrittori possono trovare, nei musei e nelle gallerie, le opere viventi dei geni del tempo passato, quelle opere che riscaldano l’immaginazione e la stimolano. Solo qui immense biblioteche sempre aperte offrono all’intelletto l’alimento di cui hanno bisogno. Infine, a Parigi c’è nell’aria e nelle più piccole cose un’essenza che si respira e che si imprime nelle creazioni letterarie. Si apprendono più cose conversando mezz’ora al caffè o al teatro di quante non se ne apprendano in dieci anni di provincia. Qui, veramente, tutto è spettacolo, confronto e istruzione. [...] Ecco Parigi; la città dove ogni ape trova la sua cella, dove ogni anima assimila ciò che le è proprio.

E nelle orecchie, questa canzone:

«    – Ouais… c’est vrai à c’qu’il paraît…

-       Oui, il était à Berlin le 9 novembre 89…

-       Enhhh !!! 

-       Et il a ramené une tasse Ampleman !

-       Euuuuuh ! »

« Si j’étais né en 1950, j’aurais été pacifiste, j’aurais porté des pantalons patt d’éph et j’aurais fait mai 68 ! Quelle misère, regarde l’allure que j’ai… »

Kadınlar kendilerini sevenler için değil, onlara hükmedenler için can verirler. H.EDİP ADIVAR

Kadın, her şeyi gören gözü bile aldatır. DOSTOYEVSKİ

Kadını sev, koru, güven ve tatlı sert ol. Senin kölen olur.CİEN

Bir uygarlığın seviyesini ölçmek isterseniz, derhal kadının hayat şartlarına bakın. STUART MILL

Güzel sözlerle, iltifatlarla kandıramayacağın kadın yoktur. Yeter ki bunları inanarak yap ve sadece biri için yap. CİEN

Krallar gibi kadınlar da kendileri için yapılan her şeyin esasen bir borç teşkil ettiğine inanırlar. BALZAC

Kadın her şeyi affeder fakat asla unutmaz. CONFICIUS

Erkeklere sevgilerini söyleyen kadınlar en az seven kadınlardır. SHAKESPEARE

Kadını güzel yapan Allah, sevimli yapan şeytandır. VICTOR HUGO

Bir kadının güzelliği, ancak sevmeye başladığı zaman meydana çıkar. LA BRUYERE

Kadın kocasının, delikanlılıkta sevgilisi, olgun çağda arkadaşı, ihtiyarlıkta da hasta bakıcısıdır. BACON

İnsan gerçekten bir kadını severse, onun gözünde dünyadaki bütün öteki kadınlar kesin olarak manasını kaybeder. OSCAR WILDE

Kadın, insanın gölgesi gibidir; kovalarsanız kaçar, kaçarsanız kovalar. CHAMFORT

Kadınlarda feci olan şey, ne onlarla ne de onlarsız yaşanabilmesidir. Bir kadın için güzelliksiz gençlik veya gençliksiz güzellik işe yaramaz. LA ROCHEFOUCAULD

Kadın ilk öpücükte neler kazanacağını bilemez, ama son öpücükte neler kaybettiğini bilir. BALZAC

Il y a deux Histoires: l’Histoire officielle, menteuse, qu’on enseigne, l’Histoire ad usum delphini; puis l’histoire secrète, où sont les véritables causes des événements, une Histoire honteuse.

Es gibt zwei Geschichten: Da ist die offizielle, verlogene Geschichte, die man lehrt. Eine Geschichte zur Genugtuung des Zensors. Und dann gibt es die verborgene Geschichte, welche die wahren Gründe der Ereignisse birgt, eine Geschichte voll von Scham und Schande.

(Meine Übersetzung)

(Quelle: Wikisource)

“Después de bastante búsqueda – escribe el francés Teófilo Gautier – por fin encontré una mesa redonda en la calle del Caballero de Gracia, donde uno podía tomar una comida muy agradable por el razonable precio de 20 reales por día. El dueño era un francés grueso, con un vivo y alegre semblante y cuya buena disposición mantuvo favorablemente el humor en la casa”. Estamos en 1840, como dice la placa de este portal numero 21, a espaldas de la Gran Vía. El tiempo de Madrid ha saltado de pronto desde el XlX al XXl  y leo que “en torno a este lugar” se hospedó Gautier, en la llamada Fonda de la Amistad. Calle de muchas y buenas fondas, como cuenta Mesonero Romanos en su “Manual de Madrid“. Sobre todo, “la Gran Cruz de Malta“, a la que cita. Y Répide, en sus “Calles de Madrid“, alude a ésta de la Cruz de Malta, ”de lujo” – dice- y a otra más modesta, la “Hostería del Caballo Blanco“.  Cerca de aquí estaba -recuerda Répide – el primer circo que hubo en Madrid, el Circo Olímpico, de M. Avrillon, que se trasladó desde el barracón que aquí ocupaba a un local junto a la Casa de las Siete Chimeneas. Pero quien describe algo del interior de esa “Fonda de la Amistad” es Philip Henry Stanhope-  tal como recoge Peter Besas en su “Historia de las Fondas madrileñas” (La Librería) : ” tenemos la suerte – dice el forastero - de estar donde estamos, de contar con una planta grande y aireada donde además de disfrutar de un amplio cuarto de estar sin chimenea, hay también un cómodo salón con una buena chimenea francesa”.

Al parecer, Teófilo Gautier se hospedó aquí desde el 22 de mayo al 26 de junio de 1840, y pocos meses después – del 3 de octubre al 11 de febrero de 1841 -estaría de huesped el citado Stanhope. Cinco años antes Gautier había conocido a Balzac y Gautier contaría luego en un interesante estudio la gran amistad que a los dos les unió. “No puedo ni leer ni escribir” le envió Balzac  a Gautier una sola línea en 1850, pocos días antes de su muerte.

Hago la fotografía de este portal y me llevo conmigo los recuerdos.

(Imágenes: 1.-Lugar donde, al parecer, estaba situada “La Fonda de la Amistad”.-foto JJP/.-Teófilo Gautier.-librarything.es)

As the company preps for Cousin Bette rehearsals to begin next weekend, a few words of inspiration on the artistic process from Balzac:

“Constant labour is the law of art as well as the law of life, for art is the creative activity of the mind. And so great artists, true poets, do not wait for either commissions or clients; they create today, tomorrow, ceaselessly. And there results a habit of toil, a perpetual consciousness of the difficulties, that keeps them in a state of marriage with the Muse, and her creative forces.”

Jean Pierre Treiber a été retrouvé dans un appartement d’Amiens déguisé en Mme Nourrisson.

« En apparence vieille bigote myope adorant coudre au coin de la cheminée, vous êtes le soir venu meneuse de revue au Hot night club sous le nom de « Paquita ». Votre témoignage nous intéresse. »

La Prague sebaldienne ne saurait être embrassée d’un seul article. Petit parcours provisoire dans quelques hauts-lieux de la ville natale de Jacques Austerlitz.

Austerlitz, p.181

«  Et c’est ainsi qu’à peine arrivé à Prague j’ai retrouvé le lieu de ma première enfance, dont, autant que je puisse le savoir, toute trace était effacée de ma mémoire. Déjà, quand je parcourus le dédale des ruelles, que je traversai les cours des immeubles entre la Vlasska et la Nerudova, et surtout remontai pas à pas la colline en sentant sous mes pieds les pavés disjoints de la Sporkova, j’eus l’impression que j’avais autrefois emprunté ces chemins, que la mémoire me revenait non en faisant un effort de réflexion mais parce qu’à présent mes sens, qui avaient été si longtemps anesthésiés, à nouveau s’éveillaient. Je ne reconnaissais rien avec certitude mais néanmoins en maint endroit j’étais contraint de m’arrêter car mon regard était retenu par la belle grille forgée d’une fenêtre, la poignée de fer d’une sonnette ou les branches d’un petit amandier dépassant d’un mur de jardin.(…) Et puis cette fraîcheur en pénétrant dans le hall du 12 de la Sporkova, et à l’entrée la boîte de tôle encastrée dans le mur pour le compteur électrique, avec le symbole de l’éclair qui foudroie, et la fleur de mosaïque à huit pétales, gris pigeon et blanche, sur le sol moucheté en pierre reconstituée du hall, et l’odeur de calcaire humide, et l’escalier en pente douce, et les voutons de fer en forme de noisettes se répétant à intervalles réguliers sous la main courante de la rampe, autant de lettres et de signes tirés de la casses des choses oubliées, me dis-je, et j’en éprouvais une telle confusion, un mélange à la fois de bonheur et d’angoisse, que je dus plus d’une fois m’asseoir sur les marches de l’escalier silencieux et appuyer ma tête contre le mur. »

(Actes Sud, traduction Patrick Charbonneau)

Et d’abord l’immeuble familial. Ou plutôt le « côté de la mère », Agata, sur le « Petit côté » (Mala Strana) de la ville, si l’on veut bien admettre que la dernière adresse connue de Maximilian Austerlitz (le 5 rue des Cinq Diamants) fait du XIIIème arrondissement de Paris le « côté du père ».

Sur les conseils de l’archiviste Tereza Ambrosova, Jacques Austerlitz se rend d’emblée à la bonne adresse, parmi les quelques unes ayant abrité un Austerlitz entre 1934 et 1939.

Il s’épargne ainsi, en quelques lignes, les recherches d’un personnage de Nabokov qui, en quête de la dernière maîtresse de son frère, le grand écrivain Sebastian Knight, doit visiter plusieurs appartements, à Paris et Berlin. On sait que Sebald admirait beaucoup Nabokov, qu’il évoque parfois explicitement, et je ne peux m’empêcher de penser à son merveilleux roman, La Vraie vie de Sebastian Knight, le premier qu’il ait écrit en anglais, quand je lis ce passage d’Austerlitz (et inversement). Là où Nabokov se plait à balader son narrateur et son lecteur, Sebald semble avoir un malin plaisir à court-circuiter ce qui pouvait apparaître comme une passionnante enquête dans les rues de Prague.

L’autre guide, plus évident et plus explicitement désigné encore, est celui de la Recherche. Austerlitz retrouve dans la rue Sporkova les pavés disjoints qui manquent de faire trébucher Marcel, à Venise et dans la cour de l’Hôtel de Guermantes:

Le Temps retrouvé, p. 173-17 (Folio)

« En roulant les tristes pensées que je disais il y a un instant, j’étais entré dans la cour de l’Hôtel de Guermantes et dans ma distraction je n’avais pas vu une voiture qui s’avançait; au cri du wattman je n’eus que le temps de me ranger vivement de côté, et je reculai assez pour buter malgré moi contre les pavés assez mal équarris derrière lesquels était une remise. Mais au moment où, me remettant d’aplomb, je posai mon pied sur un pavé qui était un peu moins élevé que le précédent, tout mon découragement s’évanouit devant la même félicité qu’à diverses époques de ma vie m’avaient donnée la vue d’arbres que j’avais cru reconnaître dans une promenade en voiture autour de Balbec, la vue des clochers de Martinville, la saveur d’une madeleine trempée dans une infusion, tant d’autres sensations dont j’ai parlé et que les dernières oeuvres de Vinteuil m’avaient paru synthétiser. (…)

Et presque tout de suite je la reconnus, c’était Venise, dont mes efforts pour la décrire et les prétendus instantanés pris par ma mémoire ne m’avaient jamais rien dit et que la sensation que j’avais ressentie jadis sur deux dalles inégales du baptistère de Saint-Marc m’avaient rendue avec toutes les autres les sensations jointe ce jour-là à cette sensation-là, et qui étaient restées dans l’attente, à leur rang, d’où un brusque hasard les avait impérieusement faits sortir, dans la série des jours oubliés. »

A première vue il semblerait que Sebald ne se soit pas contenté de mettre son héros (appelons-le ainsi) sur la bonne voie, mais lui ait aussi offert – et à lui-même, et à son lecteur qu’il imaginait sans doute lecteur de Proust – la « félicité » qu’apporte la reconnaissance d’abord involontaire et informulée (la madeleine du Côté de chez Swann), clairement identifiée ensuite (les pavés du Temps retrouvé), de deux moments de vie; cette reconnaissance qui semble arrêter le temps et faire entrer dans l’éternité.

Ce n’est pourtant pas une telle épiphanie qu’il est donné à Austerlitz de vivre, ou du moins elle est incomplète. Agata Austerlitzova n’est plus, et le récit introduit chez la nourrice Vera Rysanova, de l’autre côté du palier. Sur le seuil de l’appartement du dernier étage, à droite, ils tombent dans les bras l’un de l’autre, dans un moment magique et très « dix-neuvième siècle».

Sous le haut patronage de Balzac, dont les volumes de la Comédie humaine au grand complet occupent une étagère entière d’un salon hors du temps, sous le regard d’un Pierrot de porcelaine accompagné de “sa chère Colombine”(p.184), Vera entame en français puis en tchèque (p.186) le récit des années 1934 (naissance de Jacques)-1939 (départ de Jacques (p.218))-1941 (déportation de la mère à Terezin (p.211))-1944 (déportation à Auschwitz (p.243)). La prose sebaldienne y prend au passage une épaisseur nouvelle et toute bernhardienne, puisque dans cette histoire l’ensemble du passage est relaté par Austerlitz au narrateur un soir de décembre 1997, et couché par écrit encore un peu plus tard, par ce même narrateur. La confession a lieu en plusieurs temps: trois jours d’abord, avant le départ d’Austerlitz pour Terezin, puis une dernière journée dans la pénombre de l’appartement, qui ouvre le récit par Austerlitz de l’épisode Marienbad (244-258), avant le retour à Londres par l’Allemagne (p.242). Le salon de Vera devient de fait une véritable machine à remonter le temps perdu et à voyager, qui n’est pas sans rappeler le petit salon du dernier volume de la Recherche et sa petite bibliothèque « aristocratique ».

De l’appartement familial on apprend finalement peu de choses, même s’il est difficile de l’imaginer très différent de celui de Vera (de même qu’il est difficile de ne pas voir en elle, à l’époque même de son enfance, plus qu’une nourrice). On sait qu’il est pillé par les nazis (p.211) et que les vêtements, bijoux, oeuvres d’art rejoignent la masse des objets volés pendant la guerre et entreposés ici ou là en Europe (près des fondations de la Bibliothèque Nationale de France par exemple).

Deux photographies en réchappent, cachées dans l’exemplaire du Colonel Chabert (celui qui survit au désastre de la guerre et revient de parmi les morts), dont l’une fut prise un mois avant l’entrée des Allemands dans Prague. On y voit, déguisé en page blanc, le jeune Austerlitz apprêté pour le bal masqué.

Le lecteur pénètre cependant un court moment dans la demeure d’Agata et de Maximilian. Les pièces sont visitées en un rêve étrange (p.220-221), comme il arrive parfois à certains lieux sebaldiens, au cours de quelques lignes où les parents, s’exprimant dans « l’énigmatique langage des sourds-muets », passent de pièce en pièce comme des étrangers sans prêter attention à leur fils.

Comme l’immeuble de la rue des Cinq-Diamants, le « côté de la mère » reste inaccessible, donnant à ce Temps retrouvé d’après la Shoah qu’a écrit Sebald sa dimension amère et tragique.

Images:

Photogramme: l’épisode des pavés vu par Raul Ruiz, Le Temps retrouvé

Nabokov par Jean Vong

Jacques-Emile Blanche, Portrait de Marcel Proust (1892)

Antoine-Jean Gros, Napoléon à Eylau (1807)

]]> http://alinagadoiu.wordpress.com/2009/11/11/citatul-zilei-51/ Wed, 11 Nov 2009 08:08:28 +0000 Alina Gâdoiu http://alinagadoiu.wordpress.com/2009/11/11/citatul-zilei-51/ http://terminallaughter.wordpress.com/2009/11/10/why-yes-i-am-suffering-%e2%80%93-from-dia-read-a/ Tue, 10 Nov 2009 20:20:24 +0000 edddddd http://terminallaughter.wordpress.com/2009/11/10/why-yes-i-am-suffering-%e2%80%93-from-dia-read-a/

What’s that?  Yes, I was just in the lavatory.  Why?

What are you laughing about?  What is so funny, I ask you?

Oh, please.  Must we be so juvenile?

Come off it, Horace.  We’re grown adults, the two of us.  And, if you must keep on the subject, be aware that it’s done wonders for me.  I love it.

Oh, now I’ve gotten your attention, have I?  Yes, you heard correctly – I love this “diarrhoea”, as you so uncouthly refer to it.

For a multitude of reasons, thank you!

Happily!  One, my… my weight is down!  All that pheasant from Epiphany is just melting away!  Two, though I may not have the science to defend the claim, my tract will have never been cleaner by the end of this.  And three, I am proud to say that thanks to this blessed intestinal blight, my reading has increased exponentially.

Nonsense – not mere magazines!  Given the length and frequency of my, shall I say, vacations, I’ve moved on to grittier stuff.  The classics!  Introductions, appendices, footnotes and all!  The words and wisdom of the wits of the ages – all for the low price of several days of decreased productivity and a few hasty exits?

Well, if you want to bring that up, then yes.  The bus’ chauffeur really oughtn’t have reacted so – children were present.

Regardless, if our waiter at Three Amigos had told me that my Carne Kaboom was going to have me grappling with eighteen horrible poops a day, of course I would have sent it back.  But if he had set down our complimentary tortilla chips, given us our water, and told me they had a special on a ground beef and jalapeno dish that would have me halfway through the complete Balzac in half a week’s time, why, I’d have ordered seconds!

Oh, act not so high and mighty.  What is that, a Harper’s?  Yes, I suppose that’s all you really have the time for, what with your busy schedule and sedate, zen-like innards.  I imagine you could barely finish the Index before having to go do some manner of thing or, God forbid, take another pedestrian urination.

Why, oftentimes, I find myself lamenting that the diarrhoea isn’t chronic enough!  So compelling are the travails of de Rastignac that I pray, ‘pon my knees, for but another fest’ring morsel!  Yet another bar to keep my in such a benevolent cell!

Of course not literally ‘pon my knees, Horace.  I have diarrhoea.  I’ll be sitting down.  Bettering myself.  Like young John Stuart Mill, with his famously scholastic upbringing and legendarily fatty diet, I…

Yes, I imagine a simple mind would react suchly.  Said ‘lower functions,’ to paraphrase your brusquery, are entirely subservient to higher learning.  Much as I’d love to stay and educate you further, I regret – though absolutely not – that le comedie humaine is due to resume any second now.  I bid you adieu – until next time, simple Horace!  Until we meet again, ignorant living room!

…oh, and we need a plunger.

…childish, Horace.  Just childish.

« Bien, bien… Plus voûté, peut-être… et le regard, plus sournois, ouais, tu l’as, génial !  On tourne »

« Allo, j’tentends pas bien, Honoré, ça capte pas trop… quoi ? On est « en apparence indolentes, à demi couchées sur le divan »… Oh, là, faible ta description, Honoré, faible… »

The Wild Ass’s Skin is the weirdest novel by Balzac I’ve read to-date.  It was his second major novel in his vast Human Comedy, and it features several characters who reappear later in the series, albeit not always in a consistent manner. In it, we have Balzac’s pseudo-science, fascination with magic, some romanticism such as I’ve never read in his work, the usual thrilling and cynical dissection of social structures, and sex portrayed with an abandon and explicitness from which he usually refrains.

The premise of the plot is magical:  A down on his luck, impoverished aristocrat, Raphael Valentin, looses his last coin gambling, and resolves on suicide.  To pass the time until an opportune moment arises, he visits a vast antiques shop and meets its strange proprietor.  He is shown a strange piece of leather, an ancient scrap of an ass’s skin, embossed with eastern script.  The skin has the power to grant him his every wish, but each time it does so, it shrinks, and with it, so does the lifespan of Valentin.  Another twist on the old theme of making a deal with the Devil.

The novel also has three parts, and they don’t seem to fit together all that seamlessly.  The first part describes Raphael’s coming into possession of the magical skin and his first orgy; the second is an extended flashback describing his impoverished life while he was in love with a completely heartless and drop-dead gorgeous society woman; and the third describes his agonizing descent to his inevitable end.

At one point, Valentin enlists the help of the greatest scientists in France to see if they can stretch the skin back to its original size, after he has grown fabulously wealthy by its power, and watched horrified as it diminished in size.  The great mechanical engineer gives a discourse on Pascal, motion, and hydrostatic pressure, and then watches stupefied as the skin resists the force of his engines and causes them to explode under the strain.

“Between each point in space occupied in succession by that ball,” continued the man of science, “there is an abyss confronting human reason, an abyss into which Pascal fell.

A chemist is nonplussed, and can find nothing to make the slightest change in the skin.  At a forge, in a scene that seems a combination of and Joseph Wright and John Martin, the men try to incinerate the hide, but it emerges from the flames cool and untouched.  The scientists have a laugh – the mysteries of the universe never end!  Raphael is not amused.  He visits some doctors to see if they can determine why his life force is ebbing away, but they just argue amongst themselves.

“What is the good of science?” Raphael moaned. “Here is my recovery halting between a string of beads and a rosary of leeches, between Dupuytren’s bistoury and Prince Hohenlohe’s prayer…Shall I live? They have no idea. Planchette [the engineer] was more straightforward with me, at any rate, when he said, ‘I do not know.‘”

When Raphael first takes possession of the skin, he wishes to be at a stupendous banquet and orgy – and then he sees the skin shudder and shrink a bit.  Next thing we know, he is whisked to a phenomenal debauch by two friends he stumbles upon in the street.  The tale is one of Balzac’s philosophical studies, and it dissects the psychology and practice of excess and orgies,  depicting them with great realism and in detail.

His chandeliers had been filled with wax-lights; the rarest flowers from his conservatory were carefully arranged about the room; the table sparkled with silver, gold, crystal, and porcelain; a royal banquet was spread–the odors of the tempting dishes tickled the nervous fibres of the palate. There sat his friends; he saw them among beautiful women in full evening dress, with bare necks and shoulders, with flowers in their hair; fair women of every type, with sparkling eyes, attractively and fancifully arrayed. One had adopted an Irish jacket, which displayed the alluring outlines of her form; one wore the “basquina” of Andalusia, with its wanton grace; here was a half-clad Dian the huntress, there the costume of Mlle. de laValliere, amorous and coy; and all of them alike were given up to the intoxication of the moment.

His only salvation from an early death is to arrange his life with mechanical regularity so that he need never give rise to an utterance of “I wish that…” and so never invoke the power of the skin.  He becomes a recluse.  His faithful servant, fearful that he is wasting away, and minding the doctor’s orders to “keep him interested…” arranges a special treat for him which he at first takes for one of his opiated dreams:

As Raphael’s death-pale face showed itself in the doorway, a sudden outcry broke out, as vehement as the blaze of this improvised banquet. The voices, perfumes, and lights, the exquisite beauty of the women, produced their effect upon his senses, and awakened his desires. Delightful music, from unseen players in the next room, drowned the excited tumult in a torrent of harmony–the whole strange vision was complete.

Raphael felt a caressing pressure on is own hand, a woman’s white, youthful arms were stretched out to grasp him, and the hand was Aquilina’s. He knew now that this scene was not a fantastic illusion like the fleeting pictures of his disordered dreams; he uttered a dreadful cry, slammed the door, and dealt his heartbroken old servant a blow in the face.

Contrasted with this infernal decadence, there is the scene he encounters when he flees to the mountains, searching for a serene resting place in which to live out his days without desires:

As Raphael reached the place, the sunlight fell across it from right to left, bringing out all the colors of its plants and trees; the yellowish or gray bases of the crags, the different shades of the green leaves, the masses of flowers, pink, blue, or white, the climbing plants with their bell-like blossoms, and the shot velvet of the mosses, the purple-tinted blooms of the heather,–everything was either brought into relief or made fairer yet by the enchantment of the light or by the contrasting shadows; and this was the case most of all with the sheet of water, wherein the house, the trees, the granite peaks, and the sky were all faithfully reflected. Everything had a radiance of its own in this delightful picture, from the sparkling mica-stone to the bleached tuft of grass hidden away in the soft shadows; the spotted cow with its glossy hide, the delicate water-plants that hung down over the pool like fringes in a nook whereblue or emerald colored insects were buzzing about, the roots of trees like a sand-besprinkled shock of hair above grotesque faces in the flinty rock surface,–all these things made a harmony for the eye.

Such a romantic, pastoral scene, so unlike Balzac’s usual settings of village interiors or urban apartments.  And in the two locales, he encompasses the twin extremes of Romanticism:  the diabolic, and the idyllic.

In the end, Raphael is united with Pauline, who loved him when he was poor, and now that he is rich, has herself come into a fortune.  They live together, planning to be married, and Balzac describes their lives together as one of erotic bliss, although Raphael is doomed.  When Pauline realizes Raphael’s situation, she resolves to kill herself so that they can die together:  there is a frenzied embrace, he bites her breast violently! – is it consummated? .. and they die.

Not surprising that Balzac loved the novel Melmoth the Wanderer.

Romain Gary

Ne Balzac gibi, “Tanrıdan sonra en çok insan yaratan kişi” unvanını almasına karşın, ölüm döşeğine düştüğünde bile hâlâ, “Daha yazacaklarım bitmemişti” diyen bir hayat arsızlığı; ne de Marcel Proust gibi, yedi ciltlik “Kayıp Zamanın İzinde” serisinin son noktasını koyduktan sonra, “Artık rahatça ölebilirim” diyen bir tevekküle sarılmış; ömrü boyunca yazdığı ilk ve son romanı “Çağımızın Kahramanı”nda ‘kahraman’ olarak tarif ettiği; çevresindeki bütün kadınları kendine aşık edip, hiçbirine, değil aşık olmak, en ufak bir sevgi ve merhamet dahi beslemeyen hastalıklı Peçorin’le, yalnızca çağı değil, çağın kahramanlarını da sorgulatmıştı insanlara Lermontov. Peçorin, ‘aşık olamayan’ biriydi ve bu haliyle ‘çağımızın kahramanı’ydı.

Çağ, şahsi zaaf ve yetersizliklerden ziyade, daha toplumsal, kitlesel hastalıklarla kirlenmeye başlayıp, kalabalıklar yine de yollarına ve ömürlerine kıytırık ‘kahramanlar’ atamakla cebelleşirken, Brecht haykırmıştı bu kez, halen pek dikkate alınmayan o muazzam reçeteyi: “Toplumca ihtiyacımız olan şey kahramanlar değil, kahramanlara ihtiyacı olmayan bir toplumdur olsa olsa.”

Gabriel Garcia Marquez’in, yazın yolculuğunu noktaladığı ve tüm okurlarına bir dilim çikolatalı pasta gibi sunarken, bana, tamamen özel bir servisle ikram ettiğini duyumsatan, 29 Ağustos doğumlu yaşlı kahramanıyla başucuma yerleşen, “Benim Hüzünlü Orospularım” kitabından sonra, tamamen şahsi nedenlerle başucu kitaplığımın ikinci sırasına yerleşmiş; “Bu kitabı sizin için yazdım Emre bey” sözüyle biten, Murathan Mungan’ın “Yüksek Topuklar” romanının, benim gözümde Emre’den sonraki en “cool” karakteri olan ve sanki, Mungan’ın, yüzünü ardına saklayarak seslendirdiği eşcinsel yazar Selim’in, “Hiç kimse kendi çağının kahramanı değildir” sözü ise, bu yazıya asıl ilham veren teşhistir; tam da yüzden, başınız fena halde beladadır!

* * *

O güne kadar izi bile görülmemiş Emile Ajar adında bir yazarın ilk romanı olan ve romandan ziyade uzun bir hikâyeyi andıran; henüz 5 yaşındaki Momo’nun dilinden anlatılan “Onca Yoksulluk Varken”in namı, kısa bir süre sonra Fransa sınırlarını aşıyor ve literatüre evvelâ, “kayıp yazar” özelliğiyle kaydoluyordu. Evet, Emile Ajar, kayıptı. Bir kişi dışında (o da mektup vasıtasıyla) hiç kimseye röportaj vermemiş, olumlu-olumsuz tüm eleştirileri yanıtsız bırakmıştı. Ama Ajar, Romain Gary’nin o dönem, “Fransız edebiyatının en büyük yazarı” olduğunu savunanlara karşıt tüm “eleştirmen”lerce, “asıl ve asil yetenek abidesi” ilan ediliyor, lâkin bunu da, tıpkı kötü niyetli saldırıları ve dedikoduları olduğu gibi, hiç umursamıyordu. Gary ise, “kendisinden daha büyük bir yetenek ve dehaya sahip” olarak kabul edilen Ajar hakkında, “Değerli eleştirmenlerimizin takdiri bu yöndeyse, üzerine söz söylemek benim haddim değildir” demekle yetiniyor, tevazuuyla yalnızca hayranlarını değil, karşıtlarını da büyülüyordu. Fransız edebiyat çevreleri şimdi, iki farklı kutba ayrılıyordu. Bir yanda Romain Gary, diğer yanda ise, Emile Ajar müritleri. Bir yazarı her şeyiyle sahiplenen, diğerini insafsız bir aptallıkla reddediyordu. Emile Ajar kayıptı, Gary ise acı acı gülüyordu.

* * *

Emile Ajar, ilk romanının ardından kendisiyle ilgili olarak, tamamen kurgulanmış bir başka Emile Ajar daha yaratmış çevreleri hiç de “ince” sayılamayacak kadar sert bir üslupla eleştiren “Yalan Roman”ı, “Onca Yoksulluk Varken”den sadece bir yıl sonra yayınladığında; Romain Gary, “kısa süre sonra çıkaracağı romanın çalışmalarını sürdürdüğünü” açıklamıştı. Ajar’ın romanından bir yıl sonra da, 1977’de, Gary’nin “Kadının Işığı” geldi. Şimdi artık rekabet, böyle uzaktan bir atışma gibi sürecek, önce Ajar sözünü söyleyecek, herkes onun romanlarına hücum edecek, ardından Gary’nin mürekkebi vitrinlere dökülecekti.

1979’da “Kral Solomon’un Bunalımı”yla üçüncü adımını attı Ajar. 1980 yılında yayınladığı “Uçurtmalar”la “müritlerinin” sayısını biraz daha arttıran Gary ise o yıl, bu romanıyla değil, intiharıyla konuşulacaktı. Ajar, “Solomon’un Bunalımı”yla sabahlarken, Gary, kendi bunalımının çemberini yaramamış, 2 Aralık 1980 günü Paris’te, tabancasını şakağına dayamayı tercih etmişti. Bütün dünyada büyük yankı uyandıran intiharın ardından olay yerine gidenlerin teşhis ettikleri cesette gördükleri şey ise, intihardan önce Gary tarafından yazılmış mektupta yer alan, “Çok eğlendim, teşekkür ederim. Hoşçakalın” sözünden çok daha derin, anlamlı ve anlamsızdı. İntihar ederek hayatına son veren yalnızca Romain Gary değil, aynı zamanda Emile Ajar’dı.

Kendi şakağına dayadığı tabancadan çok daha öldürücü hamlelerle üzerine çevrilmiş, sözde eleştiri kalemlerinin sivriliğine, kesinlikle daha sivri olmayan bir yöntemle yanıt verip, kendinden bir başka adam daha yaratmıştı; şimdi dünya edebiyatının en önemli isimlerinden biri, daha doğrusu ikisi (!) olarak anılan ROMAIN GARY. Üstelik bu yöntemle, kendi düşmanlarını bile kendisine tapar hale getirmiş ve Fransa’daki her yazarın sadece bir kere alma hakkı bulunan Goncourt Edebiyat Ödülü’nü, iki kere elde etmişti.

Oysa Romain Gary bile tüm bu özellikleriyle, “kendi çağının kahramanı” değildi. Ölümü, belki de bu gerçeğin en soğuk göstergesiydi.

* * *

Bazen ödeyemediği, bazen ödemek istemediği için borçları gün be gün biriken Balzac, “soylu” çevrelere girmeye çalışırken, sürekli kaçmak zorunda kaldığı için adres değiştirdiği zamanlarda onu kovalamaktan bitap düşmüş alacaklılarının bilmediği şuydu: Onlar, “bir” kişinin peşinde değillerdi. Romain Gary’yi acımasızca eleştirirken, Emile Ajar’ı göklere çıkaranların da, “bir” kişi olarak başedemeyecekleri deha ve yeteneklerin sahipleri olan sanatçılar, özellikle de yazarlar; ömürleri boyunca “kahramanı” olamadıkları çağlarından çok daha ötesine uzanarak isimlerini kazımayı başardılar yeryüzüne.

Oysa karşılarındakiler, tanınmıyorlar bile.

Orhan Veli’nin “hayasızlığının yüzüne tükürmeye” davet edildi bu ülkede de insanlar, kimi kılavuz boku yemiş “yazarlar” ve “eleştirmenler” tarafından. Can Yücel için, “şair değil, küfürbazın teki” denildi; Ece Ayhan, eşcinsel olduğu için kaymakamlıktan azledildi. Çetin Altan, “dönek” denilerek parmakla gösterildi. Nazım Hikmet, fotoğrafları “solcu” gazetelere basılarak, hedef ilan edildi. Orhan Pamuk, Elif Şafak linç edilmek istendi. Yaşar Kemal, işkence tezgâhlarından geçirildi. Neyzen Tevfik, açlık ve yoksullukla “terbiye” edildi. Sabahattin Ali, haince katledildi… ve daha niceleri…

Ama onlar, kendi çağlarının değil sadece; kirleri, kompleksleri, yetersizlikleri, zekâsızlıkları, vicdansızlıkları, ahlâksızlıkları, aşağılıklıklarıyla bütün çağları kirletenlere karşın, çiğ çağlarına ışık oldukları dünyanın, en esas kahramanları… Etrafınıza bakın hemen; parmakla gösterip, “kaka” dediğiniz bir yazar göreceksiniz. Ona bir daha bakın: çünkü o çağlar boyunca yaşayacak, siz, iziniz kalmaksızın çürüyüp gideceksiniz.

Çünkü, evet, “kimse kendi çağının kahramanı değildir”… sanatçılar hariç!

EMRE DURSUN
‘09, İstanbul

Resumen del argumento: “Un hombre joven pero cansado de la vida, le hacen un extraño regalo, es una piel de zapa con poderes mágicos. Con ella puede lograr todos susu deseos, pero cada vez que se cumple uno, la piel disminuye de tamaño. ha medida que la piel se reduce de tamaño, el protagonista va perdiendo energía física hasta enfermar gravemente.”

En  este largo proceso hasta llegar al final de la novela Balzac nos va describiendo magistralmente todos los sentimientos del protagonista. Sus ambiciones de riquezas, poder, mujeres, fama, en resumen todos los placeres de la vida. Pero a medida que estos deseos se cumplen su vida se va acortando y vive momentos de miedo y locura. Parece un cuento fantástico , y en cierta forma lo es,porque todo lo referente a los poderes de la piel es pura fantasía. Es tediosa de leer, pero expresa magistralmente todo lo que el protagonista desea disfrutar antes de su muerte,y lo que es capaz de hacer para conseguirlo.

Novela sicológica, realista muy descriptiva que presenta a la burguesía parisina con toda su crudeza.

Es una novela para leerla muy despacio y relajada. Estupenda para comentarla en el Club.Pero no dejo de reconocer que en muchas ocasiones se hace pesada u aburrida.

En resumen : Buen novela ,dificil de leer, pero merece la pena intentarlo.

    Pilar Lozano  “Club del Martes “

I’ve been reading rather a lot of Zola during the past few years, and it occurred to me that I’ve neglected Balzac. There are probably all sorts of arguments that rage for the superiority of one author over the other–Zola’s novels, such as Germinal, and L’Assommoir have that social conscience aspect, for example. And then again Nana is one of literature’s enduring courtesans. While all those considerations are noted, there’s just something about Balzac….

Balzac’s bon vivant spirit tends to seep through in his novels–even when he’s writing about the nasty side of human nature. The man had a lively sense of humour (at least I think he did), and perhaps that is what makes his novels so enjoyable. And so deciding that I’d neglected Balzac lately, I pulled Eugenie Grandet off the shelf.

Eugenie, the heroine of the tale, is the only daughter of Monsieur Grandet. Grandet, who married late in life, is now quite elderly. Grandet worked as a cooper, and after marrying the daughter of a wealthy lumber merchant, he cashed in on the French Revolution by buying “for a song, legally if not legitimately, the finest vineyards in the district, an old abbey and several small farms.”

When the tale begins, the Grandets live  far from Paris in their house in Saumur. No one knows just how wealthy Grandet is these days, but everyone speculates that he must have “a private treasure, a hiding place full of louis, and that every night he indulged in the ineffable joys afforded by the sight of a large mass of gold.”

Grandet is a miser, and like most misers he possesses an almost unearthly ability to manage and make money:

“Monsieur Grandet inspired, then, the deferential esteem that was rightfully owed to a man who never had any debts, who as a skilled cooper and winegrower, could estimate with the precision of an astronomer when he ought to manufacture a thousand barrels for his harvest or only five hundred, who never misjudged a speculation, who always had barrels to sell when a barrel was worth more than its contents, and who could store his vintage in his wine cellars and wait until he could sell it for two hundred francs a cask, when the smaller winegrowers had to sell theirs for a hundred. His famous vintage of 1811, judiciously stored and slowly sold, had brought in over two hundred and forty thousand francs. Financially speaking, there was something of both the tiger and the boa constrictor in Monsieur Grandet: he knew how to conceal himself, lie in wait, watch his prey for a long time and finally leap on it; then he would open the jaws of his purse, gulp down a bellyful of gold and placidly lie down like a snake digesting its prey , impassive, cold, methodical.”

If Grandet has a ‘greatest’ treasure, then it is his only child Eugenie. Since she is an heiress, she is considered a great catch, but in the provinces, there aren’t many eligible men considered worthy of her. There are two rivals for her hand–a judge, Monsieur Cruchot, and 23-year-old Adolphe des Grassins. Both families have their factions, their supporters and their allies, and most of the townspeople take considerable interest in the subject of Eugenie’s possible engagement. In a town where not much happens, everyone eagerly watches for any sign that the Cruchot family is favoured over the des Grassins and vice versa.

Meanwhile “older inhabitants of the region maintained that the Grandets were too shrewd to let the money go outside of the family,” and that Eugenie will most likely be married off to her cousin from Paris, the son of her father’s brother. And then one day that cousin, Charles Grandet, arrives unexpectedly.

Charles Grandet is an elegant, spoiled young fop. This is his first trip into the provinces, and so he travels and dresses to impress and “overawe the entire district with his opulence.” Charles struggles to align the stories of his uncle’s wealth with the reality of a cold, ill-lit, shabby house fashioned more like a fortress (complete with a vicious dog) than the country chateau of a wealthy gentleman. He’s not so much appalled as unable to comprehend how these long-lost relatives live. While Charles stares at the unfashionable Cruchots and the des Grassins through his monocle, Eugenie’s provincial suitors sense a formidable rival. But Eugenie is entranced by her cousin–she’s never seen such elegance, and when Charles’s visit is extended by tragic circumstance, Eugenie struggles to provide him with a few extras–such as a wax candle. For the first time in her life, Eugenie feels the shame of her father’s raging obsession with money, and in time Eugenie’s relationship with Charles leads to a rift between Eugenie and her father….

Old Grandet is a marvellous creation. As is so typical with Balzac characters, Grandet is sharply drawn and detailed in such a way that he comes to life. Balzac shows how Grandet’s miserliness is a character trait that enters into every aspect of his life. He keeps all the food under lock and key, meting out sugar cubes, and in one hilarious scene, Grandet instructs his faithful servant, Nanon to make crow soup. Grandet has even developed a manner to further his business interests, and using selective deafness and periodic stuttering, he simply wears people down.

Grandet’s obdurate obsession with money gradually destroys his relationships with his wife and daughter, and while he’s by no means an evil man, his horrible flaw and ruling characteristic is his avarice. As Professor Milton Crane notes in the novel’s introduction: “For Balzac it was not love but money that made the world go round,” and we certainly see that philosophy freely at work in Eugenie Grandet.

Crane also notes that Balzac conceived of La Comedie Humaine, “the device to describe and analyze all French society” in 1842. Eugenie Grandet was published in 1834 and after creating the idea of La Comedie Humaine, Balzac slotted Eugenie Grandet into the Scenes of Provincial Life section (one of seven sections that comprise La Comedie Humaine. Crane argues that there is “something unavoidably synthetic about Balzac’s scheme, which he endeavoured to superimpose on books that had obviously been written without thought of a Comedie Humaine.” At the same time, Crane acknowledges that Balzac may “have been feeling his way instinctively toward this plan throughout his career.” 

The novel is rife with Balzac’s rich sense of humour, and some of the very best moments take place when Charles first arrives at his uncle’s shabby home. Charles imagines that he’ll impress the locals with his Parisian ways, and he poses “putting his hand in his vest and looking off in the distance to imitate the pose given to Lord Byron by Chantrey.” Everyone except Eugenie and her mother are appalled by Charles for a range of reasons. To Grandet, Charles represents possibly the worst affront to a miser: a spendthrift who doesn’t understand the value of money, and he can’t get his nephew out of the house fast enough. Meanwhile Eugenie’s suitors, sensing a “common enemy” scramble into action, and Eugenie and her mother scrape together items they consider luxuries to offer to Charles. Of course, he doesn’t appreciate these humble offerings one bit, and he fails to grasp the cost to Eugenie.

Grandet’s house could very well feature as one of the novel’s characters. The house is freezing and ill-lit, and its walls yellowed and covered with grime. Grandet’s office is “walled-up” with only one entrance and its windows are covered by iron gratings. The banister is “worm-eaten,” the floors are covered with carpets made of rags, and the bed coverings are full of holes. Charles even begins to wonder if he’s in the right house.

Eugenie Grandet  isn’t the greatest Balzac heroine by any means. She’s acted upon in most instances, and while she maintains dignity and admirable integrity, ultimately she has learned some lessons from her father and some of her final transactions between Eugenie and Charles Grandet are delivered with the sort of cold unemotional delivery that remind me of Catherine in the Henry James novel, Washington Square.

Translated by Lowell Bair.

Nascida em Blumenau, em 22 de março de 1882, filha do comerciante e cônsul da Alemanha, Victor Gaertner, conviveu muito pouco com o pai, que veio a falecer quando ela tinha seis anos de idade.

Viajou em seguida para a Argentina, em visita à irmã que lá residia, permanecendo por vários meses. Retornando ao Brasil modificou radicalmente os seus hábitos e estilo de vida.
Do constante e assíduo contato com o público, preferiu refugiar-se no silêncio da sua propriedade, entre livros, animais, o grande jardim e o verde do parque nos fundos da casa. Suas relações de amizade estavam restritas a determinadas famílias.

Neste período Edith desenvolveu um grande apego aos animais, em especial os gatos. Quando algum deles morria eram enterrado, com direito a funeral e cortejo fúnebre, nos fundos de sua casa, onde hoje fica o único cemitério de gatos do mundo. Lá estão enterrados nove gatos: Pepito, Mirko, Bum, Peterle, Musch, Schnurr, Sittah, Putze e Mirl.

O lugar é lindo, pesado, solitário, desolador e extremamente humano. E estranho.

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