How Far Can You Go Into The Depths Of Despair by Tosh Berman

 

How Far Can You Go Into The Depths Of Despair by Tosh Berman

"Diary of A Foreigner in Paris" by Curzio Malaparte (NYRB)

This journal/diary is worth the reading for the purpose of Curzio Malaparte's habit of howling with the dogs in the middle of the night.  Malaparte had the talent to be in the right place with the correct people.  For one, he's a remarkable prose stylist.  And two, his observations of people around him are descriptive like a fine meal.  His comment on Camus is of great interest.  Camus had a dislike for Malaparte, what I suspect is due that he was once (or still?) a Fascist. Malaparte is sort of a Tom Ripley character who switches sides like one changes their overcoat.  His very nature and position in culture are one of a big question, but also such a fascinating character. 

"Left Bank: Art, Passion, and the Rebirth of Paris, 1940-50" by Agnès Poirier (Henry Holt & Company)

ISBN: 978-1-62779-024-6

I can almost resist everything, except, any books about the Left Bank during the 1940s to the late 1950s.  Generally, readers/culture addicts are seduced by images of Paris and its culture throughout the years.   In a way, it's the conceptual 'Disneyland' for those who don't live there, yet, keep track of its beauty through pictures, movies, and of course, literature.  I'm so much in tune to that world that I pretty much started up a press, TamTam Books, just focusing on the Paris post-war years, due that I love the literature as well as the figures that came out of that time, especially Boris Vian.    

There are many books on Paris that was published throughout the years, as well as memoirs, diaries, and biographies - so it's not an obscure subject matter by any means.  But it wasn't until recently one hears the name Boris Vian in English reading books on the Existentialist period.  Vian was a significant figure in those years, and a lot of books about that period avoided his identity, I think due that none of his books were available in English at the time.  Therefore I have to presume editors for various presses probably decided if editorial cuts are being made, it is perfectly OK to eliminate Vian in its narrative.  That is not the case anymore.  Although he's a side-figure in the recent book "Left Bank" by Agnès Poirier, at least he's given credit as a writer and social figure in Paris.  

Beyond that, this book doesn't have any new information, and if one is a long-term reader of Paris literary and social history, still it's a fun read and Poirier does a  good job in covering all the loose ends of the rambling narrative that is the grand city of romance and ideas.  All the stars are here:  Juliette Gréco, Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Samuel Beckett, Camus, as well as the Americans that came to Paris during the post-war years, such as James Baldwin, Miles Davis, Richard Wright, Saul Bellow, Norman Mailer, and the old stand-by's such as Picasso and Jean Cocteau.   A colorful group of characters.  One is in good company.

"At The Existentialist Café: Freedom, Being, and Apricot Cocktails" by Sarah Bakewell

ISBN: 978-159051488-7 Other Press

The existentialist thought has been around forever.   We didn't have a name for it, but clearly, the issue of the importance of a commitment is something one shouldn't take lightly.   In a flash thought, when we (meaning us mortals on planet America) hear the word existentialism, we think of Jean-Paul Sartre.   Clearly, he's the figurehead, but the roots of that thought go back to Nazi-loving Martin Heidegger, and of course, Søren Kierkegaard.   In other words, it's an endless depth in a lake or pool in one's consciousness with respect to who, how, and why we came to the subject matter of existentialism.  

Sarah Bakewell's "At The Existentialist Café" is a very good in-depth read on the subject matter of Sartre and others such as Simone de Beauvoir, Martin Heidegger, Karl Jaspers, as well as Albert Camus, Boris Vian and the underrated Maurice Merleau-Ponty.  On the latter, Bakewell seems to be the most pleased with as a personality (he liked dancing and the social nightlife) and his work as a philosopher.   

Bakewell knows her territory well, and this is an extremely well-researched book on not only the writings that came out by these super-smart individuals but also capturing the time and anxiety of the 20th century.   A book for someone who knows nothing of the subject matter as well as one who's a fan of the Existentialist writer.   She never dumbs down the information, yet this book is written for the masses who are curious about the culture around Sartre and friends.   The arguments, the battles, and the friendship are all displayed on these pages.   A very good book. 

November 7, 2014

November 7, 2014

“Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?” Pretty much the first thought when I wake up in the morning.   Having the negative first, and then the positive second is much better than thinking “cup of coffee or should I kill myself?” Nevertheless the real damage is done if there is no coffee in the house.  Waking up in the morning is perhaps the most sensitive time you will ever experience.   If you wake up the wrong way, it can destroy the rest of the day.  And once the day is destroyed, there is no way of getting it back again.   So, I take extra precautions in the morning.  I refuse to be awaken by an alarm clock.   I pay a young girl on my block, whose duty is to come to my house around 6:30 in the morning.  Her instructions are to put her naked ass near my face till I fully wake up.  I have to admit lingering in bed for 15 minutes, just to enjoy her ass in such a fashion.  Once I’m fully awake, she leaves.  I can trust her, she’s a good sport, and is working her way through cal-arts, so therefore I can trust her with the house key.  

She also prepares the coffee before she comes into my bedroom.  So, in theory, I can live for another 24 hours.  For the past 311 days, I have been following a specific morning ritual, so I could write my daily narratives for my employee, Facebook.  The writing process is interesting because “there are some wounds that one can heal only by deepening them and making them worse.” People who have read my series of essays have commented to me “how far can you go into the depths of despair?” My stock answer is that I have an express elevator that goes from the top to the bottom of despair within seconds.   To able to write, in my own manner, is really to rely on my charm.  That’s the difference between ‘bad’ and ‘good’ writing.  “You know what charm is: a way of getting the answer yes without having asked any clear question.” I’m good at that, and always have been.   Yet, we all know deep down that I’m quite a failure.  A friend of mine had commented to me “I expected better of you, Tosh.” I replied: “ Me too, but I got used to it.” 

If I’m at home in Los Angeles, I start writing around 7:30 in the morning.  I’m having the cup of coffee my ‘little helper’ made me, and as usual I have a nice black and white photograph of the British model Jean Shrimpton.   She is maybe the first female that made me aware that there is something sexual outside of my world.  Of course I was ten at the time, but I collected images of her in the film “Privilege” for whom she starred in with the pop singer Paul Jones.   I couldn’t articulate my feelings for her as a child, and oddly enough to this day, I’m still struggling with how I feel about Jean.   For whatever reasons, she was the first person who I reacted to due to her British accent.  For sure, I have heard the accent, but this was the first time where I attached a face to a voice, and to this day, when I’m in a sexual situation, I think of her voice.  I can actually hear it in my head.  I’m not a firm believer in the ‘Muse, ’ but when I type, it is her voice that comes through me.  What I find the most attractive about Jean, is “she genuinely didn’t care how she looked.  She honestly never understood what all the fuss was about. ”

I wouldn’t say I have a love for Jean Shrimpton, because I don’t believe that it is that.  Eros?  “My own, self-consciousness cries out to me coldly: how does one love zero?” Yet, when I'm empty that is when I am the most happiest.   Writing to me is a practice to empty one’s soul onto a page, and then forgetting about it.  “To be happy, we must not be too concerned with others.” Sometime ago, I realized that Jean was just a symbol to me, not a real person.  In fact, I don’t have anyone around me that is real.   Even the four seasons that pass Los Angeles in such a manner that you can’t really notice it.  But I do, because “autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” But even that, the seasons are used to mark time is passing.  Most of my work is fiction, because I’m interested in the truth, whatever that may be.  “Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.” In other words, we need a narration of some sort.  I can’t write a narrative piece if my life depended on it, and at this point in time, it clearly does.  “I’m a man who knows nothing, guesses sometimes, finds frequently and who’s always amazed. ”