Tosh on "Monsieur Proust" by Céleste Albaret (NYRB)

 

Tosh on "Monsieur Proust" by Céleste Albaret

Tosh Berman reviews Blaise Cendrars: The Invention of Life by Eric Robertson (Reaktion Books, 2022)

 

Tosh Reviews "Blaise Cendrars: The Invention of Life" by Eric Robertson (Reaktion Books)

The Celestial Bandit: A Tribute to Isidore Ducasse, The Comte de Lautreamont, Upon The 175th Anniversary of his Birth

 

Review of The Celestial Bandit

I contributed a piece to this wonderful anthology. 

"Marshlands" by André Gide; Preface by Dubravka Ugresic and Translated from French to English by Damion Searls

 

Marshlands

by André Gide

NYRB, 978-1-68137-472-7

"Marshlands" is the best book I read regarding being a writer and writing a book. Beyond that, I love the stylish touch of having the French translated into British English, which reads like a PG Wodehouse narrative. The story is about a writer who is writing a book ("Marshlands") about a reclusive fellow who lives in a stone tower by himself. Usually, one thinks of a writer as writing themselves into their narratives. Still, the author is nothing like his character named Tityrus. In fact, his life is totally the opposite of being a recluse and more of a fellow traveler in the world of literary salons.  Based on Stéphane Mallarme's series of literary parties, the (grand) author André Gide makes light of these gatherings, but with a British effect due to the translation by Damion Searls, who captures the absurdity of artists not only at work but also at play. "Marshlands" plays with the reader's approach of what a novel or novella is, and Gide was in a puckish mood when he wrote this small masterpiece. The dialogue is very campy and artificial. I think Searls did the right thing for English readers by giving it an upper-British accented language. 

I believe this is Gide's second novel, and this small volume captures the essence of a writing life, which is also a social one. I think that a writer should never talk about his current project due to what happens to the author in the story. Even before having a manuscript, his fellow authors are commenting on the literary worth of "Marshlands," as well as what they heard through the grapevine. And what he's hearing ain't good!

"Marshlands" captures the essence of what we think of an author and how they feel about their work. There are books or writing that appeal to my highly humorous sensibility and expose the absurdity of everyday life. Robert Benchley comes to mind, as well as novels by Albert Cossery. I only know Gide's journals, and of course, his reputation in the French literary world. I suspect that "Marshlands" is his funniest book, and I will treasure it among all the great humorists in my library. 

"Manet and the Object of Painting" by Michel Foucault & Translated by Matthew Barr with an introduction by Nicolas Bourriaud (Tate Publishing)

 

Manet, to me, is sort of like wallpaper. I noticed it for a second and then moved on to the other room. But since reading this beautifully designed slim book by Michel Foucault, I now see him in a new light. 

This is actually a lecture that Foucault did on Manet sometime in the early 1970s. Compared to his other writings, this is very much a book you can read on a good bus ride from Downtown L.A. to the beach. I like it because Foucault is not an art reviewer or someone from that world. He's looking at the artwork from a totally different angle, which of course, makes it a unique study on an artist's work.

Foucault focuses on maybe 10 paintings by Monet and comments on the space and lighting in the pictures. Reading the text, I start noticing somewhat eccentric aspects of Monet's work that I didn't observe in the first place. 

Foucault's observations are very focused but done in a way where the reader, or perhaps if you were in the audience at the time, start making your own connections to the work on hand. For me, this makes excellent art criticism.

Tosh's Journal - September 8 (Homage to Peter Sellers & Alfred Jarry)

TOSH'S JOURNAL

September 8

"There is no me. I do not exist… There used to be a me, but I had it surgically removed." It isn't I can't stand myself, but I'm on the surface extremely dull. There is no spice in my DNA to make me special. What I can do is re-invent myself to a better version of me. Or start from scratch and create a new "me." I tried to do my best to blend in with the crowd that I came to be accustomed to, but clearly, they never took me seriously. All of them feel that I'm a performer, but for the heck out of them, they can't remember one film or theater piece I have done. They know that I exist, but in what degree is totally beyond them.

As a card-carrying pataphysician, I have consistently been mistaken for Peter Sellers. The interesting fact is that we don't look like each other at all. But still, I'm always reminded of him, due to what people think he or I look like. A day doesn't go by, where someone doesn't comment on the resemblance of the dead late comic actor. If he was alive, I wonder if people would still make the comparisons between him and me. "The dead… are more real than the living because they are complete." I suspect if I were dead, then I would get my own identity back. Again, even with that, my lack of uniqueness would be challenging for someone to pin me down. Also, my face is not mine, but a remembrance of someone else's face or appearance.

To live in one's shadow, is a traveler wandering in a neighborhood where he's not invited, but accepted with closed arms. I have often appeared in front of an audience, but they were expecting something else, or even someone else. It takes approximately ten minutes into my performance where the audience realizes that they are at the wrong show. After a while, I believe "that the applause of silence is the only kind that counts." Every day I try to re-think myself in a new position where I find that I need to think what 'my character' would do in a particular or specific incident or plan. It is rarely that I consider "what I would do" but mostly 'what would he or she does." And that is pretty much how I see the world. A fellow pataphysician has commented that "the theater, bringing impersonal masks to life, is only for those who are virile enough to create new life: either as a conflict of passions subtler than those we already know or as a completely new character."

I was reading Siegried Sassoon's poetry, and I came upon a statement by him that touched me: "The fact is that five years ago I was, as near as possible, a different person to what I am tonight. I, as I am now, didn't exist at all. Will the same thing happen in the next five years? I hope so." The only occupation that I'm suitable for is acting. Sadly I can't remember a written line if my very life been dependent on it. What I do is improvised anytime I find myself in a conversation with someone. I never know where or when the conversation ends, but I pretend that I do know, and I think the other person will gently follow my lead - in a sense, it is like dancing the waltz, where one leads the other.

I wrote a play that had one performance, so I guess one can call it a total failure. Nevertheless, the lead character stayed with me, and I adopted his language as my own. For instance, I never say the wind, or it's windy. Instead, I would say "that which blows." Slowly but surely, I built up a character that became comfortable to wear. But I was always aware that the things I said or do were based on another character - sometimes a fictional character. In the future (if there is a future) the play "will not be performed in full until the author (the royal we) have acquired enough experience to savor all its beauties." I tend to see the world as a theater piece, and sadly, I'm the only one in the audience.

-Tosh Berman