Stefan
Ionesco proves once more he is brilliant as a theoretician as well not only as a dramatist.
1st read: May 2013.
2nd read: Mar 2015. (The banality of evil. Gogol's devilish influence.)
Mazilu's English is extraordinary – I never felt for a moment that this book was written by a non-native English speaker. I was impressed by the range of his vocabulary and I even looked up many words in the dictionary. From my perspective, a writer who created such a good dark fantasy novel directly in English has two more challenges (and perhaps two “duties”) left: to write a similar novel in Romanian (except Crâznic's celebrated Gothic novel, I don't see much competition) and to write a non-fantasy (“serious”) novel in English. I'm not in the habit of saying grand words but with his level of English, he would be able to able to emulate – let's say – Nabokov. So as far as I'm concerned, Mazilu owes us at least two great novels.
The foreword written by Dana Dorian makes an interesting and supported claim: “[Andrei] takes you by the hand, but doesn't lead you to a quiet spot in the library; instead, you suddenly find yourself transported in a live cinema ...” It is true that Mazilu's writing is highly visual and that his novel could nicely be turned into a movie. Directors like James Cameron (Avatar) or Tom Tykwer (Perfume) are suitable for the subtlety and originality of Andrei's mythology. To continue this sci-fi line of argument, the star from Vampire Diaries, who also played in a TV series related to the story from Crux (Fallen), Paul Wesley would be a good choice for some of the human characters. I'm not sure that I would cast Nina Dobrev (Helena from Vampire Diaries) in Kara's part, although there are several similarities. On the other hand, I don't see a better Akaba than Jason Momoa (Conan) and a better Maar than Chris Hemsworth (Thor).
More about Mazilu's book here!
„Poate că nu sunt cel mai bun duhovnic, dar, în felul meu, trebuie să joc și un astfel de rol.” (99)
„Istoria universală este suportabilă numai dacă o privești ca spectacol.” (103)
„[E]reticii au îndrăznit să exprime gândurile ascunse ale Bisericii.” (115)
„[I]nelul este simbolul închisorii.” (140)
„Este adevărat că citesc mult, dar asta nu înseamnă că lucrezi, ci doar că ai iluzia că lucrezi.” (177)
„[N]u e ușor să fii fiu de preot.” (190)
„Un nihilism absolut nu este posibil, din păcate.” (192)
„Simplul ateism îmi repugnă.” (198)
Tălăngi obosite (1923)
Toamna, ca o vițelușe bolnavă,
Pe care o duc stăpâni răi la tăiere,
A luat calea codrului, pojghețuit și cangrenat
De tăcere.
Presimțind însă că umbletul ei
Va trezi din somn frunzele căzute,
A mugit, dureros și prelung,
Înfiorând borangicul clipelor stătute.
Apoi, cu ochii-mpotmoliți de lumină roșcovană,
A clipit, mâhnit, din pleoapele, de lacrimi spălate,
Și-nghenunchiind, blajin s-a rugat
Pentru odihna frunzelor picate.
Soarele i s-a-mpleticit în cornițele mărunte,
Copacii cu ramuri ostenite, dureros au tăcut,
Iar vițelușa și-a-ntins trupul, dornic de somn,
Și pentru ultima dată a gemut.
An original book, difficult to compare with other books written before it (with the possible exception of Baudelaire's works). I disliked its contingent character: although the author turns Nadja into a symbol of forthcoming Revolution, their relationship is rather trivial, ordinary & un-essential. Perhaps the description of the “affair” is written in a style devoid of any passion to emulate a sort of Hegelian objectivity: the tone becomes cold, impersonal. Therefore, Nadja's paradoxical classicism, remarked by so many critics. I have loved Breton's anti-psychiatrical manifesto from the end (written with guilt and ambivalence, as his editor observes), which opens the way for Artaud, Foucault and Deleuze.
“furia purifică, furia e inocentă și reală, furia îți arată că ești încă viu” (132-3)
“Focul nu îți ardea carnea, dacă erai construit dintr-un anumit material, din ăla din care eram făcuți noi; mai degrabă, focul aducea foc. Te ținea în permanență aprins, viu.” (183)
“Nu se contaminase încă de prostia din țara noastră, de prejudecățile care spun că un artist nu merită cu adevărat respect, pentru că nu produce ceva concret, care să folosească tuturor oamenilor, așa cum de pildă produce omul care face furculițe de plastic sau chiloți tetra, pentru doamnele trecute de menopauză.” (291)
Blestem
Plouă-n imagini care dor,
plouă pe cei ce sunt și mor,
plouă pe umbra celor vii,
Pe noaptea din care-o să-nvii,
plouă pe umbra lui Icar,
subțire gând ce urcă-amar,
plouă pustiu, încet și trist,
pe trupul viu al unui Crist,
cu jumătăți din trupul meu,
pe-njurătura lui Dumnezeu,
pe sânii viforiți de dor,
pe cel din urmă muritor,
plouă pe orice fel de semn,
plouă pe crucile de lemn,
plouă pe cel mai crunt blestem,
plouă pe ceea ce suntem,
plouă pe cei ce sunt
în negre buze de mormânt,
al meu e trupul ce nu-l știu,
al meu e ochiul cel pustiu,
plouă-n amonte și-n aval,
plouă în tigvele de cal,
plouă în ochiul meu ateu,
plouă în veșnic trupul meu.
Veni-va oare încă o zi
când lupii morți de vor trezi? (55)
Clearly Nietzschean, inspired by esoteric Christianity, alchemy and Tarot and written by a spirit different (perhaps stronger) than Nietzsche. Some of Jung's ideas are delelopped in Meyrink's work as well. A piece of experimental psychology with a touch of Medievalism in it. I'm not very fond of the parodical and satirical pages.
Scrisoarea 93 (ca. 1882):
“Stiam prea bine ca fondul sufletului meu e desgustul, apatia, mizeria. Eu nu sunt facut pentru nici o femee, nici o femee nu e facuta pentru mine, si oricare ar crede-o ar fi nenorocita. Nu iubesc nimic pentru ca nu cred in nimic si prea greoi pentru a lua vreun lucru precum se prezinta, eu nu am privirea ce infrumuseteaza lumea, ci aceea care vede numai raul, numai defectele, numai partea umbrei . Satul de viata fara sa fi trait vreodata, neavand un interes adevarat pentru nimic in lume, sunt moraliceste desalat ... Nu cred nimic, nu sper nimic si mi-e moraliceste frig ca unui batran de 80 de ani.”
Boring and vulgar in an uninteresting and unnecessary way. Unfortunatelly the reader will discover an image of magic that is both dull and parodical. The pace is incredibly slow and almost nothing happens through the book.
Houellebecq wrote H. P. Lovecraft: Contre le monde, contre la vie in 1991, three years before publishing his debut novel, Whatever (Extension du domaine de la lutte). His book on Lovecraft, translated into English in 2005, is the avant-garde which precedes Houellebecq's great war machine. I would consider the oeuvre a pseudo-auto-biography, reminiscent of Baudelaire's perception of Poe, of Nietzsche's Schopenhauer as Educator and, clearly of Savater's graduation thesis on Cioran. To make it clear, Nietzsche's Schopenhauer is Nietzsche himself, along with his Wagner: it is a way of writing about oneself indirectly. What I find fresh and pioneering about Houellebecq's essay is his discovery of an alternative route to world nihilism. To name some of the others: 1) Schopenhauerian – Wagnerian (as Baudrillard has put it); 2) Palahniuk's post-existentialism from Fight Club, Pygmy and Rant; 3) Baudrillard – Žižek – The Matrix; 4) Lars von Trier. Against the World is in fact a way of attacking Nietzsche through Schopenhauer, something that many of Nietzsche's disciples won't appreciate. To say No to life is to go against the test of the eternal return, to choose damnation and resentment over life's affirmation. A Nietzschean cardinal sin! However, one can acknowledge that it is sometimes difficult to endorse life when the feelings of alienation (more exactly fear and hatred against the world) seem to prevail over one's natural (?) inclination to harmony, peace and balance.
Shaun Bythell's psycho charm is funny at first, but it soon becomes annoying. It's almost like there's a division between bookseller and reader (in my case, someone who spends a third of his income on books). And that division is Money.
Nicely written but also a sample of kitsch narcissism: it's almost as if I had written my autobiography as “Cioran's Life” (which may not be a bad idea after all). Too much space invested in the lives of secondary characters, too many narrative “ex machina”-s, excess of a lukewarm sentimentality.
“Blindness (is) the school of God” would be the key sentence of Voiculescu's only novel. The book has no clear structure, the story has seemingly no direction or purpose but the language is great (Soviany has inherited and perfected this rich and spicy vocabulary) and the grotesque scenes from prison (similar description of the criminals in Eugen Barbu) are splendid.