Noël Devaulx is the secret master of the 20th century French fantastique. His prose has the shimmer of Mérimée and the seemliness of Flaubert; clearly, he keeps Nerval by his bedside, the better to read it by the light of a Baudelairean lunacy. In his hands, the Kunstmärchen—nine collections’ worth, over nine decades—is reinvented as the vessel of a personal metaphysics; evident in every one is his mandarin mastery of narration. Jean Paulhan, an early champion, famously called his hermetic, exquisite tales, oft-featured in the NRF, “parables without keys”: spellbinding, even when perfectly obscure, for the secret to his prose is promise. Some enticing deferral of revelation extends past his final lines, into silence. Sainte Barbegrise (1952), the second of his only two novels, is all sprightly felicity. An evocation of idyllic childhood shot through with the droll and impossible, its characters include a floating stepmother, a tart-tongued granny, a frog princess, and an astrologer uncle living in a lighthouse. The plot bests paraphrase: episodes cohere into the portrait of a vanished time. At every instance in Devaulx’s writing, content is stitched to style; the golden thread of theme here running through his sentences may be the lasting ways early enchantment refracts our outlook on life. Kindliness and good nature, not to say happiness, are notoriously difficult in literature, and too often the light veil of nostalgia seems more like Vaseline slathered on the lens. Many of Devaulx’s tales are haunted by death and madness, but Sainte Barbegrise reads like a virgin spring, or a breeze from a summer kingdom. It belongs, for its humor, for its merry invention, for its skillful use of marvel, on a shelf with Little, Big, At-Swim-Two-Birds, or The Complete Tales of Ketzia Gold.
Edward Gauvin has been an ALTA fellow and a resident at the Ledig House and the Banff International Literary Translation Centre. His translation of Georges-Olivier Châteaureynaud’s A Life on Paper: Selected Stories is forthcoming from Small Beer Press.
The latest posts at the blog of The Quarterly Conversation
If there’s one thing that surely hasn’t changed much over the centuries, it’s the response of parents to the first poetic stirrings in their child. “Perhaps you could be a doctor, and write poetry on the side?” they might gently suggest. “Like Keats?” “Um, yes, but perhaps you could actually practice medicine. And not die of consumption.” Few parents, [...]
Another editorial/blog about the need for independent bookstores from Somerset Books. Nothing new, but maybe you hadn't heard: "There are many reasons why we still (and always will) need independent bookstores, but it really boils down to two basic reasons: economic and social."
This much-linked video review of “Freedom” shows Ron Charles in fine form, being about as level-headed as one can be about Franzen, a talented author with boundless ego. Charles’ text review, which begins with a look at Franzen’s use of poo in fiction, is also very good. And for those who haven’t yet seen Charles’ acceptance speech at the 2008 NBCC Awards, for [...]
Or that seems to be Borders’ solution to its constant financial problems, at least for the time being until the next quarter with lower than expected sales. Really, the problem with Borders is that it lost its identity about eight or so years ago when it decided to become a shadow of Barnes & Noble. [...]
In recent years, fans of Norman Rockwell, with the assistance of some art historians, have attempted to lift him into the canon of high art.
The thick summer weather has felt like a wall of fire that must be bravely pushed through to order to exit from an air conditioned office building and make my way to the corner to board a bus crowded with sweaty citizens.
"What’s not so up for dispute is that Markson accomplished what, by all rights, should be a literary impossibility." (Colin Marshall for The Millions)
"Ich liebe dich. No sentence pronounced by a judge could be more threatening. It means that you are about to receive a gift you may not want." Via Dylan Suher, Greg Gerke's sort-of review of William H. Gass's Reading Rilke in BIG OTHER.
If there’s one thing worse than a densely philosophical five-hundred-page poem, it’s a densely philosophical five-hundred-page poem that is wrecking your homelife!
This is just one small example.
The latest articles published in between issues
In Ransom, Malouf satisfyingly gives us a meeting between Priam and Achilles that builds from the interiority of Priam. The novel seems to want to teach the importance of doing something human to those who might never get around to picking up Homer or who, if they do, might wish they could get into the character's heads.
Winterson has always told and retold the same fictions: of parents and children; of origins, and adoptions; of differences, of margins; of love; of passion; she has always manipulated rhythm and language as an excavation of sources. Much of her fiction mirrors what we know of Winterson's own story, but she agitates against the idea that her work has to be considered as fiction or autobiography, laying claim to both. In Art Objects she writes: "The question put to the writer 'How much of this is based on your own experience?' is meaningless. All or nothing may be the answer. The fiction, the poem, is not a version of the facts, it is an entirely different way of seeing"; a "separate reality." At every turn she eludes the critic, the interviewer, the reader; she offers truth, but not the truth. "I'm telling you stories. Trust me."
It's difficult to pin down exactly why books as objects mean so much to me. I wasn't alive when William Goyen's excellent Come, The Restorer was published, but owning an original printing with the dust jacket—as it would have been purchased at the time of its release—makes the book more special to me than some beat-up paperback reissue. If it's signed, even more so. I'm only really interested in modern first editions (say, post-1950 or so)—before that books get quite expensive, but also I don't think they look as nice, since many were issued without dust jackets, and at that time the dust jacket wasn't considered a permanent part of the book, so they're often missing. So why the obsession and collecting, and why is it so important?
Wood can be harsh, yes, but he is seldom unfair. Wyatt Mason was wrong to accuse him of having suggested, by dint of a string of negative reviews, that no good contemporary literature exists. (He has written favorably of McEwan, Bolaño, Robinson, Ozick, Kirsch, Sebald, Roth, Saramago, Swift, Carey.) He never simply dismisses a writer (in the manor of, say, Dale Peck); on the contrary, his criticism, even at its most polemical and uncompromising, is inexplicably bound to larger concerns about the direction of contemporary fiction. Two major concerns have dominated James Wood's writing: realism and religion. In The Broken Estate: Essays on Literature and Belief, his first collection, newly available in paperback from Picador, these two concerns are beautifully imbricated, resulting in what is surely among the finest achievements in recent literary journalism.
To say that Mark McMorris's Entrepôt is about writing poetry is to do a huge disservice to this beautiful and penetrating book, whose ostensible subject of contemplation is how to live, love, and make do in a time of war, if not cultural crisis. On the other hand, the book's greatest service, at least to my eye, is in its exploration of just what it means to be a poet—I should be more specific and say a lyric poet—amid our contemporary terrors.