The Songlines, Bruce Chatwin
It makes sense that Bruce Chatwin and Werner Herzog were friends. Of course they were. According to Herzog, the two of them met in 1984 in Australia’s Northern Territory. Chatwin was doing research for the book that would become The Songlines and Herzog was working on his film Where Green Ants Dream. They spent two full days talking to each other. Chatwin on his deathbed supposedly gifted Herzog with the leather rucksack he’d used on so many of his travels. Parallels both of style and substance can be drawn between the two artists, but I suspect that Chatwin must have been the happier person. Curiosity in Herzog seems most of the time to serve his melancholy. Chatwin is no less curious, but more sanguine. In The Songlines Chatwin’s curiosity turns toward the roots of human language, early human evolution, and the origins and meaning of wanderlust. The book is in part a travelogue (though one should never take Chatwin’s reportage at face value) and in part an essay in speculative anthropology. Fascinating and great fun at the same time.
Lafcadio’s Adventures, André Gide
Diverting, satirical, but nothing very deep, despite the fact that it reminds me of a Dostoyevsky novel in some respects. I mean that it deals with questions of faith and corruption and the peculiar allure that some people feel for motiveless crime. But this is not Gide at his best and Lafcadio’s Adventures is only a cheap-shot, bitter-at-heart version of Dostoyevsky.
The Unquiet Grave, Cyril Connolly
Connolly made his name as a critic and so when he opens his book with the statement that “the true function of a writer is to produce a masterpiece and no other task is of any consequence,” it serves both as a jab at fashionable contemporaries and an announcement of his intention to make his own “assault on perfection.” The book was written during WWII and is part journal, part commonplace book, and part philosophical essay. There are lengthy quotations from French authors which, unfortunately, I was usually unable to decipher without help, but Connolly’s own prose is engrossing, his ideas engaging. He was exorcising some personal demons here: his marriage was falling apart at the same time the world around him was falling apart, and the general sense of catastrophe is strong. The Unquiet Grave may not be quite the masterpiece Connolly hoped for, and I can’t endorse certain of his Freudian obsessions and conclusions. Nonetheless, the book is highly quotable, bright if only with a fractured light, and in the end it makes a powerful meditation on the significance of love and of art and of being human in a world that is often short on all three.
The Immoralist, André Gide
I expected something along the lines of Huysmans’ A Rebours, but Gide’s tale is really very different. Both protagonists are – or, in the case of Gide’s Michel, become – rank sensualists. But these are different forms of sensualism. Huysmans’ Des Esseintes makes a fetish of aesthetic decay; Gide’s Michel lusts after freedom and vitality, in a Nietszchean mode. Huysman’s is a sensualism which, as the title suggests, runs “against nature” while Gide’s is, in certain respects, a rough embrace of nature. The books differ too inasmuch as Gide succeeds in making his protagonist sympathetic, while Huysmans doesn’t even try to do so. I want to say that Huysmans’ book describes an end-game of Catholic intellectual retreat while Gide’s describes a triumph of Protestant nihilism, but I’m not sure I can argue either case successfully. I will say that I think Gide’s book is better. The Immoralist is a stark narrative descent. I also read it as a fairly damning indictment of the instinct it describes. To my mind, Michel is a monster. Gide himself, however (for reasons which aren’t hard to divine if you know a bit about his life), famously refuses to pass any final judgment on his protagonist.
Strait is the Gate, André Gide
Simon Leys in his “Little ABC of Gide” quotes the author as saying that each of his new titles was specially designed to “upset those readers who enjoyed the preceding one.” Strait is the Gate did not follow precisely on the heels of The Immoralist but it may as well have, the two are so clearly linked. Where the earlier book trades in the excess of sensualism and self-indulgence, Strait is the Gate trades instead in the excess of asceticism and self-denial. Parting from one another at a theoretically balanced middle, both these paths will be seen to curve round until they mirror each other’s trajectory and finally embrace. The plot: Alissa Bucolin is in love with Jerome Palissier and there is no reason in the world they shouldn’t marry except for the fact that it would make them happy. Unfortunately, you see, Alissa’s God did not make man for happiness – the way of the Lord is too narrow for two to walk abreast, she says – and so she crucifies her heart (and the hearts of those around her as a side-effect) for a mystical solace which, of course, proves elusive. The final scene of the novel is devastating. …Once in college a girlfriend dumped me “for God” too; it was more forgivable than Alissa’s case, however, because I knew that rather than creating a divine prohibition for the sake of self-glory she was inventing a divine sanction for what she really wanted all along. Weakness, I think, is always more sympathetic (and perhaps more renderable into holiness) than flexing your muscles.
I believe that happiness wears out in the effort made to recapture it; that nothing is more fatal to happiness than the remembrance of happiness.
~ André Gide, The Immoralist
If the “effort made to recapture it” involves, say, rearranging the furniture, wearing the same clothes, and repeating the same words and gestures, then, yes. But to merely remember a happy moment takes no effort at all. Joys are like children: you don’t wear away your affection by thinking of them or love one less for having another.