When Espinoza got to the crafts market she was sitting on a wooden bench reading a pop magazine full of colour photos, with articles on Mexican singers, their weddings, divorces, tours, their gold and platinum albums, their stints in prison, their deaths in poverty. He sat down next to her, on the curb, and wondered whether to greet her with a kiss or not. Across the way was a new stall that sold little clay figurines. From where he was Espinoza could make out some tiny gallows and he smiled sadly. He asked the girl where her brother was, and she said he'd gone to school, like every morning.
A woman with very wrinkled skin, dressed in white as if she were about to get married, stopped to talk to Rebeca, so he picked up the magazine, which the girl had left under the table on a lunch box, and leafed through it until Rebeca's friend had gone. A few times he tried to say something, but he couldn't. Her silence wasn't unpleasant, nor did it imply resentment or sadness. It was transparent, not dense. It took up almost no space. A person could even get used to silence like this, thought Espinoza, and be happy. But he would never get used to it, he knew that too.
When he got tired of sitting he went to a bar and asked for a beer at the counter. Around him there were only men and no one was alone. Espinoza swept the bar with a terrible gaze and immediately saw that the men were drinking but eating too. He muttered the word fuck and spat on the floor, less than an inch from his own shoes. Then he had another beer and went back to the stall with the half-empty bottle. Rebeca looked at him and smiled. Espinoza sat on the sidewalk next to her and said he was going home. The girl didn't say anything.
[2666, Bolano, R.]
Monday, 30 March 2015
...of an interregnum
At this bar, according to Norton, they made the best margaritas in London, a distinction of little interest to Pelletier and Espinoza, although they feigned enthusiasm. They were the only ones there, of course, and despite the time of day, the single employee or owner looked as if he were asleep or had just woken up, in contrast to Pelletier and Espinoza, who, though each had woken at seven and taken a plane, then separately endured the delays of their respective flights, were fresh and full of energy, ready to make the most of their London weekend.
Conversation, it's true, was difficult at first. In the silence, Pelletier and Espinoza watched Norton: she was as pretty and seductive as ever. Sometimes they were distracted by the little ant steps of the gallery owner, who was taking dresses off a rack and carrying them into a back room, returning with identical or very similar dresses, which he left where the others had been hanging.
Though the silence didn't both Pelletier or Espinoza, Norton found it stifling and felt obliged to tell them, quickly and rather ferociously, about her teaching activities during the time they hadn't seen each other. It was a boring subject, and soon exhausted, so Norton went on to describe everything she had done the day before and the day before that, but once again she was left with nothing to say. For a while, smiling like squirrels, the three of them turned to their margaritas, but the quiet became more and more unbearable, as if within it, in the interregnum of silence, cutting words and cutting ideas were slowly being formed, never a performance or dance to be observed with indifference. So Espinoza decided it would be a good idea to describe a trip to Switzerland, a trip that hadn't involved Norton and that might amuse her.
[2666, Bolano, R.]
Conversation, it's true, was difficult at first. In the silence, Pelletier and Espinoza watched Norton: she was as pretty and seductive as ever. Sometimes they were distracted by the little ant steps of the gallery owner, who was taking dresses off a rack and carrying them into a back room, returning with identical or very similar dresses, which he left where the others had been hanging.
Though the silence didn't both Pelletier or Espinoza, Norton found it stifling and felt obliged to tell them, quickly and rather ferociously, about her teaching activities during the time they hadn't seen each other. It was a boring subject, and soon exhausted, so Norton went on to describe everything she had done the day before and the day before that, but once again she was left with nothing to say. For a while, smiling like squirrels, the three of them turned to their margaritas, but the quiet became more and more unbearable, as if within it, in the interregnum of silence, cutting words and cutting ideas were slowly being formed, never a performance or dance to be observed with indifference. So Espinoza decided it would be a good idea to describe a trip to Switzerland, a trip that hadn't involved Norton and that might amuse her.
[2666, Bolano, R.]
...of a frosty reception
Norton said his name was Alex Pritchard. A friend. Pelletier and Espinoza shook his hand and smiled, knowing their smiles would be pathetic. Pritchard didn't smile. Two minutes later they were all sitting drinking whiskey in silence. Pritchard, who was drinking orange juice, sat next to Norton and slung an arm over her shoulders, a gesture she didn't seem to mind at first (in fact, Pritchard's long arm was resting on the back of the sofa and only his fingers, long as a spider's or a pianist's occasionally brushed Norton's blouse), but as the minutes went by Norton became more and more nervous and her trips to the kitchen or bedroom became more frequent.
Pelletier attempted a few subjects of conversation. He tried to talk about film, music, recent theatre productions, without getting any help even from Espinoza, who seemed to vie with Pritchard in his muteness, although Pritchard's muteness was at least that of the observer, equal parts distracted and engaged, and Espinoza's muteness was that of the observed, sunk in misery and shame. Suddenly, without anyone being able to say for sure who had started it, they began to talk about Archimboldian studies. It was probably Norton, from the kitchen, who mentioned the work they all did. Pritchard waited for her to come back and then, his arm stretched once again along the back of the sofa and his spider fingers on Norton's shoulder, said he thought German literature was a scam.
[2666, Bolano, R.]
Pelletier attempted a few subjects of conversation. He tried to talk about film, music, recent theatre productions, without getting any help even from Espinoza, who seemed to vie with Pritchard in his muteness, although Pritchard's muteness was at least that of the observer, equal parts distracted and engaged, and Espinoza's muteness was that of the observed, sunk in misery and shame. Suddenly, without anyone being able to say for sure who had started it, they began to talk about Archimboldian studies. It was probably Norton, from the kitchen, who mentioned the work they all did. Pritchard waited for her to come back and then, his arm stretched once again along the back of the sofa and his spider fingers on Norton's shoulder, said he thought German literature was a scam.
[2666, Bolano, R.]
...of a love rectangle
When Pelletier returned from Avignon at the end of 1994, when he opened the door to his apartment in Paris and set his bag on the floor and closed the door, when he poured himself a glass of whiskey and opened the drapes and saw the usual view, a slice of the Place de Breteuil with the UNESCO building in the background, when he took off his jacket and left the whiskey in the kitchen and listened to the messages on the answering machine, when he felt drowsiness, heaviness in his eyelids, but instead of getting into bed and going to sleep he undressed and took a shower, when wrapped in a white bathrobe that reached almost to his ankles he turned on the computer, only then did he realise that he missed Liz Norton and that he would have given anything to be with her at that moment, not just talking to her but in bed with her, telling her that he loved her and hearing from her lips that she loved him too.
Espinoza experienced something similar, though slightly different in two respects. First, the need to be near Liz Norton struck some time before he got back to his apartment in Madrid. By the time he was on the plane he'd realised that she was the perfect woman, the one he'd always hoped to find, and he began to suffer. Second, among the ideal images of Norton that passed at supersonic speed through his head as the plane flew toward Spain at four hundred miles an hour, there were more sex scenes than Pelletier had imagined. Not many more, but more.
Meanwhile, Morini, who traveled by train from Avignon to Turin, spent the trip reading the cultural supplement of Il Manifesto, and then he slept until a couple of ticket collectors (who would help him onto the platform in his wheelchair) let him know that they'd arrived.
As for what passed through Liz Norton's head, it's better not to say.
[2666, Bolano, R.]
Espinoza experienced something similar, though slightly different in two respects. First, the need to be near Liz Norton struck some time before he got back to his apartment in Madrid. By the time he was on the plane he'd realised that she was the perfect woman, the one he'd always hoped to find, and he began to suffer. Second, among the ideal images of Norton that passed at supersonic speed through his head as the plane flew toward Spain at four hundred miles an hour, there were more sex scenes than Pelletier had imagined. Not many more, but more.
Meanwhile, Morini, who traveled by train from Avignon to Turin, spent the trip reading the cultural supplement of Il Manifesto, and then he slept until a couple of ticket collectors (who would help him onto the platform in his wheelchair) let him know that they'd arrived.
As for what passed through Liz Norton's head, it's better not to say.
[2666, Bolano, R.]
Monday, 23 March 2015
...of biting one's tongue
Having had the correct view is nothing meritorious: statistically, it is almost inevitable that among the many cockeyed, confused or banal ideas that come into his mind, there should also be some perspicacious ideas, even ideas of genius; and as they occurred to him, they can surely have occurred also to somebody else.
Opinion on his having refrained from expressing his idea is more open to debate. In times of general silence, conforming to the silence of the majority is certainly culpable. In times when everybody says too much, the important thing is not merely to say what is right, which in any event would be lost in the flood of words, but to say it on the basis of premisses, suggesting also consequences, so that what is said acquires the maximum value. But then, if the value of a single affirmation lies in the continuity and coherence of the discourse in which it is uttered, the only possible choice is between speaking continuously or never speaking at all. In the first case Mr Palomar would reveal that his thinking does not proceed in a straight line but zigzags its way through vacillations, denials, corrections, in whose midst the rightness of that affirmation of his would be lost. As for the other alternative, it implies an art of keeping silent even more difficult than the art of speaking.
In fact, silence can also be considered a kind of speech, since it is a rejection of the use to which others put words; but the meaning of this silent speech lies in its interruptions, in what is, from time to time, actually said, giving a meaning to what is unsaid.
Or rather: a silence can serve to dismiss certain words or else to hold them in reserve for use on a better occasion. Just as a word spoken now can save a hundred words tomorrow or else can necessitate the saying of another thousand. "Every time I bite my tongue," Mr Palomar concludes mentally, "I must think not only of what I am about to say or not to say, but also of everything that, whether I say it or do not say it, will be said or not said by me or by others." Having formulated this thought, he bites his tongue and remains silent.
[Mr Palomar, Calvino, I.]
Opinion on his having refrained from expressing his idea is more open to debate. In times of general silence, conforming to the silence of the majority is certainly culpable. In times when everybody says too much, the important thing is not merely to say what is right, which in any event would be lost in the flood of words, but to say it on the basis of premisses, suggesting also consequences, so that what is said acquires the maximum value. But then, if the value of a single affirmation lies in the continuity and coherence of the discourse in which it is uttered, the only possible choice is between speaking continuously or never speaking at all. In the first case Mr Palomar would reveal that his thinking does not proceed in a straight line but zigzags its way through vacillations, denials, corrections, in whose midst the rightness of that affirmation of his would be lost. As for the other alternative, it implies an art of keeping silent even more difficult than the art of speaking.
In fact, silence can also be considered a kind of speech, since it is a rejection of the use to which others put words; but the meaning of this silent speech lies in its interruptions, in what is, from time to time, actually said, giving a meaning to what is unsaid.
Or rather: a silence can serve to dismiss certain words or else to hold them in reserve for use on a better occasion. Just as a word spoken now can save a hundred words tomorrow or else can necessitate the saying of another thousand. "Every time I bite my tongue," Mr Palomar concludes mentally, "I must think not only of what I am about to say or not to say, but also of everything that, whether I say it or do not say it, will be said or not said by me or by others." Having formulated this thought, he bites his tongue and remains silent.
[Mr Palomar, Calvino, I.]
...of meaning
Now these arm-paws are pressing a rubber tire against his chest. In the enormous void of his hours, "Copito de Nieve" never abandons the tire. What can this object be for him? A toy? A fetish? A talisman? Palomar feels he understands the gorilla perfectly, his need for something to hold tight while everything eludes him, a thing with which to allay the anguish of isolation, of difference, of the sentence to being always considered a living phenomenon, not only by the visitors to the zoo but also by his own females and his children.
The female also has an old tire, but for her it is an object of normal use; with which she has a practical relationship, without problems: she sits in it as if it were an easychair, sunbathing and delousing her infant. For "Copito de Nieve", on the contrary, the contact with the tire seems to be something affective, possessive, and somehow symbolic. From it he can have a glimpse of what for man is the search for an escape from the dismay of living: investing oneself in things, recognizing oneself in signs, transforming the world into a collection of symbols; a first daybreak of culture in the long biological night. To do this the gorilla possesses only an old tire, an artifact of human production, alien to him, lacking any symbolic potentiality, naked of meanings, abstract. Looking at it, you would not say that much could be derived from it. And yet what, more than an empty circle, can contain all the symbols you might want to attribute to it? Perhaps identifying himself with it, the gorilla is about to reach, in the depths of silence, the springs from which language burst forth, to establish a flow of relationships between his thoughts and the unyielding, deaf evidence of the facts that determine his life...
Leaving the zoo, Mr Palomar cannot dispel the image of the albino gorilla from his mind. He tries to talk about him with people he meets, but he cannot make anyone listen to him. At night, both during the hours of insomnia and during his brief dreams, the great ape continues to appear to him. "Just as the gorilla has his tire, which serves as tangible support for a raving, wordless speech, " he thinks, "so I have the image of a great white ape. We all turn in our hands an old, empty tire through which we would like to reach the final meaning, at which words do not arrive."
[Mr Palomar, Calvino, I.]
The female also has an old tire, but for her it is an object of normal use; with which she has a practical relationship, without problems: she sits in it as if it were an easychair, sunbathing and delousing her infant. For "Copito de Nieve", on the contrary, the contact with the tire seems to be something affective, possessive, and somehow symbolic. From it he can have a glimpse of what for man is the search for an escape from the dismay of living: investing oneself in things, recognizing oneself in signs, transforming the world into a collection of symbols; a first daybreak of culture in the long biological night. To do this the gorilla possesses only an old tire, an artifact of human production, alien to him, lacking any symbolic potentiality, naked of meanings, abstract. Looking at it, you would not say that much could be derived from it. And yet what, more than an empty circle, can contain all the symbols you might want to attribute to it? Perhaps identifying himself with it, the gorilla is about to reach, in the depths of silence, the springs from which language burst forth, to establish a flow of relationships between his thoughts and the unyielding, deaf evidence of the facts that determine his life...
Leaving the zoo, Mr Palomar cannot dispel the image of the albino gorilla from his mind. He tries to talk about him with people he meets, but he cannot make anyone listen to him. At night, both during the hours of insomnia and during his brief dreams, the great ape continues to appear to him. "Just as the gorilla has his tire, which serves as tangible support for a raving, wordless speech, " he thinks, "so I have the image of a great white ape. We all turn in our hands an old, empty tire through which we would like to reach the final meaning, at which words do not arrive."
[Mr Palomar, Calvino, I.]
...of blackbirds
After a while the whistle is repeated - by the same blackbird or by its mate - but always as if this were the first time it had occurred to him to whistle; if this is a dialogue, each remark is uttered after long reflection. But is it a dialogue, or does each blackbird whistle for itself and not for the other? And, in whichever case, are these questions and answers (to the whistler or to the mate) or are they confirmations of something that is always the same thing (the bird's own presence, his belonging to this species, this sex, this territory)? Perhaps the value of this single word lies in its being repeated by another whistling beak, in its not being forgotten during the interval of silence.
Or else the whole dialogue consists of one saying to the other "I am here," and the length of the pauses adds to the phrase the sense of a "still," as if to say: "I am here still, it is still I." And what if it is in the pause and not in the whistle that the meaning of the message is contained? If it were in the silence that blackbirds speak to each other? (In this case the whistle would be a punctuation mark, a formula like "over and out.") A silence, apparently the same as another silence, could express a hundred different notions; a whistle could too, for that matter; to speak to one another by remaining silent, or by whistling, is always possible; the problem is understanding one another. Or perhaps no one can understand anyone: each blackbird believes that he has put into his whistle a meaning fundamental for him, but only he understands it; the other gives him a reply that has no connection with what he said; it is a dialogue between the deaf, a conversation without head or tail.
[Mr Palomar, Calvino, I.]
Or else the whole dialogue consists of one saying to the other "I am here," and the length of the pauses adds to the phrase the sense of a "still," as if to say: "I am here still, it is still I." And what if it is in the pause and not in the whistle that the meaning of the message is contained? If it were in the silence that blackbirds speak to each other? (In this case the whistle would be a punctuation mark, a formula like "over and out.") A silence, apparently the same as another silence, could express a hundred different notions; a whistle could too, for that matter; to speak to one another by remaining silent, or by whistling, is always possible; the problem is understanding one another. Or perhaps no one can understand anyone: each blackbird believes that he has put into his whistle a meaning fundamental for him, but only he understands it; the other gives him a reply that has no connection with what he said; it is a dialogue between the deaf, a conversation without head or tail.
[Mr Palomar, Calvino, I.]
...of execration
'Immediately after the Christmas holidays I stopped speaking to her. The guy who had spotted me me near the station seemed to have forgotten the incident, but I would have been afraid even so. In any case, dating Bardot would have demanded a moral strength far superior to the one I could, even at the time, pride myself on. Because not only was she ugly but she was plain nasty. Goaded on by sexual liberation (it was right at the beginning of the 80's, AIDS still did not exist), she couldn't make appeal to some ethical notion of virginity, obviously. On top of that she was too intelligent and to lucid to account for her state as being a product of "Judeo-Christian influence" - in any case her parents were agnostics. All means of evasion were thus closed to her. She could only assist, in silent hatred, at the liberation of others; witness the boys pressing themselves like crabs against others' bodies; sense the relationships being formed, the experiments being undertaken, the orgasms surging forth; live to the full a silent self-destruction when faced with the flaunted pleasure of others. Thus was her adolescence to unfold, and thus it unfolded: jealousy and frustration fermented slowly to become a swelling of paroxystic hatred.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
...of cruelty
'At the time I knew her, in the bloom of her seventeen years, Brigitte Bardot was truly repulsive. First of all she was extremely fat, a porker and even a super-porker, with abundant rolls of fat gracelessly disposed at the intersections of her obese body. Yet had she followed a slimming diet of the most frightening severity for twenty-five years her fate would not have been markedly improved. Because her skin was blotchy, puffy and acned. And her face was wide, flat and round, with little deep-set eyes, and straggly, lustreless hair. Indeed, the comparison with a sow forced itself on everyone in an inevitable and natural way.
'She had no girlfriends, and obviously no boyfriends. She was therefore completely alone. Nobody addressed a word to her, not even during a physics test; they would always prefer to address themselves to someone else. She came to classes then returned home; never did I hear it said that someone might have seen her other than at school.
'During classes certain people sat next to her; they got used to her massive presence. They didn't notice her and neither did they poke fun at her. She didn't participate in discussions in the philosophy class; she didn't participate in anything at all. She wouldn't have been more tranquil on the planet Mars.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
'She had no girlfriends, and obviously no boyfriends. She was therefore completely alone. Nobody addressed a word to her, not even during a physics test; they would always prefer to address themselves to someone else. She came to classes then returned home; never did I hear it said that someone might have seen her other than at school.
'During classes certain people sat next to her; they got used to her massive presence. They didn't notice her and neither did they poke fun at her. She didn't participate in discussions in the philosophy class; she didn't participate in anything at all. She wouldn't have been more tranquil on the planet Mars.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
...of frustration
We sit down. He orders a bourbon and water, I stick to beer. I look about me and say to myself that this time this is it, this is perhaps the journey's end for my luckless companion. We're in a student cafe, everyone's happy, everybody wants to have fun. There are lots of tables with two or three young women at them, there are even some girls alone at the bar.
I watch Tisserand while assuming my most engaging air. The young men and women in the cafe touch each other. The women push back their hair with a graceful gesture. They cross their legs, await the occasion to burst into laughter. In short, they're having fun. Now's the time to score, right here and now, in this place that lends itself so perfectly.
He raises his eyes from his drink and, from behind his glasses, fixes his gaze on me. And I remark that he's run out of steam. He can't go on, he has no more appetite for the fray, he's had it up to here. He looks at me, his face trembles a little. Doubtless it's the alcohol, he drank too much wine at dinner, the jerk. I wonder if he isn't going to break into sobs, recount the stations of his particular cross to me; I feel him capable of something of the sort; the lenses of his glasses are slightly fogged with tears.
It's not a problem, I can handle it, listen to the lot, carry him back to the hotel if I have to; but I'm sure that come tomorrow morning he'll be pissed off with me.
I remain silent; I wait without saying anything; I find no judicious words to utter. The uncertainty persists for a minute or so, then the crisis passes. In a strangely feeble, almost trembling voice he says to me: 'We'd best go back. Have to begin first thing in the morning.'
Right, back it is. We'll finish our drinks and back it is. I light a last cigarette, look at Tisserand once more. He really is totally haggard. Wordlessly her lets me pay the bill, wordlessly he follows me as I make for the door. He's stooped, huddled; he's ashamed of himself, hates himself, wishes he were dead.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
I watch Tisserand while assuming my most engaging air. The young men and women in the cafe touch each other. The women push back their hair with a graceful gesture. They cross their legs, await the occasion to burst into laughter. In short, they're having fun. Now's the time to score, right here and now, in this place that lends itself so perfectly.
He raises his eyes from his drink and, from behind his glasses, fixes his gaze on me. And I remark that he's run out of steam. He can't go on, he has no more appetite for the fray, he's had it up to here. He looks at me, his face trembles a little. Doubtless it's the alcohol, he drank too much wine at dinner, the jerk. I wonder if he isn't going to break into sobs, recount the stations of his particular cross to me; I feel him capable of something of the sort; the lenses of his glasses are slightly fogged with tears.
It's not a problem, I can handle it, listen to the lot, carry him back to the hotel if I have to; but I'm sure that come tomorrow morning he'll be pissed off with me.
I remain silent; I wait without saying anything; I find no judicious words to utter. The uncertainty persists for a minute or so, then the crisis passes. In a strangely feeble, almost trembling voice he says to me: 'We'd best go back. Have to begin first thing in the morning.'
Right, back it is. We'll finish our drinks and back it is. I light a last cigarette, look at Tisserand once more. He really is totally haggard. Wordlessly her lets me pay the bill, wordlessly he follows me as I make for the door. He's stooped, huddled; he's ashamed of himself, hates himself, wishes he were dead.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
...of repulsion
At that moment a colleague came up to the theoretician. Turning away from us slightly, each man offered the other a panatella. Catherine Lechardoy and I remained facing each other. A distinct silence fell. Then, seeking a way out, she proceeded to talk about the bringing into line of work procedures between the servicing company and the Ministry - that's to say, between the two of us. She was still standing right beside me - our bodies were separated by a gap of thirty centimetres at most. At a certain moment, and with a clearly involuntary gesture, she lightly rubbed the lapel of my jacket between her fingers.
I felt no desire for Catherine Lechardoy; I hadn't the slightest wish to shaft her. She was looking at me and smiling, drinking Cremant, trying her hardest to be brave; nevertheless I knew she really needed to be shafted. That hole she had at the base of her belly must appear so useless to her; a prick can always be cut off, but how do you forget the emptiness of a vagina? Her situation appeared desperate, and my tie was beginning to choke me slightly. After my third glass I came close to suggesting we leave together, go and fuck in some office; on the desk or on the carpet, it didn't matter; I was feeling up to making the necessary gestures. But I kept my mouth shut; and anyway I don't think she'd have accepted; or else I'd have first had to put my arm around her waist, say she was beautiful, brush her lips in a tender kiss. There was no way out, for sure. I briefly excused myself and went to throw up in the toilets.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
I felt no desire for Catherine Lechardoy; I hadn't the slightest wish to shaft her. She was looking at me and smiling, drinking Cremant, trying her hardest to be brave; nevertheless I knew she really needed to be shafted. That hole she had at the base of her belly must appear so useless to her; a prick can always be cut off, but how do you forget the emptiness of a vagina? Her situation appeared desperate, and my tie was beginning to choke me slightly. After my third glass I came close to suggesting we leave together, go and fuck in some office; on the desk or on the carpet, it didn't matter; I was feeling up to making the necessary gestures. But I kept my mouth shut; and anyway I don't think she'd have accepted; or else I'd have first had to put my arm around her waist, say she was beautiful, brush her lips in a tender kiss. There was no way out, for sure. I briefly excused myself and went to throw up in the toilets.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
...of effacement
I was never to see Jean-Yves Frehaut again. And anyway, why would I have? Basically we'd never really clicked. In any event people rarely see each other again these days, even in cases where the relationship begins in an atmosphere of enthusiasm. Sometimes breathless conversations take place, touching on the general aspects of life; sometimes, too, a carnal embrace comes about. Sure, you exchange telephone numbers but, generally speaking, you rarely call again. And even when you do call and meet up, disillusionment and disenchantment rapidly take over from the initial enthusiasm. Believe me, I know life; it's all perfectly cut and dried.
This progressive effacement of human relationships is not without certain problems for the novel. How, in point of fact, would one handle the narration of those unbridled passions, stretching over many years, and at times making their effect felt on several generations? We're a long way from Wuthering Heights, to say the least. The novel form is not conceived for depicting indiffererence or nothingness; a flatter, more terse and dreary discourse would need to be invented.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
This progressive effacement of human relationships is not without certain problems for the novel. How, in point of fact, would one handle the narration of those unbridled passions, stretching over many years, and at times making their effect felt on several generations? We're a long way from Wuthering Heights, to say the least. The novel form is not conceived for depicting indiffererence or nothingness; a flatter, more terse and dreary discourse would need to be invented.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
...of a briefing
The whole thing will be explained to me again next day in the course of a briefing with the theoretician. Thus I learn that a sophisticated three-tier system of training has been set up by the Ministry (therefore by him, if I understand things correctly). It is a question of how best to respond to the needs of the users by means of a complementary, but organically independent, package of training programs.
In real terms I will be involved in a tour that will take me firstly to Rouen for a duration of two weeks, then to Dijon for a week, and lastly to La Roche-sur-Yon for four days. I will leave on the first of December and be home again for Christmas, so as to enable me to 'spend the holidays with my family'. The human aspect has not been forgotten, then. How splendid.
I also learn - and it's a surprise - that I will not be alone in undertaking these training programmes. In effect my company has decided to send two people. We will work in tandem. For twenty-five minutes, and in an agonizing silence, the theoretician points out the advantages and the disadvantages of the tandem training. Finally, in extremis, the advantages seem to carry the day.
I am completely in the dark about the identity of the second person who is required to accompany me. It's probably someone I know. In any event nobody has seen fit to notify me.
Cleverly taking advantage of an unrelated remark he has just made, the theoretician makes the observation that it is a real pity this second person (whose identity will remain a mystery until the last minute) is not there, and that nobody thought it wise to invite him. Pushing on with his argument, he contrives to implicitly suggest that in these conditions my own presence is itself just as useless, or at least of limited use. Which is precisely what I'm thinking.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
In real terms I will be involved in a tour that will take me firstly to Rouen for a duration of two weeks, then to Dijon for a week, and lastly to La Roche-sur-Yon for four days. I will leave on the first of December and be home again for Christmas, so as to enable me to 'spend the holidays with my family'. The human aspect has not been forgotten, then. How splendid.
I also learn - and it's a surprise - that I will not be alone in undertaking these training programmes. In effect my company has decided to send two people. We will work in tandem. For twenty-five minutes, and in an agonizing silence, the theoretician points out the advantages and the disadvantages of the tandem training. Finally, in extremis, the advantages seem to carry the day.
I am completely in the dark about the identity of the second person who is required to accompany me. It's probably someone I know. In any event nobody has seen fit to notify me.
Cleverly taking advantage of an unrelated remark he has just made, the theoretician makes the observation that it is a real pity this second person (whose identity will remain a mystery until the last minute) is not there, and that nobody thought it wise to invite him. Pushing on with his argument, he contrives to implicitly suggest that in these conditions my own presence is itself just as useless, or at least of limited use. Which is precisely what I'm thinking.
[Whatever, Houellebecq, M.]
Sunday, 8 March 2015
...of denial of service
Sunday, 2100. It's happened. The return of Verbivore, and with a vengeance. At 1500 hours yesterday. Exactly three weeks after Zab's contact, if that means anything. However, it's not just breaks now but total silence, on every type of frequency, on every type of material. I had exactly the same reactions as the first time, I assumed that my radio was phut. I tried the TV and assumed the same. But then I quickconnected - if that's the right word for such a slow reaction. Tried to ring Tim but the phone was dead too. I still half-assumed it was only me. Funny that, apparently everyone else reacted in much the same way, according to the Sundays, who've had a field-day. Still cautious though, the new shut-down was only a few hours old when they went to press. But they all report total blackout since three Saturday. They can't contact their correspondents anywhere so they're assuming it's worldwide. The airport journalists had to rush in by taxi (subway halted because no kind of intercom), to say that all planes are grounded and none were landing, and all those landing at the time of the cut-off had a dangerous time of it, one crashed, no survivors. No intercomputer links working.
They make it all sound very dramatic indeed. No one had imagined quite that during the time Verbivore was only partial and intermittent, though various scare-scenarios were written up. You'd have thought they would have organised contingency plans, but no, everyone made do with occasional cuts. Most of the pages in the Sundays are prepared well in advance, so they're still fat, but they had to redo the main news pages and some have brought out these scare-scenarios. I suppose we'll get nothing but those now, since they're bereft of news, so they'll fill their space with speculations, with verbal reports from local journalists who've managed to reach their offices as well as members of the public who'll be hammering to be allowed in and tell their tale or get explanations and reassurances.
It's amazing that the papers could be distributed at all. By van here in London, yes, but are the intercity and suburban trains working? I assume trains need intercom just like the subway. There's going to be a rush on buses and cars and petrol and a total clogging of the road network. And paralysis of every activity that depends on radio-communication, on the telephone and on computer-networks. All activities need constant information, in other words travel, trade, medicine, education, sport, games, politics, research, wars, defence watchfulness, diplomacy, the lot: war and peace.
We'll have to depend on personal contact. And on our imaginations.
[Verbivore, Brooke-Rose, C.]
They make it all sound very dramatic indeed. No one had imagined quite that during the time Verbivore was only partial and intermittent, though various scare-scenarios were written up. You'd have thought they would have organised contingency plans, but no, everyone made do with occasional cuts. Most of the pages in the Sundays are prepared well in advance, so they're still fat, but they had to redo the main news pages and some have brought out these scare-scenarios. I suppose we'll get nothing but those now, since they're bereft of news, so they'll fill their space with speculations, with verbal reports from local journalists who've managed to reach their offices as well as members of the public who'll be hammering to be allowed in and tell their tale or get explanations and reassurances.
It's amazing that the papers could be distributed at all. By van here in London, yes, but are the intercity and suburban trains working? I assume trains need intercom just like the subway. There's going to be a rush on buses and cars and petrol and a total clogging of the road network. And paralysis of every activity that depends on radio-communication, on the telephone and on computer-networks. All activities need constant information, in other words travel, trade, medicine, education, sport, games, politics, research, wars, defence watchfulness, diplomacy, the lot: war and peace.
We'll have to depend on personal contact. And on our imaginations.
[Verbivore, Brooke-Rose, C.]
...of radio-waves
The negative of entropy I suppose, Second Law and all that, I do remember the litcrits grabbing at that because of something someone had said half a century before about their ignorance. That and the Principle of Uncertainty, hardly a writer who didn't have to show he'd heard of them and drag them in at the drop of a thinking cap. John used to say they misapplied the concepts right and left. And just as entropy is always increasing, so negentropy is for ever decreasing, he said, Jip I mean. In the universe at large as well as in local systems. What a depressing thought. Perhaps that's why - no I'm getting confused. How can negentropy, if it means information, be for ever decreasing when all the media are for ever raising information to the nth power?
Well, yes, I did ask him that, and he said that's just the point. Information in the scientific sense. I only ask for information I said. I wish I understood. I ought to, working sometimes in radio-plays, but do actors in front of a mike, or even radio-producers, have to understand radio-waves any more than editors and publishers or even writers have to understand the neurological process of writing? And it is neurological, I can almost feel the thoughts going down through my arm and fingers and pen onto the paper, it's a strain because I'm not used to it but it's a marvellous feeling. Can't think why writers all sit at a keyboard and screen these days, and call themselves wordprocessors. Where was I? Oh yes, both writing and broadcasting are a silent process, because radio-waves make no sound, Jip said, they can even travel in vacuo, the signal's detected as sound only when it activates a receiver. That much I understood. Just like thought in fact, detected only when it hits a vocal cord or a stone, a parchment, a piece of paper, a screen. Stone to screen. That clangs a brainwave-length somewhere. Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. All scattered in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men's skulls. Maybe Jip and Zab are onto something.
[Verbivore, Brooke-Rose, C.]
Well, yes, I did ask him that, and he said that's just the point. Information in the scientific sense. I only ask for information I said. I wish I understood. I ought to, working sometimes in radio-plays, but do actors in front of a mike, or even radio-producers, have to understand radio-waves any more than editors and publishers or even writers have to understand the neurological process of writing? And it is neurological, I can almost feel the thoughts going down through my arm and fingers and pen onto the paper, it's a strain because I'm not used to it but it's a marvellous feeling. Can't think why writers all sit at a keyboard and screen these days, and call themselves wordprocessors. Where was I? Oh yes, both writing and broadcasting are a silent process, because radio-waves make no sound, Jip said, they can even travel in vacuo, the signal's detected as sound only when it activates a receiver. That much I understood. Just like thought in fact, detected only when it hits a vocal cord or a stone, a parchment, a piece of paper, a screen. Stone to screen. That clangs a brainwave-length somewhere. Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. All scattered in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men's skulls. Maybe Jip and Zab are onto something.
[Verbivore, Brooke-Rose, C.]
...of revenge
I had left it to him because I had a broken arm at the time and was too busy learning to write with my left hand. But I know he didn't do it. I know because two years later, when he was rushed off to hospital with acute peritonitis, I was looking for an instruction-book he'd borrowed, and rummaging in his stuff. I found two floppies, marked X, carefully hidden among physics papers in a box. I stared at them. Fleeting butterfly queries were transformed pico into sharp suspicion.
No, the other way round, a sudden sharp suspicion called up fleeting butterfly queries. I checked, and there it was, our original Xorandor story, chatterboxy and unrevised. He must have copied the originals before erasing them to show them to me, callcoded Xorandor and empty. I felt sick with shock. Not because he had wanted to keep them - why not, maybe my request was unreasonable. Not even because he'd broken his promise. But because he had lied to me, and in such an elaborate way. I'm sure the peculiar change in our almost telepathic relationship dates back to that day, though I never said anything. But deeply hurt, I went in for a swift silent revenge. I told myself that if he wanted it kept I would do the keeping, and in exactly the same way. I transferred the content of both floppies onto one more comprehensive smaller disc for my new computer, giving it one of my mystery callcodes. I still have it with me, here in this very attic. I erased his floppies called X and put them back where I had found them, between exactly the same pages in exactly the same place, which had become marked on the paper from the weight of the physics notes. He never mentioned it, so presumably he has them somewhere in his Nasa office and has never called them up. Or else he has, and kept silent, assuming I erased them out of anger but also out of conviction. So which is worse? Not keeping a promise and cheating about it, or sneaking and cheating back, in the same way, out of revenge?
[Verbivore, Brooke-Rose, C.]
No, the other way round, a sudden sharp suspicion called up fleeting butterfly queries. I checked, and there it was, our original Xorandor story, chatterboxy and unrevised. He must have copied the originals before erasing them to show them to me, callcoded Xorandor and empty. I felt sick with shock. Not because he had wanted to keep them - why not, maybe my request was unreasonable. Not even because he'd broken his promise. But because he had lied to me, and in such an elaborate way. I'm sure the peculiar change in our almost telepathic relationship dates back to that day, though I never said anything. But deeply hurt, I went in for a swift silent revenge. I told myself that if he wanted it kept I would do the keeping, and in exactly the same way. I transferred the content of both floppies onto one more comprehensive smaller disc for my new computer, giving it one of my mystery callcodes. I still have it with me, here in this very attic. I erased his floppies called X and put them back where I had found them, between exactly the same pages in exactly the same place, which had become marked on the paper from the weight of the physics notes. He never mentioned it, so presumably he has them somewhere in his Nasa office and has never called them up. Or else he has, and kept silent, assuming I erased them out of anger but also out of conviction. So which is worse? Not keeping a promise and cheating about it, or sneaking and cheating back, in the same way, out of revenge?
[Verbivore, Brooke-Rose, C.]
...of media blackout
As a one-time classicist, I don't have to wonder what people did in ancient times. They met in small numbers. They discussed. They read. They wrote. Commentary would grow and grow as each civilisation declined. But before the electromagnetic waves that we discovered we could generate as support for words of every kind, at every level, in all languages, always the same words, the same images violent and venal and revered, thrown far further afield than they ever could have been in an amphitheatre or an agora, before all this, what did people do? They talked. And the greatest displacements of world consciousness were achieved not in public, on world-wide screens, but in solitude, against the familiar forms of the eternal commentary, filched and reaffixed, refurbished and floundered around.
And now, for more than a century, the eternal commentary weighs heavy upon the air, overloading the waves with tetravocal news bulletins like modern operas, fast rolling Spanish over crisp Serbocrat under pompous English inexorably heard behind the French or vice-quadriversa. Inexorable? Tim once said at a meeting, nonsense, exore it at once. Though he told me privately that radio-astronomers have long been protesting at the drastic reduction of their universe-scrutinising possibilities down to an ever-narrowing beam. But surely mere quantity, even if it can physically dip and twist the frequencies agonisingly out of shape - but that's a mere metaphor, Tim says - couldn't explain these sudden stops. Fused noises, yes, and atmospherics, but not silence, except from trouble at the transmitter, and not all transmitters in the world could so frequently and simultaneously be in trouble. And why aren't words being garbled as on a tape at the wrong speed, or scrambled? But no, just silence.
It is as if the world has suddenly come to the conclusion that from now on it must eat its words. As if man must eat his words, all of them.
[Verbivore, Brooke-Rose, C.]
And now, for more than a century, the eternal commentary weighs heavy upon the air, overloading the waves with tetravocal news bulletins like modern operas, fast rolling Spanish over crisp Serbocrat under pompous English inexorably heard behind the French or vice-quadriversa. Inexorable? Tim once said at a meeting, nonsense, exore it at once. Though he told me privately that radio-astronomers have long been protesting at the drastic reduction of their universe-scrutinising possibilities down to an ever-narrowing beam. But surely mere quantity, even if it can physically dip and twist the frequencies agonisingly out of shape - but that's a mere metaphor, Tim says - couldn't explain these sudden stops. Fused noises, yes, and atmospherics, but not silence, except from trouble at the transmitter, and not all transmitters in the world could so frequently and simultaneously be in trouble. And why aren't words being garbled as on a tape at the wrong speed, or scrambled? But no, just silence.
It is as if the world has suddenly come to the conclusion that from now on it must eat its words. As if man must eat his words, all of them.
[Verbivore, Brooke-Rose, C.]
...of effect
- 7 -
1. Julian: Good! Silence now I hope.2. 2nd Boy: (Simultaneously) That's right. If you want peace and quiet you'll
'ave to pay for it. A token costs one pound and fifty pee. One
pound fifty pee for a round of silence.
3. EFFECTS LOUD LAUGHTER
4. Julian: (Slowly) One pound fifty pence for... a -
5. 2nd Boy: That's right. A round of silence. D'yer want it or do I put another
disc on?
6. Girl: Here's a token. I'll add it to the chocolates.
7. Barbara: Julian, don't get involved, let's go.
8. Julian: Okay, here's your token.
9. 2nd Boy: Thanks Mister God-man.
10. EFFECTS SILENCE. CLICK OF TOKEN IN MACHINE. WHIRR. SCRAPE
OF TABLE. RATTLE OF CUPS. LOUD FLINGMUSIC BLARES
OUT. CHAIR FALLS. NOISE OF FIGHT.
11. Barbara: (Shouting then screaming) Julian! Oh!
12. EFFECTS CHEERS AND LAUGHTER. NOISE MUFFLED AS DOOR BANGS.
QUICK STEPS. CAR ENGINE APPROACHES. SCREECH OF
BRAKES. FLINGSONG BRIEFLY HEARD AS CAFE DOOR
OPENS AND SHUTS. SCREAM. WOMAN'S RUNNING STEPS.
FLINGSONG AGAIN. VOICES GROWING IN ECHO. THEN ONE
LAST LINE OF SONG (SEE BELOW) REPEATED OVER AND
OVER THEN STOPS. VOICES FADE IN AND OUT IN
COUNTERPOINT THEN SILENCE. AMBULANCE SIREN
DISTANT THEN NEARER THEN LOUD THEN STOP. SAME
PHRASE OF SONG REPEATED IN ECHO THEN FADE SLOWLY.
13. Phrase: Lerve comes in silence
But silence also means
Yer lerve - is - gawn
Silence means yer lerve - is - gawn.
14. Voices: a) Is he dead? b) Just look at him, what a mess! c) Poor young man!
d) He ran straight in front of me. e) What a lot of blood!
f) Where's the ambulance... ambulance... ambulance...
15. EFFECTS: WORD 'AMBULANCE' REPEATED TO PHRASE FROM SONG BUT
SONG FADES OUT FIRST. SILENCE.
[Verbivore, Brooke-Rose, C.]
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