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Αυτοχειία
Τρεις μέρες πριν από τον θάνατό του ο Εντουάρ Λεβέ παρέδωσε στον εκδότη του το χειρόγραφο με τίτλο Αυτοχειία. Πρόκειται για το τέταρτο και τελευταίο βιβλίο του ιδιοφυούς συγγραφέα στο οποίο πραγματεύεται τη ζωή του καλύτερού του φίλου, ξεκινώντας από το τέλος της: την αυτοκτονία του. Με το εύρημα αυτό της χρονικής αντιστροφής, η αυτοκτονία μοιάζει με αφετηρία, με την ιδρυτική πράξη, και όχι με την κατάληξη της ζωής του φίλου. Ο αυτοπυροβολισμός των πρώτων σελίδων παραπέμπει στο σύνθημα εκκίνησης, στο πάλαι ποτέ μπαμ του αφέτη στους αγώνες στίβου. Από κει και μετά ξεκινά πράγματι ένας αγώνας δρόμου: ο Λεβέ πρέπει να προλάβει να πει αυτά που θέλει για τον φίλο του, χωρίς να τηρεί καμία σειρά, καμία ακολουθία, χρονική, λογική, αξιολογική ή άλλη.
Πρόκειται για μια απολύτως προσωπική και ιδιότυπη φόρμα και δομή, για ένα είδος που μοιάζει με τελευταίο κρίκο στην αλυσίδα της εξελικτικής διαδικασίας της γραφής, και που δεν συναντάται πουθενά αλλού στην παγκόσμια λογοτεχνία, προκαλώντας με την οριακότητά του τον συναρπαγμό και την καθήλωση του αναγνώστη. Ο Λεβέ, μας έκανε το ανά χείρας δώρο και αμέσως μετά αναχώρησε, αναχώρησε για το άγνωρο, τραγουδώντας.
Πρόκειται για μια απολύτως προσωπική και ιδιότυπη φόρμα και δομή, για ένα είδος που μοιάζει με τελευταίο κρίκο στην αλυσίδα της εξελικτικής διαδικασίας της γραφής, και που δεν συναντάται πουθενά αλλού στην παγκόσμια λογοτεχνία, προκαλώντας με την οριακότητά του τον συναρπαγμό και την καθήλωση του αναγνώστη. Ο Λεβέ, μας έκανε το ανά χείρας δώρο και αμέσως μετά αναχώρησε, αναχώρησε για το άγνωρο, τραγουδώντας.
144 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2008
228 people are currently reading
9,882 people want to read
About the author
Édouard Levé
13books232followersLevé was self-taught as an artist and studied business at the elite École supérieure des sciences économiques et commerciales. He began painting in 1991. Levé made abstract paintings but abandoned the field (claiming to have burned most of his paintings) and took up color photography upon his return from an influential two-month trip to India in 1995.
Levé's first book, Oeuvres (2002), is an imaginary list of more than 500 books by the author, not actually written, although some of the items were taken up as the premisses of later books actually written and published by Levé (for example the photography books éܱ and Pornographie).
Levé traveled in the United States in 2002, writing Autoportrait and taking the photographs for the series éܱ, which pictures small American towns named after cities in other countries. Autoportrait consists entirely of disconnected, unparagraphed sentences of the authorial speaker's assertions and self-description, a "collection of fragments" by a "literary cubist." Zadie Smith has admired the "adolescent aesthetic" of this work, its "mixture of thoughtfulness and self-regard, honest interrogation and mere posing."
His final book, Suicide, although fictional, evokes the suicide of his childhood friend 20 years earlier, which he had also mentioned in "a shocking little addendum, tucked nonchalantly...into Autoportrait." He delivered the manuscript to his editor ten days before he took his own life at 42 years old.
Levé's first book, Oeuvres (2002), is an imaginary list of more than 500 books by the author, not actually written, although some of the items were taken up as the premisses of later books actually written and published by Levé (for example the photography books éܱ and Pornographie).
Levé traveled in the United States in 2002, writing Autoportrait and taking the photographs for the series éܱ, which pictures small American towns named after cities in other countries. Autoportrait consists entirely of disconnected, unparagraphed sentences of the authorial speaker's assertions and self-description, a "collection of fragments" by a "literary cubist." Zadie Smith has admired the "adolescent aesthetic" of this work, its "mixture of thoughtfulness and self-regard, honest interrogation and mere posing."
His final book, Suicide, although fictional, evokes the suicide of his childhood friend 20 years earlier, which he had also mentioned in "a shocking little addendum, tucked nonchalantly...into Autoportrait." He delivered the manuscript to his editor ten days before he took his own life at 42 years old.
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October 26, 2011
Suicide is a brief novel in which the narrator itemizes selected fragmentary details of the life (and death) of a friend who killed himself some twenty years before; these details vary from the particular and anecdotal to the abstract and philosophical. What results is a meandering archeology of suicide itself, both as an individualistic act and as a general phenomenon. The text itself remains incomplete, however, without its necessary epilogue: the author Edouard Levé committed suicide only ten days after he submitted the novel to his publisher.
Without a doubt, Suicide is irrevocably modified by the knowledge of the author's suicide. The art of Edouard Levé's novel becomes thereby inextricably bound to the art of Edouard Levé's death (because that's what suicide is—the art of death—death deprived of its natural agency and revised to the status of act, performance, object). As readers, we are unlikely to believe that the novel and the act are unrelated phenomena; the parity and significance are too insistent to admit of the possibility that Levé never considered suicide until after the novel was finished. Instead, we must, by the very nature of the juxtaposition, interpret the two as intended corollaries. Levé's death completes the novel in the same way that his death completes his life. That is, death not only completes and extinguishes—but it also augments and rewrites whatever preceded it.
Likewise, the author's suicide has become the foundational act of Edouard Levé's novel called Suicide. The two are now inseparable. The novel has graduated from the idle musings of a speculator in death to a prologue to the act itself. Levé has gone where we have yet to go, and he has done so as an act of will. His art is not necessarily strengthened, per se, by its efficacy, but it is certainly changed. It becomes a new thing. How would readers feel about the novel Suicide if its author were still alive? Would the words be less meaningful? Would the content be more ethical?
Suicide is unquestionably one of the most radical works of art. The artist destroys himself. The novel is the artifact. We are left to fill in the gaps between one act and the other.
Without a doubt, Suicide is irrevocably modified by the knowledge of the author's suicide. The art of Edouard Levé's novel becomes thereby inextricably bound to the art of Edouard Levé's death (because that's what suicide is—the art of death—death deprived of its natural agency and revised to the status of act, performance, object). As readers, we are unlikely to believe that the novel and the act are unrelated phenomena; the parity and significance are too insistent to admit of the possibility that Levé never considered suicide until after the novel was finished. Instead, we must, by the very nature of the juxtaposition, interpret the two as intended corollaries. Levé's death completes the novel in the same way that his death completes his life. That is, death not only completes and extinguishes—but it also augments and rewrites whatever preceded it.
Only the living seem incoherent. Death closes the series of events that constitutes their lives. So we resign ourselves to finding a meaning for them. To refuse them this would amount to accepting that a life, and thus life itself, is absurd. Yours had not yet attained the coherence of things done. Your death gave it this coherence.
The way in which you quit it rewrote the story of your life in a negative form. Those who knew you reread each of your acts in light of your last... When you are spoken of, it begins with recounting your death, before going back to explain it. Isn't it peculiar how this final gesture inverts your biography? I've never heard a single person, since your death, tell your life story starting at the beginning. Your suicide has become the foundational act...
Likewise, the author's suicide has become the foundational act of Edouard Levé's novel called Suicide. The two are now inseparable. The novel has graduated from the idle musings of a speculator in death to a prologue to the act itself. Levé has gone where we have yet to go, and he has done so as an act of will. His art is not necessarily strengthened, per se, by its efficacy, but it is certainly changed. It becomes a new thing. How would readers feel about the novel Suicide if its author were still alive? Would the words be less meaningful? Would the content be more ethical?
Suicide is unquestionably one of the most radical works of art. The artist destroys himself. The novel is the artifact. We are left to fill in the gaps between one act and the other.
August 2, 2018
“Given that I am speaking to you, are you dead?�
This particular book has been sitting on mye-book readerfor ages - so long, in fact, that Idon’t recall why Idownloaded it in the first place - but then last night I decided to randomly read the first page and damn, was that first paragraph hooking:
(Trigger warning: suicide)
“One Saturday in the month of August, you leave your home wearing your tennis gear, accompanied by your wife. In the middle of the garden you point out to her that you’ve forgotten your racket in the house. You go back to look for it, but instead of making your way toward the cupboard in the entryway where you normally keep it, you head down into the basement. Your wife doesn’t notice this. She stays outside. The weather is fine. She’s making the most of the sun. A few moments later she hears a gunshot. She rushes into the house, cries out your name, notices that the door to the stairway leading to the basement is open, goes down, and finds you there. You’ve put a bullet in your head with the rifle you had carefully prepared. On the table, you left a comic book open to a double-page spread. In the heat of the moment, your wife leans on the table; the book falls closed before she understands that this was your final message.�
It's beenawhile since anintroducingparagraph hadcaptivated me this much, so I proceededon with my expectations a bit more raised for what's to come. Plus, I then reread the blurb and was that moredazzled:
Suicidecannot be read as simply another novel—it is, in a sense, the author’s own oblique, public suicide note, a unique meditation on this most extreme of refusals. Presenting itself as an investigation into the suicide of a close friend—perhaps real, perhaps fictional—more than twenty years earlier, Levé gives us, little by little, a striking portrait of a man, with all his talents and flaws, who chose to reject his life, and all the people who loved him, in favor of oblivion. Gradually, through Levé’s casually obsessive, pointillist, beautiful ruminations, we come to know a stoic, sensible, thoughtful man who bears more than a slight psychological resemblance to Levé himself. ButSuicideis more than just a compendium of memories of an old friend; it is a near-exhaustive catalog of the ramifications and effects of the act of suicide, and a unique and melancholy farewell to life.
And what I came to notice quite quickly in here was howthe writing seemed to be both breathtaking and utterly eye-catching.
“You remain alive insofar as those who have known you outlive you. You will die with the last of them. Unless some of them have made you live on in words, in the memory of their children. For how many generations will you live on like this, as a character from a story?�
I keptrereading some passages to really let the wordssink into my skin.The writing is unlike anything I’ve read. The second person point of view really weighted in since I rarely get along with it, but in this book it really worked in my favor.
However, what derailed from my reading experience was the seemingly random structure meant to imitate human memory. I rarely, if ever, manage toget along withstream of consciousness writing. Since the novel started out fine enough when the author focused on describing the feelings - and not actions - of his friend, I wasn't that worried about it. But I gradually grewbored of the narrator'sdescriptionssurrounding the past actionsof hisfriend. Following hismovementswhile going on vacations from cul-de-sac to restaurant to hotel wasn'treally working in my favor...So I kept hoping forthe narrative to switchback to focus on describing the feelings of his friend, like this captivating passage:
“When, the next day, your friends repeated to you the words you had spoken to strangers in the café, you remembered nothing of them. It was as though someone else inside you had spoken. You recognized neither your words, nor your thoughts, but you liked them better than you would have if you had remembered saying them. Often all it took was for someone else to speak your own words back to you for you to like them. You would note down those sayings of yours that were repeated back to you. You were the author of this text twice over.�
Ultimately, this read setaroundmortality, friendship, depression and fatigue left mequite exasperated and exhausted by the end of it. I am, however, glad to have given it a go, since it was intriguing to see whatEdouard Levé knowingly worked on as his last novel.
Oh, and I listened a lot to while reading:
3/5 stars
Note: I'm an Amazon Affiliate. If you're interested in buying Suicide, just click on the image below to go through my link. I'll make a small commission!
Support creators you love. Buy a Coffee for nat (bookspoils) with
This particular book has been sitting on mye-book readerfor ages - so long, in fact, that Idon’t recall why Idownloaded it in the first place - but then last night I decided to randomly read the first page and damn, was that first paragraph hooking:
(Trigger warning: suicide)
“One Saturday in the month of August, you leave your home wearing your tennis gear, accompanied by your wife. In the middle of the garden you point out to her that you’ve forgotten your racket in the house. You go back to look for it, but instead of making your way toward the cupboard in the entryway where you normally keep it, you head down into the basement. Your wife doesn’t notice this. She stays outside. The weather is fine. She’s making the most of the sun. A few moments later she hears a gunshot. She rushes into the house, cries out your name, notices that the door to the stairway leading to the basement is open, goes down, and finds you there. You’ve put a bullet in your head with the rifle you had carefully prepared. On the table, you left a comic book open to a double-page spread. In the heat of the moment, your wife leans on the table; the book falls closed before she understands that this was your final message.�
It's beenawhile since anintroducingparagraph hadcaptivated me this much, so I proceededon with my expectations a bit more raised for what's to come. Plus, I then reread the blurb and was that moredazzled:
Suicidecannot be read as simply another novel—it is, in a sense, the author’s own oblique, public suicide note, a unique meditation on this most extreme of refusals. Presenting itself as an investigation into the suicide of a close friend—perhaps real, perhaps fictional—more than twenty years earlier, Levé gives us, little by little, a striking portrait of a man, with all his talents and flaws, who chose to reject his life, and all the people who loved him, in favor of oblivion. Gradually, through Levé’s casually obsessive, pointillist, beautiful ruminations, we come to know a stoic, sensible, thoughtful man who bears more than a slight psychological resemblance to Levé himself. ButSuicideis more than just a compendium of memories of an old friend; it is a near-exhaustive catalog of the ramifications and effects of the act of suicide, and a unique and melancholy farewell to life.
And what I came to notice quite quickly in here was howthe writing seemed to be both breathtaking and utterly eye-catching.
“You remain alive insofar as those who have known you outlive you. You will die with the last of them. Unless some of them have made you live on in words, in the memory of their children. For how many generations will you live on like this, as a character from a story?�
I keptrereading some passages to really let the wordssink into my skin.The writing is unlike anything I’ve read. The second person point of view really weighted in since I rarely get along with it, but in this book it really worked in my favor.
However, what derailed from my reading experience was the seemingly random structure meant to imitate human memory. I rarely, if ever, manage toget along withstream of consciousness writing. Since the novel started out fine enough when the author focused on describing the feelings - and not actions - of his friend, I wasn't that worried about it. But I gradually grewbored of the narrator'sdescriptionssurrounding the past actionsof hisfriend. Following hismovementswhile going on vacations from cul-de-sac to restaurant to hotel wasn'treally working in my favor...So I kept hoping forthe narrative to switchback to focus on describing the feelings of his friend, like this captivating passage:
“When, the next day, your friends repeated to you the words you had spoken to strangers in the café, you remembered nothing of them. It was as though someone else inside you had spoken. You recognized neither your words, nor your thoughts, but you liked them better than you would have if you had remembered saying them. Often all it took was for someone else to speak your own words back to you for you to like them. You would note down those sayings of yours that were repeated back to you. You were the author of this text twice over.�
Ultimately, this read setaroundmortality, friendship, depression and fatigue left mequite exasperated and exhausted by the end of it. I am, however, glad to have given it a go, since it was intriguing to see whatEdouard Levé knowingly worked on as his last novel.
Oh, and I listened a lot to while reading:
3/5 stars
Note: I'm an Amazon Affiliate. If you're interested in buying Suicide, just click on the image below to go through my link. I'll make a small commission!
Support creators you love. Buy a Coffee for nat (bookspoils) with
March 4, 2021
At the center of this book lies a heavy sense of despair, now balled up and lodged somewhere deep inside my belly. It weighs me down even in all my alive-ness. Given that Levé killed himself a mere 10 days after handing the manuscript to his publisher, Suicide does not give to hindsight: it is impossible to read it as a novel that isn't fundamentally also the author's public suicide note.
Ostensibly a searing, pointillistic prose portrait of a friend who chose to violently end his own life 20 years ago; the unsettling balance between the clinical distance of the questions it raises and the forays it makes into the recesses of said friend's consciousness make evident that the "you" this book is addressed to may as well be Édouard Levé himself—a man reflecting on his own self through the lens of artistic labour.
Is this romanticisation? I hardly think so: it is art; a last performance; likely born of pain but proud all the same. Enough is lost in reading this solely as a suicide note—there is simply too much room to speculate about Levé's intentions here, endless room just as in the mind of the deceased friend's father left wondering what part of the comic book fallen shut off the table it was that his son had intended to leave as his last message.
Ostensibly a searing, pointillistic prose portrait of a friend who chose to violently end his own life 20 years ago; the unsettling balance between the clinical distance of the questions it raises and the forays it makes into the recesses of said friend's consciousness make evident that the "you" this book is addressed to may as well be Édouard Levé himself—a man reflecting on his own self through the lens of artistic labour.
Only the living seem incoherent. Death closes the series of events that constitutes their lives. So we resign ourselves to finding a meaning for them. To refuse them this would amount to accepting that a life, and thus life itself, is absurd. Yours had not yet attained the coherence of things done. Your death gave it this coherence.I firmly believe that this quote serves as a key, for the grandiloquence that Levé habitually gives into here�"Your suicide was scandalously beautiful"—hardly seems suited to the thoughts of a man on the brink of embracing oblivion.
Is this romanticisation? I hardly think so: it is art; a last performance; likely born of pain but proud all the same. Enough is lost in reading this solely as a suicide note—there is simply too much room to speculate about Levé's intentions here, endless room just as in the mind of the deceased friend's father left wondering what part of the comic book fallen shut off the table it was that his son had intended to leave as his last message.
"Your grandfather used to speak even less than you did. He would smile in silence when passing by with his fishing rod, walking along the line of trees in order to take the path that led along the riverbank that demarcated the boundary of the park and which was where he was going to spend the afternoon. One day, when I was doing stunts on the branches above the water, my watch fell in. Years later, in the run of a dry summer, the river being low, your grandfather found it. I wound it up again. It started. You’d been dead for two years."Unlike with horror motion pictures, jump-cuts in literature are not crass, perhaps because they mimic the realism of perception. Suicide depicts time and emotion in their true, fragmentary form. As a book narrated by a man in the throes of disquiet interrogating himself as if by an outsider, it juxtaposes pointed clarity on what loneliness, depression, and reticence can feel like with cold questions only the living and the left behind ask of those who are naught.
"You were said to have died of suffering. But there was not as much sadness in you as there is now in those who remember you. You died because you searched for happiness at the risk of finding the void. We shall have to wait for death before we can know what it is that you found. Or before leaving off knowing anything at all, if it is to be silence and emptiness that awaits us."An extraordinary book.
May 3, 2021
Me sentí un poco rehén de este libro. Me gusta que esté contado en segunda persona, pero no me gustó la experiencia de leerlo. Me pasó un poco como cuando se cuentan sueños en las historias. Porque un sueño se narra y es totalmente azaroso, puede ser cualquier sueño, y sabes que no va a afectar a la historia. Aunque en el caso de este libro tampoco hay historia, solo datos de un personaje, que no sabes si es el que escribe, porque tienes el dato de que en la realidad Levé se suicidó un poco después de haberlo escrito. Todo me parece tan trágico, que hubiera preferido no leerlo, para no sentirme mal de que no me encante el libro. Igual me hace cuestionarme cosas que está bueno cuestionar, como el sentido que tiene la literatura, si no es para esto, para también poder contar este tipo de historias.
August 14, 2017
«You did not fear death. You stepped in its path, but without really desiring it: how can one desire something one doesn't know? You didn't deny life but affirmed your taste for the unknown, betting that if something existed on the other side, it would be better than here.»
I feel as if I’ve lost a friend.
I am numb.
The reader cannot help but view Levé ‘s Suicide as Levé’s Suicide note�
Of course this novel should come with a “trigger warning� on the cover. I can’t decide where this emptiness I feel right now comes from. Is it because I could feel the deeper philosophical views of this book? Was it because it felt relatable? Is it because of the suicide committed by the author? Was it because the author’s friend died while being 25 years old and shall remain young forever? Is it because the depression of others saddens me a lot? Probably a mixture of all these.
This constant “you� and its repetition was so direct (obviously) that it made it gloomier.
At some parts though I felt distant and indifferent, but some quotes hurt deeper than a knife..
So read it if you please, but pleaseeeeee be prepared.
Some of my favorites:
“Time is lacking for me
Space is enough for me
The void attracts me�
“Life occupies me
Death completes me�
“Madness precedes me
Sadness follows me
Death awaits me�
«You died because you searched for happiness at the risk of finding the void.»
ΥΓ: ΔΗΜΗΤΡΑ ΣΕ ΕΥΧΑΡΙΣΤΩ ΠΟΛΥΥΥ <3
March 8, 2023
I have sounded this warning off before, but it’s here once again - I will quote full passages from this book. The spoiler is the title, I suppose, but you have been warned.
Édouard Levé wrote this in Suicide:
We don’t know whether Levé edited these lines or not, or whether they were written chronologically and closest to the final, fatal event � in any case, 10 days after the submission of the manuscript for this book to his publisher, he took his own life. As Jan Steyn mentions in the afterword, this fact is the very reason that analysis of the text becomes second nature, more available than with other texts. You begin to comb the sentences for a clue. You will notice the second person used in the text - the author is writing to his friend, someone mentioned very briefly in one line of Autoportrait. As you read this ode to his friend, this exploration of the memories that remain behind, you begin to wonder� what is real? What isn’t? That’s only natural, as some of the details are far too personal to have been relayed to a friend� right? Who knows. We won’t have the chance to go back and ask which part of the narrative belongs to which of the dead men, but the only fact that remains is interpretation. In Steyn’s words: �Suicide demands interpretation. No one who reads this novel and knows of Levé’s suicide (and its timing guarantees that nearly every reader does know of it) can avoid projecting Levé’s questions back onto his own choice of death.�
The danger with this book (and make no mistake, there is danger) is that Levé’s words are pure poetry. Sensual bliss. The artistic suicide, an idea known to readers of literature and often ridiculed, but not taken seriously too often. The wrong reader coming to this at just the wrong time could make the exact interpretation that they shouldn’t. That’s what elevates this piece of art. You stare into the abyss. But let’s toss the Nietzsche quote in here: “If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.�
I will end with this passage but provide no further commentary:
Édouard Levé wrote this in Suicide:
“You did not leave a letter to those close to you, explaining your death. Did you know why you wanted to die? If you did, why not write it down? Out of fatigue from living and disdain for leaving traces that would survive you? Or because the reasons that were pushing you to disappear seemed empty? Maybe you wanted to preserve the mystery of your death, thinking that nothing should be explained. Are there good reasons for committing suicide? Those who survived you asked themselves these questions; they will not find answers.
Your mother cried for you when she learned of your death. She cried for you every day until your burial. She cried for you alone, in her husband’s arms, in the arms of your brother and your sister, in the arms of her mother and your wife. She cried for you during the ceremony, following your coffin to the cemetery, and during your inhumation. When friends, many of them, came to present their condolences, she cried for you. With every hand that she shook, with every kiss she received, she again saw fragments of your past, of the days she believed you to be happy. Faced with your death, scenarios of what you could have lived or experienced with these people, gave them a feeling of immense loss: you had, by your suicide, saddened your past and abolished your future. Your mother cried for you in the days following your funeral, and she cried for you again, alone, whenever she thought of you. Years later, there are many, like her, whose tears flow whenever they think of you.
Regrets? You had some for causing the sadness of those who cried for you, for the love they felt for you, and which you had returned. You had some for the solitude in which you left your wife, and for the emptiness your loved ones would experience. But these regrets you felt merely in anticipation. They would disappear along with you: your survivors would be alone in carrying the pain of your death. This selfishness of your suicide displeased you. But, all things considered, the lull of death won out over life’s painful commotion.�
We don’t know whether Levé edited these lines or not, or whether they were written chronologically and closest to the final, fatal event � in any case, 10 days after the submission of the manuscript for this book to his publisher, he took his own life. As Jan Steyn mentions in the afterword, this fact is the very reason that analysis of the text becomes second nature, more available than with other texts. You begin to comb the sentences for a clue. You will notice the second person used in the text - the author is writing to his friend, someone mentioned very briefly in one line of Autoportrait. As you read this ode to his friend, this exploration of the memories that remain behind, you begin to wonder� what is real? What isn’t? That’s only natural, as some of the details are far too personal to have been relayed to a friend� right? Who knows. We won’t have the chance to go back and ask which part of the narrative belongs to which of the dead men, but the only fact that remains is interpretation. In Steyn’s words: �Suicide demands interpretation. No one who reads this novel and knows of Levé’s suicide (and its timing guarantees that nearly every reader does know of it) can avoid projecting Levé’s questions back onto his own choice of death.�
The danger with this book (and make no mistake, there is danger) is that Levé’s words are pure poetry. Sensual bliss. The artistic suicide, an idea known to readers of literature and often ridiculed, but not taken seriously too often. The wrong reader coming to this at just the wrong time could make the exact interpretation that they shouldn’t. That’s what elevates this piece of art. You stare into the abyss. But let’s toss the Nietzsche quote in here: “If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.�
I will end with this passage but provide no further commentary:
“Your life was less sad than your suicide might suggest. You were said to have died of suffering. But there was not as much sadness in you as there is now in those who remember you. You died because you searched for happiness at the risk of finding the void. We shall have to wait for death before we can know what it is that you found. Or before leaving off knowing anything at all, if it is to be silence and emptiness that awaits us.
The way in which you quit it rewrote the story of your life in a negative form. Those who knew you reread each of your acts in the light of your last. Henceforth, the shadow of this tall black tree hides the forest that was your life. When you are spoken of, it begins with recounting your death, before going back to explain it. Isn’t it peculiar how this final gesture inverts your biography? I’ve never heard a single person, since your death, tell your life’s story starting at the beginning. Your suicide has become the foundational act, and those earlier acts that you had hoped to relieve of their burden of meaning by way of this gesture, the absurdity of which so attracted you, have ended up simply alienated instead. Your final second changed your life in the eyes of others. You are like the actor who, at the end of the play, with a final word, reveals that he is a different character than the one he appeared to be playing.�
June 24, 2021
«Δέκα μέρες αφότου παρέδωσε το χειρόγραφο της Αυτοχειίας στον εκδότη του, το 2007, ο Εντουάρ Λεβέ κρεμάστηκε στο διαμέρισμα του. Ήταν 42 ετών».
Ένας βουβός πόνος είναι κι αυτό, βάρος που πέφτει και συνθλίβει, παραλλήρημα μιας ζωής που πιστεύει πως μπορεί να σωθεί, μα δεν το θέλει, ο θάνατος δεν φαίνεται να είναι το τέλος ούτε της ζωής ούτε της γλυκιάς κτηνωδίας, της τρυφερής τυραννίας του τυχαίου.
Το βιβλίο τούτο είναι αληθινά συναρπαστικό και
σε φοβίζει πολύ γλυκά, πολύ απαλά, σαν την μέθη που διαχέεται στο αίμα σου λίγο πριν την σωτηρία επέμβαση της επιστήμης πάνω στο δικό σου κορμί που αποστασιοποιείται απο όλα κι απο όλους.
Πάνω στην σπασμένη γραμμή που χωρίζει στα δυο το πίσω εσωτερικό μέρος του εγκεφάλου και δημιουργεί μια χαδιάρα σχιζοφρενική διπολικότητα που σπαράζει να ακουστεί απο τη στιγμή της ενδομήτριας δημιουργίας του ανθρώπου.
Ψευδαίσθηση του εγώ που θαρρεί πως αποτινάζει την παράνοια του κόσμου βουλιάζοντας μέσα στην κτηνωδία της ύπαρξης.
Είναι εκπληκτικό το γεγονός πως ο συγγραφέας πραγματεύεται την αυτοκτονία του μέσω ενός φίλου, ενός γνωστού, ενός σπάνια αφοσιωμένου συντρόφου, ο οποίος καθηλώνεται σε μια υπαρξιακή αναπηρία και παλεύει να αγωνιστεί για να ξεφύγει απο κάθε είδους αβελτηρία.
Δεν υπάρχουν λέξεις, φράσεις, ύφος, πλοκή και δομή του έργου αυτού που να προσεγγίζουν στο ελάχιστο έστω τον μελοδραματισμό του αναπόφευκτου του μη αναστρέψιμου. Δεν αποτελεί σε καμία περίπτωση κραυγή απόγνωσης. Εγχειρίδιο θραυσμάτων παντελώς απαλλαγμένο απο φιλοσοφικά ή στοχαστικά λογοτεχνικά επιτεύγματα.
Απουσιάζουν οι μεγάλες ιδέες, οι διαχρονικές ισχυρές και διατυπωμένες με διάκριση - το αντίθετο της διακριτικότητας - γενικεύσεις, κανόνες, μελαγχολικές ικεσίες βοήθειες και ψυχοσωματικές βλάβες που αναζητούν παρέμβαση απο το ψυχικό σθένος και μια τυχαία ταύτιση αναγνωριστικών στμπτωμάτων απο τους αναγνώστες.
Όλα μέσα στην κοιλάδα της αυτοχειρίας φύονται και καλλιεργούνται αποκλειστικά για ιδιωτική χρήση, για ατομικής χρησιμότητας αφορισμούς.
Ίσως γι’αυτ� τούτο το δημιούργημα της πεζογραφικής τέχνης δεν έχει καμία αξίωση, καθόλου αγωνία με σκοπό να εμπλέξει σε καταστάσεις απονενοημένες όσους το προσεγγίζουν αποτελώντας μια κοινότητα που τα θραύσματα του Λεβέ αφορούν αποκλειστικά και μόνο τον ίδιο και αυτό είναι το μυστικό της μαύρης επιτυχίας που καταφέρνει, δείχνοντας μας το μνήμα του και την επιτύμβια πλάκα με τις σκαλισμένες χρονολογίες τού δεν υπάρχω και όμως ζω, τότε ο εαυτός του ή ίσως περισσότερο η εργομετρική επιθανάτια διεργασία του να μας αγγίξουν τόσο πολύ.
Παντού αποπνέει και διαχέεται μέσα στον
θεό-αναγνώστη η άμεση σχέση του τρόπου και των χαρακτηριστικών της γραφής του Λεβέ με ενα υπαρξιακό άγχος.
Διαλέγει για πρωταγωνιστή στην προσμονή του επιθανάτιου ρόγχου του έναν φίλο του και την δευτεροπρόσωπη αφήγηση που κρύβει με την θλίψη της την πρωτοπρόσωπη με σκοπό να εξασφαλίσει μια αντικειμενική χροιά ουδέτερη και ίσως παραιτημένη.
Ο χαρακτήρας που πρωταγωνιστεί στην αυτοχειρία θα μπορούσε κάλιστα να είναι το διαιρεμένο εγώ του συγγραφέα, ένα διασπασμένο εγώ, ένας τρόπος για να αποδοθεί επιτυχώς η διάσταση των εαυτών, όπου η ένας έχει περάσει απέναντι στην άγνωστη χώρα του θανάτου. ενώ ο άλλος μένει λίγο περισσότερο στην ταυτότητα της ύπαρξης με σκοπό να ολοκληρώσει το κείμενο της καταληκτικής διαθήκης του.
Το έργο που θα μείνει πίσω όταν ο ίδιος θα αφανιστεί, το τίμημα που θα καλύψει το ξόδι του απο έναν κόσμο που πεθαίνοντας νέος δεν γερνάς ποτέ.
« Και μετά θα’ρθε� μια μέρα που και το τελευταίο πρόσωπο που θα θυμάται θα πεθάνει»
Β. Ναμπόκοφ.
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς και σεμνούς ασπασμούς.
Ένας βουβός πόνος είναι κι αυτό, βάρος που πέφτει και συνθλίβει, παραλλήρημα μιας ζωής που πιστεύει πως μπορεί να σωθεί, μα δεν το θέλει, ο θάνατος δεν φαίνεται να είναι το τέλος ούτε της ζωής ούτε της γλυκιάς κτηνωδίας, της τρυφερής τυραννίας του τυχαίου.
Το βιβλίο τούτο είναι αληθινά συναρπαστικό και
σε φοβίζει πολύ γλυκά, πολύ απαλά, σαν την μέθη που διαχέεται στο αίμα σου λίγο πριν την σωτηρία επέμβαση της επιστήμης πάνω στο δικό σου κορμί που αποστασιοποιείται απο όλα κι απο όλους.
Πάνω στην σπασμένη γραμμή που χωρίζει στα δυο το πίσω εσωτερικό μέρος του εγκεφάλου και δημιουργεί μια χαδιάρα σχιζοφρενική διπολικότητα που σπαράζει να ακουστεί απο τη στιγμή της ενδομήτριας δημιουργίας του ανθρώπου.
Ψευδαίσθηση του εγώ που θαρρεί πως αποτινάζει την παράνοια του κόσμου βουλιάζοντας μέσα στην κτηνωδία της ύπαρξης.
Είναι εκπληκτικό το γεγονός πως ο συγγραφέας πραγματεύεται την αυτοκτονία του μέσω ενός φίλου, ενός γνωστού, ενός σπάνια αφοσιωμένου συντρόφου, ο οποίος καθηλώνεται σε μια υπαρξιακή αναπηρία και παλεύει να αγωνιστεί για να ξεφύγει απο κάθε είδους αβελτηρία.
Δεν υπάρχουν λέξεις, φράσεις, ύφος, πλοκή και δομή του έργου αυτού που να προσεγγίζουν στο ελάχιστο έστω τον μελοδραματισμό του αναπόφευκτου του μη αναστρέψιμου. Δεν αποτελεί σε καμία περίπτωση κραυγή απόγνωσης. Εγχειρίδιο θραυσμάτων παντελώς απαλλαγμένο απο φιλοσοφικά ή στοχαστικά λογοτεχνικά επιτεύγματα.
Απουσιάζουν οι μεγάλες ιδέες, οι διαχρονικές ισχυρές και διατυπωμένες με διάκριση - το αντίθετο της διακριτικότητας - γενικεύσεις, κανόνες, μελαγχολικές ικεσίες βοήθειες και ψυχοσωματικές βλάβες που αναζητούν παρέμβαση απο το ψυχικό σθένος και μια τυχαία ταύτιση αναγνωριστικών στμπτωμάτων απο τους αναγνώστες.
Όλα μέσα στην κοιλάδα της αυτοχειρίας φύονται και καλλιεργούνται αποκλειστικά για ιδιωτική χρήση, για ατομικής χρησιμότητας αφορισμούς.
Ίσως γι’αυτ� τούτο το δημιούργημα της πεζογραφικής τέχνης δεν έχει καμία αξίωση, καθόλου αγωνία με σκοπό να εμπλέξει σε καταστάσεις απονενοημένες όσους το προσεγγίζουν αποτελώντας μια κοινότητα που τα θραύσματα του Λεβέ αφορούν αποκλειστικά και μόνο τον ίδιο και αυτό είναι το μυστικό της μαύρης επιτυχίας που καταφέρνει, δείχνοντας μας το μνήμα του και την επιτύμβια πλάκα με τις σκαλισμένες χρονολογίες τού δεν υπάρχω και όμως ζω, τότε ο εαυτός του ή ίσως περισσότερο η εργομετρική επιθανάτια διεργασία του να μας αγγίξουν τόσο πολύ.
Παντού αποπνέει και διαχέεται μέσα στον
θεό-αναγνώστη η άμεση σχέση του τρόπου και των χαρακτηριστικών της γραφής του Λεβέ με ενα υπαρξιακό άγχος.
Διαλέγει για πρωταγωνιστή στην προσμονή του επιθανάτιου ρόγχου του έναν φίλο του και την δευτεροπρόσωπη αφήγηση που κρύβει με την θλίψη της την πρωτοπρόσωπη με σκοπό να εξασφαλίσει μια αντικειμενική χροιά ουδέτερη και ίσως παραιτημένη.
Ο χαρακτήρας που πρωταγωνιστεί στην αυτοχειρία θα μπορούσε κάλιστα να είναι το διαιρεμένο εγώ του συγγραφέα, ένα διασπασμένο εγώ, ένας τρόπος για να αποδοθεί επιτυχώς η διάσταση των εαυτών, όπου η ένας έχει περάσει απέναντι στην άγνωστη χώρα του θανάτου. ενώ ο άλλος μένει λίγο περισσότερο στην ταυτότητα της ύπαρξης με σκοπό να ολοκληρώσει το κείμενο της καταληκτικής διαθήκης του.
Το έργο που θα μείνει πίσω όταν ο ίδιος θα αφανιστεί, το τίμημα που θα καλύψει το ξόδι του απο έναν κόσμο που πεθαίνοντας νέος δεν γερνάς ποτέ.
« Και μετά θα’ρθε� μια μέρα που και το τελευταίο πρόσωπο που θα θυμάται θα πεθάνει»
Β. Ναμπόκοφ.
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς και σεμνούς ασπασμούς.
June 3, 2018
Your ghost remains upright in my memory, while your skeleton is decomposing in the earth.
A bare, unadorned recounting of the suicide of the author’s friend, and the life he lived until that point. I say author and not narrator, because, as is widely known, the author committed suicide ten days after handing in the manuscript. As the book unfolds each page will carry the depth and weight of that knowledge, and the reader cannot help but respond with great sympathy.
In the description of the friend’s suicide (I don’t believe it is a spoiler seeing as how it is on the first page), the author says he left a comic book open to a page containing a last message, and in the bustle of trying to revive him it is knocked off the table and the book is closed. The family never get that message. I can’t think of a sadder moment, and since it happens at the very beginning, it is sort of left to fester in the reader’s heart while the rest of the book unfolds. So that when we get to the part where the father has hundreds of pages of the text of that comic in different combinations, that he has been trying to make sense out of it for twenty years, that he has a filing cabinet full, I was really struck and saddened by the man’s suffering.
Also contained in this book is one the most realistic descriptions of what it’s like to start taking depression medication. The numbness, mania, restlessness. How could someone illustrate so well without having intimacy with the process?
Though I chose a grim line to embolden at the beginning of this review, this book isn’t really macabre. The tone isn’t made to illicit pity, but rather understanding. The prose is simple, straightforward. Another reviewer said “cold, detached,� which is apt. They are lines that just sort of limpidly unfurl. Only a single time I was sent to the dictionary. He didn’t want us thinking, he wanted us identifying. And it all produced one of the most poignant and melancholic reading experiences I’ve ever had.
There is a passage that is the method of the whole book in miniature:
I feel of having benefited from this book. I recommend it for anyone dealing with depression, or knowing someone who does. Though it is fiction it is built on truth and one cannot help but walk away with compassion.
A bare, unadorned recounting of the suicide of the author’s friend, and the life he lived until that point. I say author and not narrator, because, as is widely known, the author committed suicide ten days after handing in the manuscript. As the book unfolds each page will carry the depth and weight of that knowledge, and the reader cannot help but respond with great sympathy.
In the description of the friend’s suicide (I don’t believe it is a spoiler seeing as how it is on the first page), the author says he left a comic book open to a page containing a last message, and in the bustle of trying to revive him it is knocked off the table and the book is closed. The family never get that message. I can’t think of a sadder moment, and since it happens at the very beginning, it is sort of left to fester in the reader’s heart while the rest of the book unfolds. So that when we get to the part where the father has hundreds of pages of the text of that comic in different combinations, that he has been trying to make sense out of it for twenty years, that he has a filing cabinet full, I was really struck and saddened by the man’s suffering.
Also contained in this book is one the most realistic descriptions of what it’s like to start taking depression medication. The numbness, mania, restlessness. How could someone illustrate so well without having intimacy with the process?
…You picked up a book and started reading. The words on the page sketched out the lines of an abstract painting; their meaning escaped you. You put it back down; you went into the kitchen and made a sandwich that you didn’t eat. You went into the street to take a stroll, and you came back a few minutes later because you didn’t know why you had gone out. You smoked a cigarette that you put down after a few drags�. Nothing kept your attention�
Though I chose a grim line to embolden at the beginning of this review, this book isn’t really macabre. The tone isn’t made to illicit pity, but rather understanding. The prose is simple, straightforward. Another reviewer said “cold, detached,� which is apt. They are lines that just sort of limpidly unfurl. Only a single time I was sent to the dictionary. He didn’t want us thinking, he wanted us identifying. And it all produced one of the most poignant and melancholic reading experiences I’ve ever had.
There is a passage that is the method of the whole book in miniature:
You used to read dictionaries like other people read novels. Each entry is a character, you’d say, who might be encountered on some other page. Plots, many of them, would form during any random reading. The story changes according to the order in which the entries are read. A dictionary resembles the world more than a novel does, because the world is not a coherent sequence of actions but a constellation of things perceived. It is looked at, unrelated things congregate, and geographic proximity gives them meaning. If events follow each other, they are believed to be the story. But in a dictionary, time doesn’t exist: ABC is neither more nor less chronological than BCA. To portray your life in order would be absurd: I remember at random. My brain resurrects you through stochastic details, like picking marbles out of a bag.
I feel of having benefited from this book. I recommend it for anyone dealing with depression, or knowing someone who does. Though it is fiction it is built on truth and one cannot help but walk away with compassion.
February 8, 2020
Hiç olmadık yerlerde ve zamanlarda aklıma bir bomba gibi bu kitabın başı düşüyor. Sakin bir öğleden sonra evde oturmuşken izlediğim filmin sonunda yönetmen ve oyuncuların ismi siyah ekranda akarken mesela. Ya da denizde epey açılıp kıyıda minicik kalmış insanlara bakarken. Çok komik bulduğum bir olaya ciğerim patlarcasına güldükten hemen sonra. Öyle garip anlarda geliyor kitabın başı aklıma.
En sevdiğim, en vurucu girişlerden biriydi İntihar'ın girişi. Sonrasında sürekli tekrara geçen anlatımla biraz detayları ayıklama görevi üstlendiğimizden okur olarak, yordu. Yine de bittiğinde "güzel bir metin okudum" hissiyle dolmuştum.
Tavsiye ederim.
En sevdiğim, en vurucu girişlerden biriydi İntihar'ın girişi. Sonrasında sürekli tekrara geçen anlatımla biraz detayları ayıklama görevi üstlendiğimizden okur olarak, yordu. Yine de bittiğinde "güzel bir metin okudum" hissiyle dolmuştum.
Tavsiye ederim.
October 29, 2018
“This was what disturbed you the most: that you could, one day, choose to fall.�Un libro que trate un tema como el suicidio ya es delicado, pero que el autor se haya quitado la vida pocos días después de entregar el manuscrito de Suicide es poderosamente desolador.
Suicide aborda el tema de la muerte desde la vida. Desde esos tristes momentos que dejan su marca como espinas de lo que pudo ser pero no fue, de esas luchas internas que de a poco van ganando terreno, de esas sensaciones de desencaje, de evasión al mundo, que no dan respuestas, Levé resplandece lo que es vivir. Una carta privada a un yo muerto y un último regalo, como un esfuerzo agónico de quien ya ha encontrado la fosa, a la vida, que lo acabó matando.
“You were not surprised to find yourself ill adapted to the world, but it did surprise you that the world had produced a being who now lived in it as a foreigner. Do plants commit suicide? Do animals die of helplessness? They either function or disappear. You were perhaps a weak link, an accidental evolutionary dead end, a temporary anomaly not destined to burgeon again.�
October 16, 2018
Se ha dicho que morías de sufrimiento. Pero la tristeza era menos cosa tuya que de los que se acuerdan de ti. Moriste porque buscabas la felicidad pese al riesgo de encontrar el vacío.
Este será uno de mis libros más subrayados de la vida. Por lo pronto lo dejé intacto, por esa estupidez de conservar intacto el libro nuevo, recién salidito de la librería. Pero no va a pasar mucho más hasta que lo vuelva a leer y me encuentre destacando y anotando frases totalmente desenfrenada. Decir que me duró más de 12 horas es una exageración, tan pronto lo tuve conmigo lo empecé, y a las pocas horas lo terminé.
Es un libro jodido de leer, sobre todo porque el tópico principal es un tema sensible y porque te brinda la mirada desde el otro lado, de aquél que tiene que sobrellevar la muerte de un ser querido, del que se queda con mil cosas en la boca, a sabiendas de que nunca va a hacérselo llegar a su destinatario, de aquél al que le tocó ver a los suyos derrumbarse ante el brusco golpe del suicidio. Sin embargo, sentí este libro como un gran abrazo en un momento amargo de mi vida, y de más está decir que me encantó.
Este será uno de mis libros más subrayados de la vida. Por lo pronto lo dejé intacto, por esa estupidez de conservar intacto el libro nuevo, recién salidito de la librería. Pero no va a pasar mucho más hasta que lo vuelva a leer y me encuentre destacando y anotando frases totalmente desenfrenada. Decir que me duró más de 12 horas es una exageración, tan pronto lo tuve conmigo lo empecé, y a las pocas horas lo terminé.
Es un libro jodido de leer, sobre todo porque el tópico principal es un tema sensible y porque te brinda la mirada desde el otro lado, de aquél que tiene que sobrellevar la muerte de un ser querido, del que se queda con mil cosas en la boca, a sabiendas de que nunca va a hacérselo llegar a su destinatario, de aquél al que le tocó ver a los suyos derrumbarse ante el brusco golpe del suicidio. Sin embargo, sentí este libro como un gran abrazo en un momento amargo de mi vida, y de más está decir que me encantó.
June 24, 2021
Ένα Σάββατο του Αυγούστου, βγαίνει από το σπίτι για να πάει για τένις. Γυρνάει πίσω, για να πάρει τη ρακέτα του που ξέχασε, βάζει το πιστόλι στο στόμα του και αυτοκτονεί.
Ο Εντουάρ Λεβε γράφει στην Αυτοχειία, για τη ζωή ενός φίλου του. Ξεκινά από την αυτοκτονία του, από το τέλος της ζωής του. Δέκα μέρες αφού παραδώσει στον εκδότη του το χειρόγραφο, αυτοκτονεί. Είναι 15 Οκτωβρίου του 2007 και είναι 42 χρόνων.
Τα δυο αυτά γεγονότα, λογικά, δεν είναι τυχαία.
Η Αυτοχειία μοιάζει με ένα γράμμα προς το φίλο του, που δεν ζει πια. Η αφήγηση είναι δευτεροπρόσωπη. Ο φίλος του, αυτοκτονεί πολύ νέος και μοιάζει η φιλία τους να ξεκινά μετά. Η αυτοκτονία, στη νουβέλα του Λεβέ, είναι μια εκκίνηση και σε όλη της την διάρκεια προσπαθεί να γράψει όσα θα ήθελα να μοιραστεί, όσα έπρεπε να γνωρίζει ο φίλος του, που δεν μπορεί να απαντήσει. «Σπανίως είχες άδικο αφού μιλούσες λίγο», «Καμία φορά, στη διάρκεια της εβδομάδας, είχες την εντύπωση πως είναι Κυριακή»
Η γραφή είναι μοναδική, σπαραχτική, γεμάτη εικόνες, ανακατεμένες αναμνήσεις, μια κριτική για τους ανθρώπους και τον κόσμο μας, βγαλμένη μέσα από πολύ πόνο, απόγνωση αλλά και αγάπη. Ένας χάος. «Δεν γράφω ιστορίες... Γράφω θραύσματα» έχει πει ο ίδιος ο Λεβέ και προφανώς έχει δίκιο. Κάτι έχει σπάει, κάτι που δεν μπορεί να γυρίσει πίσω το χρόνο και να επιδιορθωθεί. Η πορεία είναι μόνο προς τα μπροστά, είναι σπαρμένη με πόνο και έχει προδιαγεγραμμένο τέλος, είναι εκεί.
Ένα ξεχωριστά όμορφο κείμενο, απελπισμένο όσο ψυχορραγεί.
Ο Εντουάρ Λεβε γράφει στην Αυτοχειία, για τη ζωή ενός φίλου του. Ξεκινά από την αυτοκτονία του, από το τέλος της ζωής του. Δέκα μέρες αφού παραδώσει στον εκδότη του το χειρόγραφο, αυτοκτονεί. Είναι 15 Οκτωβρίου του 2007 και είναι 42 χρόνων.
Τα δυο αυτά γεγονότα, λογικά, δεν είναι τυχαία.
Η Αυτοχειία μοιάζει με ένα γράμμα προς το φίλο του, που δεν ζει πια. Η αφήγηση είναι δευτεροπρόσωπη. Ο φίλος του, αυτοκτονεί πολύ νέος και μοιάζει η φιλία τους να ξεκινά μετά. Η αυτοκτονία, στη νουβέλα του Λεβέ, είναι μια εκκίνηση και σε όλη της την διάρκεια προσπαθεί να γράψει όσα θα ήθελα να μοιραστεί, όσα έπρεπε να γνωρίζει ο φίλος του, που δεν μπορεί να απαντήσει. «Σπανίως είχες άδικο αφού μιλούσες λίγο», «Καμία φορά, στη διάρκεια της εβδομάδας, είχες την εντύπωση πως είναι Κυριακή»
Η γραφή είναι μοναδική, σπαραχτική, γεμάτη εικόνες, ανακατεμένες αναμνήσεις, μια κριτική για τους ανθρώπους και τον κόσμο μας, βγαλμένη μέσα από πολύ πόνο, απόγνωση αλλά και αγάπη. Ένας χάος. «Δεν γράφω ιστορίες... Γράφω θραύσματα» έχει πει ο ίδιος ο Λεβέ και προφανώς έχει δίκιο. Κάτι έχει σπάει, κάτι που δεν μπορεί να γυρίσει πίσω το χρόνο και να επιδιορθωθεί. Η πορεία είναι μόνο προς τα μπροστά, είναι σπαρμένη με πόνο και έχει προδιαγεγραμμένο τέλος, είναι εκεί.
Ένα ξεχωριστά όμορφο κείμενο, απελπισμένο όσο ψυχορραγεί.
July 19, 2021
Συγκλονιστικό!!!!
Η άφιξη με αλλάζει
Η παραμονή μου κοστίζει
Η αποχώρηση με αναγεννά
Ένα λάκτισμα για το αγνωρο
Ταξίδι στην χώρα που κανείς δεν γύρισε
Η άφιξη με αλλάζει
Η παραμονή μου κοστίζει
Η αποχώρηση με αναγεννά
Ένα λάκτισμα για το αγνωρο
Ταξίδι στην χώρα που κανείς δεν γύρισε
January 25, 2023
Η επανεφεύρεση της λογοτεχνίας.
Είναι από τα βιβλία που προκαλούν μια μετακίνηση μέσα σου.
Είναι από τα βιβλία που προκαλούν μια μετακίνηση μέσα σου.
June 11, 2021
"καθως σε ξανασκεφτομαι, δεν υποφερω. Δεν μου λειπεις. Εισαι περισσοτερο παρων στη θυμηση μου, παρα στην κοινη μας ζωη. Αν ζουσες ακομη, μπορει να ειχαμε αποξενωθει. Νεκρος, εισαι ζωντανος και εισαι ζωτικος."
"ο πατερας σου ασκουσε βια στους αλλους, η μητερα σου τους συμπονουσε για τα βασανα τους. Μια μερα εστρεψες τη βια που ειχες κληρονομησει εναντια στον εαυτο σου. Σαν τον πατερα σου την εξωτερικευσες και σαν τη μητερα σου τη δεχτηκες. "
" η γεννηση μού συνεβη
Η ζωη με καταλαμβανει
Ο θανατος με ολοκληρωνει "
Το βιβλιο αυτο το "ανακαλυψα" σε μια μικρη υποσημειωση ενος απο τα καλυτερα βιβλια που διαβασα φετος, της "ανωμαλιας". Εκτοτε το εβλεπα να διαφημιζεται κ να διαβαζεται παντου μιας και βγηκε σε αυτη την ολοκαινουρια εκδοση. Απευθειας, ειπα οτι θελω να το διαβασω, μιας και η "αυτοχειρια", ειναι ουσιαστικα το "σημειωμα" αυτοκτονιας του edouard leve, μιας και 3 μολις μερες αφοτου το παρεδωσε ολοκληρωμενο σαν βιβλιο στον εκδοτη του, αυτοκτονησε.
Το βιβλιο πραγματευεται την ζωη και φυσικα την πορεια του προς την αυτοκτονια, ενος υποτειθεμενου φιλου του συγγραφεα. Γραμμενο στο β'ενικο προσωπο σαν ο ζωντανος φιλος να απευθυνεται στον νεκρο, ωστοσο πολυ συντομα συνειδητοποιεις με καποια ανατριχιλα οτι το κομματι της τεχνης, της διανοησης, της νηφαλιοτητας του Leve, μιλα στο κομματι του που το καταπιε η μοναξια, ο πονος, η καταθλιψη και τελικα ο θανατος, προτου καν επελθει αυτος του σωματος.
Στην αρχη δε μπορω να πω οτι με τραβηξε κατευθειαν το βιβλιο, ομως απο ενα σημειο και μετα κυριολεκτικα τρομαξα με το ποσο με συνεπηρε, με ρουφηξε στις σελιδες και την αληθεια του. Ο σχεδον ασθματικος ρυθμος γραφης που δε σου επιτρεπει να το αφησεις, καθως και καποια συγκεκριμενα σημεια οπως τα 2 ονειρα του "φιλου" που περιγραφονται,οπως και οι τελευταιες σελιδες των τριστιχων, ηταν απλα μοναδικα.
Τελος θα μιλησω για την εξαιρετικη αυτη εκδοση η οποια ηταν εξαιρετικα προσεγμενη στη μεταφραση, το επιμετρο, αλλα και ολη την παρουσιαση του βιβλιου.
"ο πατερας σου ασκουσε βια στους αλλους, η μητερα σου τους συμπονουσε για τα βασανα τους. Μια μερα εστρεψες τη βια που ειχες κληρονομησει εναντια στον εαυτο σου. Σαν τον πατερα σου την εξωτερικευσες και σαν τη μητερα σου τη δεχτηκες. "
" η γεννηση μού συνεβη
Η ζωη με καταλαμβανει
Ο θανατος με ολοκληρωνει "
Το βιβλιο αυτο το "ανακαλυψα" σε μια μικρη υποσημειωση ενος απο τα καλυτερα βιβλια που διαβασα φετος, της "ανωμαλιας". Εκτοτε το εβλεπα να διαφημιζεται κ να διαβαζεται παντου μιας και βγηκε σε αυτη την ολοκαινουρια εκδοση. Απευθειας, ειπα οτι θελω να το διαβασω, μιας και η "αυτοχειρια", ειναι ουσιαστικα το "σημειωμα" αυτοκτονιας του edouard leve, μιας και 3 μολις μερες αφοτου το παρεδωσε ολοκληρωμενο σαν βιβλιο στον εκδοτη του, αυτοκτονησε.
Το βιβλιο πραγματευεται την ζωη και φυσικα την πορεια του προς την αυτοκτονια, ενος υποτειθεμενου φιλου του συγγραφεα. Γραμμενο στο β'ενικο προσωπο σαν ο ζωντανος φιλος να απευθυνεται στον νεκρο, ωστοσο πολυ συντομα συνειδητοποιεις με καποια ανατριχιλα οτι το κομματι της τεχνης, της διανοησης, της νηφαλιοτητας του Leve, μιλα στο κομματι του που το καταπιε η μοναξια, ο πονος, η καταθλιψη και τελικα ο θανατος, προτου καν επελθει αυτος του σωματος.
Στην αρχη δε μπορω να πω οτι με τραβηξε κατευθειαν το βιβλιο, ομως απο ενα σημειο και μετα κυριολεκτικα τρομαξα με το ποσο με συνεπηρε, με ρουφηξε στις σελιδες και την αληθεια του. Ο σχεδον ασθματικος ρυθμος γραφης που δε σου επιτρεπει να το αφησεις, καθως και καποια συγκεκριμενα σημεια οπως τα 2 ονειρα του "φιλου" που περιγραφονται,οπως και οι τελευταιες σελιδες των τριστιχων, ηταν απλα μοναδικα.
Τελος θα μιλησω για την εξαιρετικη αυτη εκδοση η οποια ηταν εξαιρετικα προσεγμενη στη μεταφραση, το επιμετρο, αλλα και ολη την παρουσιαση του βιβλιου.
January 9, 2023
I read Levé's Autoportrait when it was first published in English in 2012. It's important to read both books (preferably less than 10 years apart), as they are clearly connected.
July 16, 2012
Leve, as the whole world and his goat knows, delivered the manuscript of Suicide to his publishers and committed suicide ten days later, thus ensuring immediate and spectacular (posthumous) literary canonisation.
Primarily a photographer, Leve likes a certain formal distance in subject -object interaction, a reserved detachment which works well with his photography and yields mixed results in Suicide.
In a series of photo portraits under the thema of pornography, Leve does this:
and this
Clothed pornography: Like I said, the man likes to keep his distance.
But in Suicide, this emotional reserve engenders a clinical feel which keeps me at a remove. The minute details, randomly quilted from a temporal perspective, of the life of a 25 year old man who commits suicide, are thoroughly parsed out and laid out for spectation, like the uncoiled furl of a DNA chain strung out in line.
Limpid prose recounts the myriad tendencies, likes, dislikes and predispositions of the Suicide, each event a mini horizon, the building block on which subsequent quotidia accrete overwhelmingly until the structure consciousness, satiated from its own over impregnated qualia, elicits one last weight-groan and folds back into itself: suicide.
The semi ‘pointillist ruminations� here seem to work much better in ‘Autoportrait�, which I read online, and which is the far more superior and original trope. This is an excerpt of ’When I look at a strawberry I think of a tongue�, which illustrates the style:
'I do not know how to interrupt an interlocutor who bores me. I have good digestion. I love summer rain. I have trouble understanding why people give stupid presents. Presents make me feel awkward, whether I am the giver or the receiver, unless they are the right ones, which is rare. Although I am self-employed, I observe the weekend. I have never kissed a lover in front of my parents. I do not have a weekend place because I do not like to open and then shut a whole lot of shutters over the course of two days. I have not hugged a male friend tight. I have not seen the dead body of a friend. I have seen the dead bodies of my grandmother and my uncle. I have not kissed a boy. I used to have sex with women my own age, but as I got older they got younger. I do not buy used shoes. I have made love on the roof of the thirtieth floor of a building in Hong Kong. I have made love in the daytime in a public garden in Hong Kong. I have made love in the toilet of the Paris–Lyon TGV. I have made love in front of some friends at the end of a very drunken dinner. I have made love in a staircase on the avenue Georges-Mandel. I have made love to a girl at a party at six in the morning, five minutes after asking, without any preamble, if she wanted to. I have made love standing up, sitting down, lying down, on my knees, stretched out on one side or the other. I have made love to one person at a time, to two, to three, to more. I have smoked hashish and opium, I have done poppers, I have snorted cocaine. I find fresh air more intoxicating than drugs. I smoked my first joint at age fourteen in Segovia, a friend and I had bought some “chocolate� from a guard in the military police, I couldn’t stop laughing and I ate the leaves of an olive tree. I smoked several joints in the bosom of my grammar school, the Collège Stanislas, at the age of fifteen. The girl whom I loved the most left me. At ten I cut my finger in a flour mill. At six I broke my nose getting hit by a car. At fifteen I skinned my hip and -elbow falling off a moped, I had decided to defy the street, riding with no hands, looking backward'
Primarily a photographer, Leve likes a certain formal distance in subject -object interaction, a reserved detachment which works well with his photography and yields mixed results in Suicide.
In a series of photo portraits under the thema of pornography, Leve does this:
and this
Clothed pornography: Like I said, the man likes to keep his distance.
But in Suicide, this emotional reserve engenders a clinical feel which keeps me at a remove. The minute details, randomly quilted from a temporal perspective, of the life of a 25 year old man who commits suicide, are thoroughly parsed out and laid out for spectation, like the uncoiled furl of a DNA chain strung out in line.
Limpid prose recounts the myriad tendencies, likes, dislikes and predispositions of the Suicide, each event a mini horizon, the building block on which subsequent quotidia accrete overwhelmingly until the structure consciousness, satiated from its own over impregnated qualia, elicits one last weight-groan and folds back into itself: suicide.
The semi ‘pointillist ruminations� here seem to work much better in ‘Autoportrait�, which I read online, and which is the far more superior and original trope. This is an excerpt of ’When I look at a strawberry I think of a tongue�, which illustrates the style:
'I do not know how to interrupt an interlocutor who bores me. I have good digestion. I love summer rain. I have trouble understanding why people give stupid presents. Presents make me feel awkward, whether I am the giver or the receiver, unless they are the right ones, which is rare. Although I am self-employed, I observe the weekend. I have never kissed a lover in front of my parents. I do not have a weekend place because I do not like to open and then shut a whole lot of shutters over the course of two days. I have not hugged a male friend tight. I have not seen the dead body of a friend. I have seen the dead bodies of my grandmother and my uncle. I have not kissed a boy. I used to have sex with women my own age, but as I got older they got younger. I do not buy used shoes. I have made love on the roof of the thirtieth floor of a building in Hong Kong. I have made love in the daytime in a public garden in Hong Kong. I have made love in the toilet of the Paris–Lyon TGV. I have made love in front of some friends at the end of a very drunken dinner. I have made love in a staircase on the avenue Georges-Mandel. I have made love to a girl at a party at six in the morning, five minutes after asking, without any preamble, if she wanted to. I have made love standing up, sitting down, lying down, on my knees, stretched out on one side or the other. I have made love to one person at a time, to two, to three, to more. I have smoked hashish and opium, I have done poppers, I have snorted cocaine. I find fresh air more intoxicating than drugs. I smoked my first joint at age fourteen in Segovia, a friend and I had bought some “chocolate� from a guard in the military police, I couldn’t stop laughing and I ate the leaves of an olive tree. I smoked several joints in the bosom of my grammar school, the Collège Stanislas, at the age of fifteen. The girl whom I loved the most left me. At ten I cut my finger in a flour mill. At six I broke my nose getting hit by a car. At fifteen I skinned my hip and -elbow falling off a moped, I had decided to defy the street, riding with no hands, looking backward'
October 31, 2017
'Ağustos ayında bir Cumartesi günü, üstünde tenis giysileri, yanında karın, evinden çıkıyorsun. Bahçenin ortasına geldiğinizde, raketini evde unuttuğunu söylüyorsun ona. Almaya gidiyorsun, ama girişteki, raketini genelde koyduğun dolaba yönelmek yerine, mahzene iniyorsun. Karın bunun farkında değil, dışarıda bekliyor, hava güzel, güneşin tadının çıkarıyor. Birkaç saniye sonra, bir silah sesi duyuyor. Eve koşuyor, adını haykırıyor, mahzene giden merdivenlerin kapısının açık olduğunu görüyor, inince seni buluyor. Önceden özenle hazırladığın tüfekle başına ateş etmişsin. Masanın üstünde, sayfası açık bir çizgi roman bırakmışsın. Ne yapacağını şaşıran karın masaya dayanıyor, kitap o bunun son mesajın olduğunu anlayamadan kapanıp düşüyor.'
Edouard Leve'nin otoportresinin hemen ardından intiharını okumak iyi bir strateji. 25 yaşında bir gün aniden intihar eden arkadaşına ikinci tekilden yazılmış bir mektup gibi başlayıp yazarın kendisine mi yoksa hala arkadaşına mı hitap ettiği zaman zaman karışan okuması keyifli ama bir o kadar da hüzünlü bir kitap. Analizler, karakterin yazarın bir alter egosu olarak da okunabileceğini söylüyor. Saptadığım en az 3-5 paragraf var ki, hemen öncesinde otoportreyi okumuş olmasaydım çok rahat atlayabilirdim, bu alter ego fikrini iyice destekliyor. Tabii yazarın kitabı yayın evine teslim ettikten 10 gün sonra kendini asarak öldürmüş olmasını zihnin bir köşesine önceden yazmış olmak da bu sonucu çıkarmaya kesin yardımcı olmuştur.
Gerçek hayat hikayesinden yola çıksa da ne kadarı kurgu, ne kadarı otobiyografik hiç bir zaman bilemeyeceğimiz esrarlı bir roman. Hayatla, yaşantılarla, ilişkilerle ilgili güzel saptamalar var. Okumayı bitirdiğimde karakteri yolda görsem tanırdım hissiyle kitabı kapattım. Açtığı parantezlerse hala öyle duruyor.
Edouard Leve'nin otoportresinin hemen ardından intiharını okumak iyi bir strateji. 25 yaşında bir gün aniden intihar eden arkadaşına ikinci tekilden yazılmış bir mektup gibi başlayıp yazarın kendisine mi yoksa hala arkadaşına mı hitap ettiği zaman zaman karışan okuması keyifli ama bir o kadar da hüzünlü bir kitap. Analizler, karakterin yazarın bir alter egosu olarak da okunabileceğini söylüyor. Saptadığım en az 3-5 paragraf var ki, hemen öncesinde otoportreyi okumuş olmasaydım çok rahat atlayabilirdim, bu alter ego fikrini iyice destekliyor. Tabii yazarın kitabı yayın evine teslim ettikten 10 gün sonra kendini asarak öldürmüş olmasını zihnin bir köşesine önceden yazmış olmak da bu sonucu çıkarmaya kesin yardımcı olmuştur.
Gerçek hayat hikayesinden yola çıksa da ne kadarı kurgu, ne kadarı otobiyografik hiç bir zaman bilemeyeceğimiz esrarlı bir roman. Hayatla, yaşantılarla, ilişkilerle ilgili güzel saptamalar var. Okumayı bitirdiğimde karakteri yolda görsem tanırdım hissiyle kitabı kapattım. Açtığı parantezlerse hala öyle duruyor.
February 14, 2020
"Birth befalls me
Life occupies me
Death completes me"
Life occupies me
Death completes me"
February 21, 2025
❤️ فوق العاده بود...
❤️ مرگ انتظارم را میکشد...
❤️ زندگی به من پیشنهاد شده، نامم بر من گذارده شده، جسمم به من تحمیل شده...
❤️ زمان برایم کم است، فضا برایم کافیست...
❤️ مرگ انتظارم را میکشد...
❤️ زندگی به من پیشنهاد شده، نامم بر من گذارده شده، جسمم به من تحمیل شده...
❤️ زمان برایم کم است، فضا برایم کافیست...
May 12, 2016
Edouard Leve'in bu kitabı yayıncıya teslim ettikten on gün sonra intihar ettiği düşünülürse, bu kitap da bir "intihar güncesi"ne dönüşüyor.
“Ağustos ayında bir Cumartesi günü, üstünde tenis giysileri, yanında karın, evinden çıkıyorsun. Bahçenin ortasına geldiğinizde, raketini evde unuttuğunu söylüyorsun ona. Almaya gidiyorsun, ama girişteki, raketini genelde koyduğun dolaba yönelmek yerine, mahzene iniyorsun. Karın bunun farkında değil, dışarıda bekliyor, hava güzel, güneşin tadını çıkarıyor. Birkaç saniye sonra, bir silah sesi duyuyor. Eve koşuyor, adını haykırıyor, mahzene giden merdivenlerin kapısının açık olduğunu görüyor, inince seni buluyor. Önceden özenle hazırladığın tüfekle başına ateş etmişsin.�
"Peru'ya gitmedin, siyah potinleri sevmedin, pembe çakıllı bir yolda yalınayak yürümedin. yapmadığın o kadar çok şey var ki insanın başı dönüyor, çünkü bizim de yapamayacağımız ne kadar çok şeyin olacağını gösteriyor. zamanımız yetmeyecek. sen beklememeyi seçtin. Sonsuz sanıldığı için yaşama tutunulmasını sağlayan gelecekten vazgeçtin. İnsan tüm yeryüzünü kucaklamayı, tüm meyvelerin tadına bakmayı, tüm insanları sevmeyi isteyebilir. Bizi umutla besleyen bu yanılsamalara sırt çevirdin."
“Ağustos ayında bir Cumartesi günü, üstünde tenis giysileri, yanında karın, evinden çıkıyorsun. Bahçenin ortasına geldiğinizde, raketini evde unuttuğunu söylüyorsun ona. Almaya gidiyorsun, ama girişteki, raketini genelde koyduğun dolaba yönelmek yerine, mahzene iniyorsun. Karın bunun farkında değil, dışarıda bekliyor, hava güzel, güneşin tadını çıkarıyor. Birkaç saniye sonra, bir silah sesi duyuyor. Eve koşuyor, adını haykırıyor, mahzene giden merdivenlerin kapısının açık olduğunu görüyor, inince seni buluyor. Önceden özenle hazırladığın tüfekle başına ateş etmişsin.�
"Peru'ya gitmedin, siyah potinleri sevmedin, pembe çakıllı bir yolda yalınayak yürümedin. yapmadığın o kadar çok şey var ki insanın başı dönüyor, çünkü bizim de yapamayacağımız ne kadar çok şeyin olacağını gösteriyor. zamanımız yetmeyecek. sen beklememeyi seçtin. Sonsuz sanıldığı için yaşama tutunulmasını sağlayan gelecekten vazgeçtin. İnsan tüm yeryüzünü kucaklamayı, tüm meyvelerin tadına bakmayı, tüm insanları sevmeyi isteyebilir. Bizi umutla besleyen bu yanılsamalara sırt çevirdin."
Read
February 23, 2024 In books, life, whether it was documented or invented, seemed to you more real than the life you saw and heard for yourself. It was when you were alone that you used to perceive real life. When you recalled it, it was made weaker by your memory’s many points of imprecision. But others had imagined life in books: what you were reading was the superimposition of two consciousnesses, yours and that of the author. You used to doubt what you had perceived, but never what others invented. You suffered real life in its continuous stream, but you controlled the flow of fictional life by reading at your own rhythm: you could stop, speed up, or slow down; go backward or jump into the future. As a reader, you had the power of a god: time submitted to you. As for words, even the best-chosen ones, they passed like the wind. They would leave traces in your memory, but your recollecting them made you doubt their existence. Did you reconstruct them as they had been spoken, or did you remodel them in your own style? (p 37)
February 7, 2022
Never again will he wake.
"Never again will you wake
Never again will you know
The unremitting, unrelenting grievous
Pain of waking."
_Jibanananda Das*
So,how to review this book?this is edouard leve's novel which is literally his suicide note!! he committed suicide on 15th october,2007 shortly after giving the manuscript to his editor. it feels surreal to read and absorb someone's suicide note. Leve narrated the story in second person which makes it more heart breaking.this novel is mind numbing,perplexing yet hypnotic at the same time. I think undermentioned lines will haunt me for a long time-
"Never again will you wake
Never again will you know
The unremitting, unrelenting grievous
Pain of waking."
_Jibanananda Das*
So,how to review this book?this is edouard leve's novel which is literally his suicide note!! he committed suicide on 15th october,2007 shortly after giving the manuscript to his editor. it feels surreal to read and absorb someone's suicide note. Leve narrated the story in second person which makes it more heart breaking.this novel is mind numbing,perplexing yet hypnotic at the same time. I think undermentioned lines will haunt me for a long time-
Your life was less sad than your suicide might suggest. You were said to have died of suffering. But there was not as much sadness in you as there is now in those who remember you. You died because you searched for happiness at the risk of finding the void. We shall have to wait for death before we can know what it is that you found. Or before leaving off knowing anything at all, if it is to be silence and emptiness that awaits us.
June 28, 2018
"You seldom spoke because you seldom went out. If you did go out, you listened and watched. Now, since you no longer speak, you will always be right. In truth, you do still speak: through those, like me, who bring you back to life and interrogate you. We hear your responses and admire their wisdom. If the facts turn out to contradict your counsel, we blame ourselves for having misinterpreted you. Yours are the truths, ours are the errors.
You remain alive insofar as those who have known you outlive you. You will die with the last of them. Unless some of them have made you live on in words, in the memory of their children. For how many generations will you live on like this, as a character from a story?"
---
"Your suicide was the most important thing you ever said, but you’ll never be able to enjoy the fruits of this labor."
---
"You are a book that speaks to me whenever I need it. Your death has written your life."
---
"A ruin is an accidental aesthetic object. If it becomes beautiful, this was certainly not the intention. A ruin is not constructed or maintained. The tendency of a ruin is to crumble down into a heap. The most beautiful parts remain standing despite their wear and tear. The memory of you is what stays up, your body what subsides. Your ghost remains upright in my memory, while your skeleton is decomposing in the earth."
---
"In art, to reduce is to perfect. Your disappearance bestowed a negative beauty on you."
---
"You renounced the future, the future that allows for survival, because we believe it is infinite. We want to be able to embrace all the earth, to taste all its fruits, to love all men. You rejected these illusions, which feed us with hope."
---
"You directed toward yourself a violence that you did not feel toward others. For them you reserved all your patience and tolerance."
---
"You had a gift for perceiving in an instant how long-or short-lived friendships were, from the amount of noise a conversation generated, from the liveliness of the voices, from the play of glances. You would have preferred to join a group of strangers getting to know each other rather than this tribe that had formed so far from you, so long ago."
---
"Sun, heat, and light, which delighted those around you, appeared to you as perturbations of your solitude, summons to the outdoors, obligations to joy. You refused to have your euphoria put down to climate. You wanted to be solely responsible for it. If you were asked to do something on account of the good weather, you declined the invitation. Gray weather, winter, rain, or cold did not displease you. Nature then seemed to be in tune with your mood. If the weather was poor, you would be let off the hook, no one would think of reproaching you for not going out."
---
"You realized how the euphoria they had created was artificial. The down periods that followed this enthusiasm were more intense than before. You had less control over yourself; the medication had taken possession of your moods. Was a little bit of fake happiness worth losing your free will? You decided to give up these chemical crutches, which either split you in two or made you stupid. But your body had become accustomed to them. You needed to make it through two weeks of exhaustion and various new anguishes before becoming yourself again."
---
"Your end was premeditated. You had conceived of a scenario where your body would be found immediately after your death. You didn’t want it to stay there decomposing for days, for it to be found rotten like that of some forgotten hermit. You did violence to your living body, but you didn’t want it to be found, in death, victim to degradations other than those you had inflicted on it yourself."
---
"Though you knew how to speak with whomever you wanted, you preferred asking questions to making assertions. You could listen endlessly to someone answering your questions, or to several people speaking together on a subject that you had brought up. Not liking to speak about yourself in public, your questions allowed you to hide yourself behind the position of listener."
---
"Over the course of your sleepless nights, eyes closed, time did away with itself, thoughts and scenarios looped through your brain with the regularity of a clock. Like an adult looking at a merry-go-round designed for children, you observed the spinning of your reveries. They brought buried memories back to your consciousness, which disappeared the moment you recognized them and reappeared at the next turn before disappearing anew. You watched scenes unfurl, a passive spectator, as though at a film."
---
"As my thoughts turn to you again, I do not suffer. I do not miss you. You are more present in my memory than you were in the life we shared. If you were still alive, you would perhaps have become a stranger to me. Dead, you are as alive as you are vivid."
You remain alive insofar as those who have known you outlive you. You will die with the last of them. Unless some of them have made you live on in words, in the memory of their children. For how many generations will you live on like this, as a character from a story?"
---
"Your suicide was the most important thing you ever said, but you’ll never be able to enjoy the fruits of this labor."
---
"You are a book that speaks to me whenever I need it. Your death has written your life."
---
"A ruin is an accidental aesthetic object. If it becomes beautiful, this was certainly not the intention. A ruin is not constructed or maintained. The tendency of a ruin is to crumble down into a heap. The most beautiful parts remain standing despite their wear and tear. The memory of you is what stays up, your body what subsides. Your ghost remains upright in my memory, while your skeleton is decomposing in the earth."
---
"In art, to reduce is to perfect. Your disappearance bestowed a negative beauty on you."
---
"You renounced the future, the future that allows for survival, because we believe it is infinite. We want to be able to embrace all the earth, to taste all its fruits, to love all men. You rejected these illusions, which feed us with hope."
---
"You directed toward yourself a violence that you did not feel toward others. For them you reserved all your patience and tolerance."
---
"You had a gift for perceiving in an instant how long-or short-lived friendships were, from the amount of noise a conversation generated, from the liveliness of the voices, from the play of glances. You would have preferred to join a group of strangers getting to know each other rather than this tribe that had formed so far from you, so long ago."
---
"Sun, heat, and light, which delighted those around you, appeared to you as perturbations of your solitude, summons to the outdoors, obligations to joy. You refused to have your euphoria put down to climate. You wanted to be solely responsible for it. If you were asked to do something on account of the good weather, you declined the invitation. Gray weather, winter, rain, or cold did not displease you. Nature then seemed to be in tune with your mood. If the weather was poor, you would be let off the hook, no one would think of reproaching you for not going out."
---
"You realized how the euphoria they had created was artificial. The down periods that followed this enthusiasm were more intense than before. You had less control over yourself; the medication had taken possession of your moods. Was a little bit of fake happiness worth losing your free will? You decided to give up these chemical crutches, which either split you in two or made you stupid. But your body had become accustomed to them. You needed to make it through two weeks of exhaustion and various new anguishes before becoming yourself again."
---
"Your end was premeditated. You had conceived of a scenario where your body would be found immediately after your death. You didn’t want it to stay there decomposing for days, for it to be found rotten like that of some forgotten hermit. You did violence to your living body, but you didn’t want it to be found, in death, victim to degradations other than those you had inflicted on it yourself."
---
"Though you knew how to speak with whomever you wanted, you preferred asking questions to making assertions. You could listen endlessly to someone answering your questions, or to several people speaking together on a subject that you had brought up. Not liking to speak about yourself in public, your questions allowed you to hide yourself behind the position of listener."
---
"Over the course of your sleepless nights, eyes closed, time did away with itself, thoughts and scenarios looped through your brain with the regularity of a clock. Like an adult looking at a merry-go-round designed for children, you observed the spinning of your reveries. They brought buried memories back to your consciousness, which disappeared the moment you recognized them and reappeared at the next turn before disappearing anew. You watched scenes unfurl, a passive spectator, as though at a film."
---
"As my thoughts turn to you again, I do not suffer. I do not miss you. You are more present in my memory than you were in the life we shared. If you were still alive, you would perhaps have become a stranger to me. Dead, you are as alive as you are vivid."
December 24, 2019
Balkondayım. İplik kesimli bulut parçalarının bezediği nefis bir gün batımı yaşanıyor. Balkondayım, çünkü evden az önce ayrılan dostlarıma el sallamam gerekiyordu. Şimdi iyice uzaklaştılar, yola dikilmiş yokuşu ağır ağır, yaşlanmaya hazırlanan genç eskileri olarak çıktılar. Balkondayım ve uzun süre burada duracağım. Beni anlamamalarına bozulduğum yok ama her insan gibi anlaşılmak hoşuma gidiyor. Bir yönüyle gülünç bu. Anlamak yoksa da rötuşlanmış yanılgı var. Saygı gibi herkesin boyundan büyük kavramların altında kalmak var. Mezarlıklar saygıdan geçilmiyor. Gözler kısık, anılar suluboya� Yağmur çamur içinde, Zen rahipleri gibi yarım tebessüm dalıp gitmeler içinde mesai.
Balkondayım. Hemen girip sofrayı toplamak istemiyorum. Rujlu bardaklar, sıyrılmış kemiklerle, sos artıklarıyla dolu tabaklar, yağlı peçete topları beklesin biraz. Hem yemek masasının arkasındaki o kuyuya, aynaya düşmeye pek niyetim yok.
Balkondayım. Hemen girip sofrayı toplamak istemiyorum. Rujlu bardaklar, sıyrılmış kemiklerle, sos artıklarıyla dolu tabaklar, yağlı peçete topları beklesin biraz. Hem yemek masasının arkasındaki o kuyuya, aynaya düşmeye pek niyetim yok.
October 14, 2014
Death was never such a clean reading pleasure.
Absolute despair is the unspoken center of this novel. Radiating around it are crisply clinical depictions and descriptions of disconnected experiences haunted by this despair (with suicide as foreknowledge).
Despair is an intimate stranger studied with cold obliquity.
Total cool never penetrated so deeply.
A chill runs through the reader.
Suicide has never been so exhilarating; so cold, so paradoxically warming.
Suicide as a way to preserve one's clarity before it blurs and fades.
Suicide as a mirror of one's estrangement.
Suicide as life's microscope.
Suicide as a cryogenic literary experiment, preserving one's head and perceptions as is.
Suicide as a path of knowledge.
Suicide as preserving extinction.
Suicide as clear eyes as clear sky.
Absolute despair is the unspoken center of this novel. Radiating around it are crisply clinical depictions and descriptions of disconnected experiences haunted by this despair (with suicide as foreknowledge).
Despair is an intimate stranger studied with cold obliquity.
Total cool never penetrated so deeply.
A chill runs through the reader.
Suicide has never been so exhilarating; so cold, so paradoxically warming.
Suicide as a way to preserve one's clarity before it blurs and fades.
Suicide as a mirror of one's estrangement.
Suicide as life's microscope.
Suicide as a cryogenic literary experiment, preserving one's head and perceptions as is.
Suicide as a path of knowledge.
Suicide as preserving extinction.
Suicide as clear eyes as clear sky.
June 15, 2020
Senryu Review:
Quietus as art
vignettes of self-cancelling
lucid sadnesses
Quietus as art
vignettes of self-cancelling
lucid sadnesses
June 15, 2021
«Αυτοχειία»
Ένα ανάγνωσμα σκέψεων, συναισθημάτων! Μια κατάθεση ψυχής, πόνου, μοναξιάς, απομόνωσης, απόγνωσης.
Ένας ήρωας που απευθύνεται σε β� πρόσωπο επιδιώκοντας να κρύψει το εγώ. Μέσα από το λόγο του, απευθυνόμενος στον αναγνώστη βλέπει τον εαυτό του, τη ζωή του.
Ο κεντρικός ήρωας αυτοκτονεί έπειτα από έναν κυριολεκτικό γολγοθά μιας απρόσωπης ζωής. Μια ζωή που δεν τον συγκινεί, στην οποία δρα απαθέστατα και μίζερα. Σε κάθε εκδήλωση αυτός παρίσταται ως βουβό πρόσωπο.
Εγκλωβίζεται σε σκέψεις που μας είναι άγνωστες. Στο μυαλό του επικρατεί η απόλυτη σύγχυση! Αδυνατεί να προσαρμοστεί στα περιβάλλοντα που μεγαλώνει. Αδιαφορεί για όλους κ για όλα.
Πέφτει και κατρακύλα στον πάτο της απόγνωσης� σε μια άβυσσο αντικρίζοντας κ επιζητώντας το θάνατο� έναν θάνατο άγνωρο.
May 10, 2023
"برایت مایه شگفتی نبود که نمیتوان� با این دنیا کنار بیایی، ولی از این که دنیا موجودی خلق کرده تا در آن همچون غریبها� زندگی کند شگفتزد� میشد�. گیاهان هم خودکشی میکنند� حیوانه� از ناامیدی میمیرند� آنه� یا خودشان را با دنیا وقف میدهن� یا ناپدید میشون�. تو شاید حلقها� ضعیف، بن بستی تصادفی در چرخه تکامل یا ناهنجاریا� موقت بودی که قرار نبود دوباره شکوفه بزند..."
شروع کتاب، خیره کننده بود
به خوبی پیش رفت
و در نهایت، فصل آخر آن، روح من را از زمین جدا کرد!
کم تر پیش می آید که کتابی این چنین مرا تحت تاثیر تاثیر قرار دهد...
شروع کتاب، خیره کننده بود
به خوبی پیش رفت
و در نهایت، فصل آخر آن، روح من را از زمین جدا کرد!
کم تر پیش می آید که کتابی این چنین مرا تحت تاثیر تاثیر قرار دهد...
Shelved as 'unfinished'
May 23, 2024I expected, needed, this to be filled with soul-shattering echoes and it wasn’t. I don’t really feel like saying much more, considering that it’s, in a way, a suicide note. (It could also be that I don’t enjoy Oulipo-style writing; I prefer my reading material to be much more loose and free-flowing.) Nevertheless, I admire Levé’s strength in putting all this into words, before taking that .
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