It All Sounds Pretty Complicated

The other day I spoke to a friend who dismissed fiction of family drama for limited time and lack of substance. It made me think of another conversation I'd had with a friend who struggles with the meaning in creating a homelife and wonders whether the domestic ends of her day should include a more public service. I never felt the emotional pull of the question until I considered it with respect to fiction and literature and perhaps that itself indicates the true north of my compass -- inward, not outward; fiction, not nonfiction; personal, not public. But those ends are not exclusive, they make a spectrum. Which brings me to an essay in the most recent Paris Review: what is a list? does it fit in the spectrum just described? and if not, why does it merit literary attention or our time?

Edouard Leve seems to be everywhere; the posthumous publication of his book, Suicide, seems have captured and stayed the imaginations of critics, book reviewers, magazine editors. I haven’t read the book but provenance of the manuscript is already legend. The story is that Leve handed the completed manuscript over to his editor shortly before Leve took his own life. But why the grim fascination in what seems a very purposeful series of events? Leve was self-employed as an artist, not a writer or photographer but a blend made relevant in an age where marketing is medium.  The reviews are uneven and in the blogosphere, debate is heated over the book's value. But this is not about that book (which I have not read though a review on the gas fumes of other reviews could be interesting (?)) but about an excerpt from an earlier book that he wrote and that was published in the most recent version of the Paris Review.

The PR publishes an excerpt of Leve’s earlier book, Autoportrait, which includes photographs taken while he toured U.S. cities with European names. (He makes up alibis, travels and snaps photographs of fat Americans in pants that show butt-cracks and worn out looking women who are also this side of beautiful). The excerpt is a list that details Leve’s experiences, thoughts, emotions, memories: an autoportrait. Many of the thoughts are about his sexual experiences, meditations on his limited powers, the things he has done (shooting a revolver) and not (shooting a rifle). The excerpt includes this:

“I cannot sleep beside someone who moves around, snores, breathes heavily, or steals the covers. I can sleep with my arms around someone who doesn’t move…There are times in my life when I overuse the phrase “it all sounds pretty complicated.” I wonder how the obese make love. Not wanting to change things does not mean I am conservative, I like for things to change, just not having to do it…I am an egoist despite myself, I cannot even conceive of being altruistic…When I am returning from a trip, the best part is not going through the airport or getting home, but the taxi ride in between: you’re still traveling, but not really..”

Do these lines fall along the spectrum of personal relations or broader social ills? Why should we care? There is something that can be mercurial, transcendent, and evocative of this kind of detailing (poetry perhaps exemplifies this best – Frank O’Hara, Alan Dugan). Indeed, Leve tells us about two incidents from childhood in this excerpt that give us a glimpse past superficial reflection on an accumulated life. But most of it, its main preoccupation, is to present a collection of self-conscious manners and thoughts, curated to satisfy the bald curiosity of the modern reality TV peeper. This is a commercial kind of wit, aggressive and thin, virulent in the number of people it seems to speak to.

Leve’s essay made me think of a little blurb that appears in this month’s issue of Harper’s – “Findings." The piece lists scientific findings from a number of studies, demonstrating the absurd range of what science aims to know and how little the proclamations mean. In collection, the list shows us how limited knowledge can be. But the heap, jumbled together, seems a different kind of sad. Why do we applaud this direction? Leve writes, “I do not explain. I do not excuse. I do not classify. I go fast.” As if muscle is now sufficient stand in for meaning.

Édouard Levé, When I Look at a Strawberry, I Think of a Tongue, here.