juillet 20, 2008
federman reading from the voice
Raymond Federman -- internationally acclaimed author of DOUBLE OR NOTHING, TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT, THE TWOFOLD VIBRATION, and more than 40 other titles -- reads a selection from his 20-page novel THE VOICE IN THE CLOSET, originally written as part of THE TWO-FOLD VIBRATION and currently in print from Starcherone Press.
The Voice in the Closet -- like much of Federman's surfiction, critifiction, laughterature deals both directly and obtusely, seriously and playfully, tenderly and violently, tragically and comically with his experiences during and after the Holocaust. A living legend.
Filmed at Naropa Summer Writing Program 2008, Boulder, CO.
CLARIFICATION
Il y a une question qui revient toujours dans tous les entretiens que j’ai faits. Le rapport entre ma vie et ma fiction. C’est une question que je ne peux pas éviter. Mais je voudrais clarifier une chose une fois pour toute. Oui, une grande partie des histoires que je raconte dans mes livres sont basées sur des événements que j’ai vécus. Mais j’insiste. Ce que j’écris n’est pas de la fiction autobiographique, et certainement pas ce qu’on aime appeler ces jours-ci de l’autofiction. En fait, il se peut même que mes livres ne soient pas des romans – romans dans le sens que les éditeurs donnent à ce genre de livres. Le sous-titre de Quitte ou double [le premier volume du grand livre que j’écris depuis plus de quarante ans] dit bien ce que j’écris : Un vrai discours fictif.
Pour moi, dès que les événements [de ma vie ou de l’Histoire] passent dans le langage ils deviennent fictifs. Mallarmé l’a très s bien dit : Tout ce qui s’écrit est fictif. Donc ma réponse est simple : j’écris de la fiction, même si cette fiction semble raconter ma vie – réelle ou imaginée.
Le plus souvent les gens qui insistent que ce que j’écris est autobiographique ne savent rien de ma vie. Voila ce que j’ai dit à un éditeur qui avait refusé le manuscrit de La fourrure de ma tante Rachel, parce qu’il le trouvait trop autobiographique : Mais monsieur que savez-vous de ma vie pour dire cela? Et il me répondit : Rien.
CLARIFICATION
There is a question that is always asked when I give an interview. The relationship between my life and my fiction. This is a question I cannot avoid. But I would clarify this once and for all. Yes, a good part of the stories I tell in my books are based on events that I have lived. But I insist. What I write is not autobiographical fiction, and certainly not what the French like to call, autofiction. In fact, it is quite possible that the books I write are not novels - novels in the sense that publishers give to this type of books. The subtitle of Double or Nothing [the first volume of the big book I’ve been writing for more than forty years] states clearly what I write: a real fictitious discourse.
For me, as soon as the events [of my life or of history] are related with words they become fictitious. Mallarmé said it very clearly: all that is written is fictitious. Therefore, my answer is simple: I write fiction, even if this fiction seems to tell the story of my life – real or imagined.
Often the people who insist on saying that what I write is autobiographical know nothing about my life. This is what I once asked a publisher who rejected the manuscript of My Aunt Rachel’s Fur because he found it too autobiographical: but sire, what do you know about my life to say this? And he replied: nothing.
Pour moi, dès que les événements [de ma vie ou de l’Histoire] passent dans le langage ils deviennent fictifs. Mallarmé l’a très s bien dit : Tout ce qui s’écrit est fictif. Donc ma réponse est simple : j’écris de la fiction, même si cette fiction semble raconter ma vie – réelle ou imaginée.
Le plus souvent les gens qui insistent que ce que j’écris est autobiographique ne savent rien de ma vie. Voila ce que j’ai dit à un éditeur qui avait refusé le manuscrit de La fourrure de ma tante Rachel, parce qu’il le trouvait trop autobiographique : Mais monsieur que savez-vous de ma vie pour dire cela? Et il me répondit : Rien.
CLARIFICATION
There is a question that is always asked when I give an interview. The relationship between my life and my fiction. This is a question I cannot avoid. But I would clarify this once and for all. Yes, a good part of the stories I tell in my books are based on events that I have lived. But I insist. What I write is not autobiographical fiction, and certainly not what the French like to call, autofiction. In fact, it is quite possible that the books I write are not novels - novels in the sense that publishers give to this type of books. The subtitle of Double or Nothing [the first volume of the big book I’ve been writing for more than forty years] states clearly what I write: a real fictitious discourse.
For me, as soon as the events [of my life or of history] are related with words they become fictitious. Mallarmé said it very clearly: all that is written is fictitious. Therefore, my answer is simple: I write fiction, even if this fiction seems to tell the story of my life – real or imagined.
Often the people who insist on saying that what I write is autobiographical know nothing about my life. This is what I once asked a publisher who rejected the manuscript of My Aunt Rachel’s Fur because he found it too autobiographical: but sire, what do you know about my life to say this? And he replied: nothing.
juillet 16, 2008
A SCARY PRONOUNCEMENT
Bum 1: Listen to this. Listen to what is written in this book here: I have not come into this world to make men better but to exploit their weaknesses. Bum 2: Who said that?
B1: Adolf Hitler.
B2: It's a scary pronouncement, but I'll tell you something. I would be even more frightened of the one who says: I have not come into this world to exploit the weaknesses of men but to make men better.
B1: You don’t think humanity should be improved.
B2: What do I know of humanity. I could tell you more about red radishes.
▬▬▬
unpublished Beckett in FULCRUM 6
FULCRUM #6 (730 pages) features previously unpublished and uncollected writing by Samuel Beckett, Robert Frost and Octavio Paz; original scholarship on "Samuel Beckett as Poet" by Christopher Ricks, Eliot Weinberger, Marjorie Perloff and others; a special section on "Poetry and Myth"; poetry by George Seferis, Boris Vian (translated by Raymond Federman) and Francisco de Quevedo; a great deal of outstanding current poetry and literary criticism; and visual art.
The "Samuel Beckett as Poet" feature, edited by Philip Nikolayev, presents Beckett's neglected masterpiece "Ceiling" and other uncollected and unpublished poems, essays by Christopher Ricks, Jean-Michel Rabaté, Marjorie Perloff, Eliot Weinberger, Simon Critchley, Anne Atik, S.E. Gontarski and others, life drawings of Beckett by Avigdor Arikha, and a previously unpublished conversation between Octavio Paz and Eliot Weinberger on Beckett. A number of the essays quote Beckett's unpublished correspondence and manuscripts.
FULCRUM #6 is 730 pages long and offered at an artificially low price.
Please visit www.fulcrumpoetry.com for more information or to acquire a copy.
The "Samuel Beckett as Poet" feature, edited by Philip Nikolayev, presents Beckett's neglected masterpiece "Ceiling" and other uncollected and unpublished poems, essays by Christopher Ricks, Jean-Michel Rabaté, Marjorie Perloff, Eliot Weinberger, Simon Critchley, Anne Atik, S.E. Gontarski and others, life drawings of Beckett by Avigdor Arikha, and a previously unpublished conversation between Octavio Paz and Eliot Weinberger on Beckett. A number of the essays quote Beckett's unpublished correspondence and manuscripts.
FULCRUM #6 is 730 pages long and offered at an artificially low price.
Please visit www.fulcrumpoetry.com for more information or to acquire a copy.
juillet 13, 2008
federman frenzy
I'm in boulder doing a creative writing workshop at naropa
but today I got the news of this new book about federman
here is the link
www.lulu.com/content/3065382
but today I got the news of this new book about federman
here is the link
www.lulu.com/content/3065382
juillet 11, 2008
A LA QUEUE LEU LEU / THE LINE (R. FEDERMAN & S. ROUZE)
FILM DE LA LECTURE DE "THE LINE" ET DE SON ADAPTATION FRANCAISE "A LA QUEUE LEU LEU" PAR RAYMOND FEDERMAN ET STEPHANE ROUZE. L'HISTOIRE D'UNE FILE D'ATTENTE. TEXTE PARU CHEZ CADEX EDITIONS EN 2008. FILM PRODUIT PAR PIXEL1 (BENG@).
Libellés : A LA QUEUE LEU RAYMOND FEDERMAN, lelem
A LA QUEUE LEU LEU (FEDERMAN & ROUZE)
Libellés : A LA QUEUE LEU RAYMOND FEDERMAN, rouze
juin 16, 2008
WHO WILL CRACK FIRST [a conceptual play in the form of a poem]
the beginning a distant hollow voice explains
the situation
two old friends have decided never
to speak to each other again
they feel that the affection
and respect they have for each other
is gradually dwindling away with each word
that passes between them
the voice emphasizes
the situation is dramatic
but not melodramatic
another voice explains calmly this is
a play for two actors
and two loudspeakers
and that
the voices on the loudspeakers
are the voices of the two actors
a third voice specifies
stage dark at first
gradual light reveals
the two friends seated
their backs to each other
one left one right of stage
another voice interrupts and specifies
loudspeaker over the head
of each friend
loudspeakers speak alternatively
loudspeaker left tells why
friend left will not crack first
loudspeaker right tells why
he thinks
friend right will not crack first
all three voices together chant
and so on
and so on
first voice explains
while loudspeakers speak
seated friends react restlessly
with bodily and facial gestures
to what is being said
above their heads
second voice emphasizes
loudspeakers get louder
more argumentative
more aggressive
angry and enraged
as play progresses
third voice explains
argument turns to a debate
it’s a competition
a trial
loudspeakers together improvise
words of encouragement
for friends to remain firm
in their silence
loudspeaker left
tells that the reason
friend left will not crack
is because he is a poet
and poets know
silence and solitude
poets know that one
suffers from not suffering enough
loudspeaker right retorts
that friend right is an actor
and actors know how not
to crack during a play
actor have control over
their emotions
loudspeaker L laughs and says
that friend L
will not crack first
because
once upon a time
during the great war
he was tortured
he was tortured
because he knew
something secret
something unspeakable
the enemy tortured him
but he did not talk
he refused to talk
he did not crack
for weeks and weeks
he remained silent in torture
and silence became for him
the reverse of torture
that is why friend L
will not crack first
loudspeaker R counters by saying
that anyone
in friend L’s situation
would have done the same
would have found the courage
not to crack
it’s normal it’s natural
it’s the rule when one is being tortured
loudspeaker R continues
friend R found much more
courage for something
much more traumatic
though less melodramatic
and he was only seven then
the day his father beat him
with his belt for no reason
slashing at his body
with the leather of the belt
and even the belt buckle
and that day friend R swore
to himself in his pain
that he would not talk
to his father for a whole month
and for a whole month friend R
did not speak a word to his father
and he was only seven then
loudspeaker R concludes forcefully
only a few human beings
can find that kind of courage
the happy few yes the happy few
and friend R was only seven then
after a long silence loudspeaker L declares
that friend L wants to become
a serious religious poet
that is why he can no longer
communicate with friend R
because he is an actor
actors are blasphemous
especially when they make
people laugh
loudspeaker R replies
that friend R can no longer
look and speak at the sad
face of Friend L
because he has just accepted
a role in the human comedy
to make people laugh
night and day
loudspeaker L sings softly
I am Jesus I am Moses
I am Mohammed
I am the Holy Ghost
I am immortal
loudspeaker R declaims eloquently
I am Hamlet
I am King Lear
I am Phedrea
I am Superman
I am Gogo and Didi
all three voices together chant
and so on
and so on
first voice explains
that loudspeakers
can improvise
any time
second voice explains
as the play progresses
it becomes gradually evident
that the two silent friends
are growing more and more
tense restless nervous
tortured in their bodies and minds
loudspeaker L murmurs
and I saw a mighty angel
come down from heaven
clothed with a cloud
and a rainbow was
upon his head
and his face was
as it were the sun
and his feet
as pillars of fire
loudspeaker R recites sadly
All the old ways led to this
all the old windings
the stairs with never a landing
that you screw yourself up
clutching the rail
counting the steps
the fever of shortest ways
under the long lids of sky
the wild country roads
where your dead walk beside you
on the dark shingle the turning
for the last time again
to the lights of the little town
the appointments kept
and the appointments broken
all the delights of urban
and rural change of place
all the exitus and redditus
closed and ended
all led to this
to this gloaming
where a middle-aged man
sits masturbating his snout
waiting for the first dawn to break
loudspeaker L sighs loudspeaker R laughs
third voice declares
suddenly
while loudspeakers
continue to argue angrily
in a cacophony of words
the two friends
let out a scream
at the same time
which they keep repeating
with anguish and despair
friend R & friend L screaming
say something
please say something
I can’t take it anymore
say something
please say something
I can’t take it any more
all three voices together chant as screams get louder loudspeakers more cacophonous
and so on
and so on
first voice states
stage goes dark
no applause
no curtain call
the end
mai 27, 2008
Fwd: What Itzak is up to
photo of isaac -- my daughter simone's dog -- my grand-dog -- on the blog --isaac is getting ready to start on a secret mission
-----Original Message-----
From: Simone Federman
Date: Mon, 26 May 2008
Subject: What Itzak is up to
Isaac is trying to blend at Fresh Pond with the preppy Labs. He avoids the Hebrew spelling of his name and frolics, skinny dipping at the golf course, this outfit might make the fact that he only goes in up to his shoulders more conspicuous. Although the air supply does fascilitate longer under water viewing, he brings home the golf balls for Mama.
he apologizes for the group e-mail but wanted to keep his fan club up to date with a hectic golf season...............fore!!
mai 14, 2008
CHUT
CHUT
mai 13, 2008
HAPPY BIRTHDAY AD
From: Ted Pelton
To: Raymond Federman
Sent: Mon, 12 May 2008 5:50 pm
Subject: Happy Birthday ad
Ray,
This is the ad I'd like to run in the next Rain Taxi, but I wanted to get your approval. I think it's tender and funny, and I hope you do too. I think it's also in keeping with the spirit of the book and a good advertisement.
Ted
mai 12, 2008
AT THE SORBONNE
a true story
Yesterday, lost in cyberspace in search of I don’t remember what, maybe looking if my blog hadn’t been vandalized, I stumbled on the site of the Sorbonne. The famous glorious elitist historical Sorbonne in Paris.
Just hearing that word, makes me nauseous. It reminds me that only Les Fils à Papa – Daddy’s Darling Boys – can study at the Sorbonne. Me, the son of that good-for-nothing lazy tubercular gambling womanizing communist artiste manqué who was my father had no chance of ever getting into that pantheon of learning.
Well yesterday, as I stumbled on that site, I came upon the list of the literature courses offered at the Sorbonne for 2008 – not that I was really interested – just curious. When I saw that I called out to Erica who usually plays solitaire on her computer when I get lost in cyberspace,
– Erica, come and see this, I shouted.
– What? called back Erica.
– You won’t believe this. Some lady prof at the Sorbonne is teaching La voix dans le cabinet de débarras in her course.
So Erica comes and right there on the screen of my computer we read this:
ÉCRITURE DE L’HISTOIRE ET POÉTIQUE DE LA VIOLENCE
K3073
Responsable : Mlle Emilie LUCAS-LECLIN
A travers un choix de textes aux formes narratives singulières (un roman aux confins du théâtre, un récit court bilingue, formé d’une seule phrase dénuée de ponctuation et une très brève nouvelle), nous aimerions faire découvrir trois regards sur la guerre, à la croisée des cultures françaises, germanophones et américaines. Nous proposerons, à travers ce corpus, une analyse des procédés liés à l’écriture de la violence et une réflexion sur les modes de résurgence de l’Histoire dans le récit moderne.
Œuvres au programme:
Raymond Federman, La voix dans le débarras / The voice in the closet, Les Impressions Nouvelles
Laurent Gaudé, Cris, Actes Sud, Babel
Peter Handke, « La guerre éclate », nouvelle tirée du recueil Bienvenue au conseil d’administration, Gallimard, « Folio », trad. de G.-A. Goldschmidt (pour les germanistes, Begrüssung des Aufsichtsrats, édition D.T.V.)
Roughly paraphrased in English. Professor Emilie Lucas-Leclin with the choice of three texts with singular narrative forms [a novel in the confines of theater, whatever that means, that’s me talking here; a short bilingual tale, made of only one punctuationless sentence; and a brief short story] would like to uncover three different visions of the war, at the crossroad of French, Germanic, and American cultures. She proposes, through this corpus, to analyze the processes connected to the writing of violence, and a reflection on the modes of resurgence of History in modern fiction.
And after that, the three authors and the title of the works that will be analyzed are listed with the name of their publishers, as it should be.
Me, Federman being taught at the Sorbonne. I can’t believe that. The good little French bourgeois of that prestigious institution are going to read and discuss that unreadable book.
– Are you impressed now, Erica says. Last year they were teaching you at Harvard. The year before at Yale. And now the Sorbonne. Next year for sure, Oxford. You have arrived?
– Stop making fun of me. I’m not impressed. On the contrary, I’m depressed just thinking of the kind of interpretations these Sorbonnards are going to write in their term papers.
– You’re never satisfied. You always want more. I’m going back to my game of solitary, and let you ponder what it means to be taught at the Sorbonne, while still alive. I’m sure that your great Samuel Beckett was never taught at the Sorbonne while he was alive. Think of that.
And while thinking about that, I remembered that once, way back then, I gave a lecture and a reading at the Sorbonne. Yes, I did. That day I read from Take It or Leave It. I remember now. It was in 1977. Soon after the publication of TIOLI.
Five American avant-garde novelists had been invited to come to France, all expenses paid, to talk about their work and read from it. This Sorbonne colloquium had been organized by a group of French avant-garde novelists who wanted to know how we functioned as avant-garde writers and why we were so famous in America. Well, we didn’t want to disappoint them.
Ronald Sukenick, Robert Coover, Ishmael Reed [yes the fantastic black novelist], Raymond Federman and the then famous in Hollywood and infamous in New York, Jerzy Kosinski, who was, of course, the star of our group, were flown to Paris.
So, here we are at the Hôtel du Pas de Calais, rue des Saints Père, on the left bank, as it should be, and we are all gathered in the breakfast room of the hotel before being taken to the Sorbonne, for the first event.
Suddenly, a television crew arrives, with camera, and a sexy lady interviewer in mini-skirt with two sexy assistants, also in mini-skirt. Only the cameraman is not wearing a mini-skirt.
And as soon as they have recognized Jerzy Kosinski, they rush to him, literally licking their rouge à lèvre, and surround him, and the interview begins with Kosinski sitting on the table with one foot on a chair. I should mention that he is wearing one of those Hollywood casual suits that pretended to look in those days like a Mao suit. His was greenish. The interview goes on for quite a while. With lots of giggling on the part of the interviewer and her assistants.
Sitting at another table in a corner of the room away from the interview, the rest of us, Ron, Bob, Ish, and me, are being totally ignored. Not once during the interview does Jurek point to us, or motion in our direction. The interview crew doesn’t even look at us when it leaves.
So now we are at the Sorbonne, in an old dusty rather somber but venerable auditorium. We can feel the history and the historical asses that sat on those benches for centuries.
Today is Jerzy Kosinski’s day. Each of us has been assigned a day. Tomorrow it will be Ish. Then Coover. Then Sukenick. Then me. Me, I will speak and read in French. The others will have an interpreter when they speak and read. But not Kosinski. Jerzy is quite fluent in French.
The entire Polish aristocracy of Paris is crowded in the auditorium. Standing room only for the students. Lots of fancy furs and glittering jewelry all over the place. These are not the Polish coal miners here today. These are the upper-class Poles exiled from Communism.
Standing casually in his casual suit in front of the microphone, Kosinski is describing what the life of a novelist like him is in America. Can you believe, he laments, that my latest novel sold only 350000 copies, while the dumb Americans sit lobotomized – Jerzy’s word – in front of their televisions with a beer can in their hand while their wives are dozing away on the couch. And he goes on telling the distinguished audience what a miserable country America is, and how the people are idiots, and do not appreciate his work.
Well, I cannot remember exactly all he said, but the Polish ladies were tittering and applauding and wiggling their succulent derrieres on the historical benches of the auditorium.
After a thunderous and prolonged applause , the moderator of the colloquium asked if there were any question. We were sitting on the front row. Right in the middle. Ron, Bob, Ish, and me. Ishamel Reed got up, and putting on what I call his gorilla posture and tone of voice, he said, Mister Kosinsiki do you know what the people in America would say if they had heard what you said here, they would say to you, Why don’t you go back to your fucking country. And Ish sat down.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Kosinski did not answer Ish. He just turned to the next person who had stood up to ask a question.
Sukenick, Bob, Ish, and I left the auditorium when Kosinski started reading from his latest novel that only sold 350000 copies, and we went to a gourmet restaurant where Coover, the great wine connoisseur that he is, ordered four different bottles of wine which he insisted on paying with the royalty money he had just gotten from his French publisher for, if I remember correctly, the translation of Spanking the Maid. But that’s another story.
Back in the auditorium at the Sorbonne. Today is Ishmael Reed’s day. Before talking about his work and reading from it, Ishmael thanked – but this time in that marvelous American language Ish can so well write and talk -- he thanked the entire French population, the President of the République, the Minister of Education, the President of the Sorbonne, and everyone else in the audience for giving a poor black writer like him, raised in the ghettos of Buffalol [yes that’s where Ish is from] the honor of speaking in such a prestigious historical place.
By the way, this was Ishmael Reed’s first trip ever to Europe.
And then he read, only the way Ish can read his own writing, as though he was speaking jazz. He read from Mumbo Jumbo.
The audience was quite different from the day before, but the applause were just as loud and as long as the day before. Ishmael Reed had conquered Paris. Or at least, those Parisians who still read books.
Well rapidly now. The next day was Ron’s day. He talked with his usual intelligence and lucidity about the situation of experimental fiction in America. Then he read from 98.6. One of the great American novels of the 70s that probably sold less than 1000 copies when it first appeared.
The following day Coover spoke and read. A reading by Robert Coover is always a special event. Certainly the best reader of all the writers of our generation. He read from Public Burning, that controversial American historical novel. He read the scene where the young lawyer Nixon steps into dog shit on his way to court to burn the Rosenbergs. Those who came to listen where thrilled. I should say the place was full every day.
Even when it was my day. I spoke about what it meant to be a French exiled writer in America, etc. And then I read from TIOLI. The Buick Special Chapter. It was well received. I think.
During the few days in Paris, Ron, Bob, Ish and I, had some superb meals in excellent restaurants. Only the final evening Jerzy Kosinski joined us. The organizer of the colloquium had invited all five of us to a banquet in a fancy three star restaurant. It so happened that I was seated next to Kosinski, and we had a really good talk together. We became buddies. After all we were both exiled writers.
One more thing. One afternoon we went to the old famous Shakespeare Bookstore, where James Joyce and all the writers of the Lost Generation used to hang out. That day, Ron was complaining that his leg was hurting and that he had difficulty walking. When the lady owner of the bookstore heard that, she gave Ron a cane. One of the canes that belonged to James Joyce, she told us. Ron kept it all his life. But it was that day perhaps, back in 1977, that his body started disintegrating.
It got so bad and so painful on the plane back to the States, that when we arrived at JFK we requested a wheelchair to get Ron out of the airport. Ron reminded me of that just before he changed tense, and we laughed. He even remembered how the custom agent said to him, after having inspected his passport, Welcome Home.
So maybe now that one of my books is being taught at the Sorbonne I should not be depressed, but truly impressed. Ron would have laughed with me if he were still around. Federman at the Sorbonne. What cringing irony, he would say.
Yesterday, lost in cyberspace in search of I don’t remember what, maybe looking if my blog hadn’t been vandalized, I stumbled on the site of the Sorbonne. The famous glorious elitist historical Sorbonne in Paris.
Just hearing that word, makes me nauseous. It reminds me that only Les Fils à Papa – Daddy’s Darling Boys – can study at the Sorbonne. Me, the son of that good-for-nothing lazy tubercular gambling womanizing communist artiste manqué who was my father had no chance of ever getting into that pantheon of learning.
Well yesterday, as I stumbled on that site, I came upon the list of the literature courses offered at the Sorbonne for 2008 – not that I was really interested – just curious. When I saw that I called out to Erica who usually plays solitaire on her computer when I get lost in cyberspace,
– Erica, come and see this, I shouted.
– What? called back Erica.
– You won’t believe this. Some lady prof at the Sorbonne is teaching La voix dans le cabinet de débarras in her course.
So Erica comes and right there on the screen of my computer we read this:
ÉCRITURE DE L’HISTOIRE ET POÉTIQUE DE LA VIOLENCE
K3073
Responsable : Mlle Emilie LUCAS-LECLIN
A travers un choix de textes aux formes narratives singulières (un roman aux confins du théâtre, un récit court bilingue, formé d’une seule phrase dénuée de ponctuation et une très brève nouvelle), nous aimerions faire découvrir trois regards sur la guerre, à la croisée des cultures françaises, germanophones et américaines. Nous proposerons, à travers ce corpus, une analyse des procédés liés à l’écriture de la violence et une réflexion sur les modes de résurgence de l’Histoire dans le récit moderne.
Œuvres au programme:
Raymond Federman, La voix dans le débarras / The voice in the closet, Les Impressions Nouvelles
Laurent Gaudé, Cris, Actes Sud, Babel
Peter Handke, « La guerre éclate », nouvelle tirée du recueil Bienvenue au conseil d’administration, Gallimard, « Folio », trad. de G.-A. Goldschmidt (pour les germanistes, Begrüssung des Aufsichtsrats, édition D.T.V.)
Roughly paraphrased in English. Professor Emilie Lucas-Leclin with the choice of three texts with singular narrative forms [a novel in the confines of theater, whatever that means, that’s me talking here; a short bilingual tale, made of only one punctuationless sentence; and a brief short story] would like to uncover three different visions of the war, at the crossroad of French, Germanic, and American cultures. She proposes, through this corpus, to analyze the processes connected to the writing of violence, and a reflection on the modes of resurgence of History in modern fiction.
And after that, the three authors and the title of the works that will be analyzed are listed with the name of their publishers, as it should be.
Me, Federman being taught at the Sorbonne. I can’t believe that. The good little French bourgeois of that prestigious institution are going to read and discuss that unreadable book.
– Are you impressed now, Erica says. Last year they were teaching you at Harvard. The year before at Yale. And now the Sorbonne. Next year for sure, Oxford. You have arrived?
– Stop making fun of me. I’m not impressed. On the contrary, I’m depressed just thinking of the kind of interpretations these Sorbonnards are going to write in their term papers.
– You’re never satisfied. You always want more. I’m going back to my game of solitary, and let you ponder what it means to be taught at the Sorbonne, while still alive. I’m sure that your great Samuel Beckett was never taught at the Sorbonne while he was alive. Think of that.
And while thinking about that, I remembered that once, way back then, I gave a lecture and a reading at the Sorbonne. Yes, I did. That day I read from Take It or Leave It. I remember now. It was in 1977. Soon after the publication of TIOLI.
Five American avant-garde novelists had been invited to come to France, all expenses paid, to talk about their work and read from it. This Sorbonne colloquium had been organized by a group of French avant-garde novelists who wanted to know how we functioned as avant-garde writers and why we were so famous in America. Well, we didn’t want to disappoint them.
Ronald Sukenick, Robert Coover, Ishmael Reed [yes the fantastic black novelist], Raymond Federman and the then famous in Hollywood and infamous in New York, Jerzy Kosinski, who was, of course, the star of our group, were flown to Paris.
So, here we are at the Hôtel du Pas de Calais, rue des Saints Père, on the left bank, as it should be, and we are all gathered in the breakfast room of the hotel before being taken to the Sorbonne, for the first event.
Suddenly, a television crew arrives, with camera, and a sexy lady interviewer in mini-skirt with two sexy assistants, also in mini-skirt. Only the cameraman is not wearing a mini-skirt.
And as soon as they have recognized Jerzy Kosinski, they rush to him, literally licking their rouge à lèvre, and surround him, and the interview begins with Kosinski sitting on the table with one foot on a chair. I should mention that he is wearing one of those Hollywood casual suits that pretended to look in those days like a Mao suit. His was greenish. The interview goes on for quite a while. With lots of giggling on the part of the interviewer and her assistants.
Sitting at another table in a corner of the room away from the interview, the rest of us, Ron, Bob, Ish, and me, are being totally ignored. Not once during the interview does Jurek point to us, or motion in our direction. The interview crew doesn’t even look at us when it leaves.
So now we are at the Sorbonne, in an old dusty rather somber but venerable auditorium. We can feel the history and the historical asses that sat on those benches for centuries.
Today is Jerzy Kosinski’s day. Each of us has been assigned a day. Tomorrow it will be Ish. Then Coover. Then Sukenick. Then me. Me, I will speak and read in French. The others will have an interpreter when they speak and read. But not Kosinski. Jerzy is quite fluent in French.
The entire Polish aristocracy of Paris is crowded in the auditorium. Standing room only for the students. Lots of fancy furs and glittering jewelry all over the place. These are not the Polish coal miners here today. These are the upper-class Poles exiled from Communism.
Standing casually in his casual suit in front of the microphone, Kosinski is describing what the life of a novelist like him is in America. Can you believe, he laments, that my latest novel sold only 350000 copies, while the dumb Americans sit lobotomized – Jerzy’s word – in front of their televisions with a beer can in their hand while their wives are dozing away on the couch. And he goes on telling the distinguished audience what a miserable country America is, and how the people are idiots, and do not appreciate his work.
Well, I cannot remember exactly all he said, but the Polish ladies were tittering and applauding and wiggling their succulent derrieres on the historical benches of the auditorium.
After a thunderous and prolonged applause , the moderator of the colloquium asked if there were any question. We were sitting on the front row. Right in the middle. Ron, Bob, Ish, and me. Ishamel Reed got up, and putting on what I call his gorilla posture and tone of voice, he said, Mister Kosinsiki do you know what the people in America would say if they had heard what you said here, they would say to you, Why don’t you go back to your fucking country. And Ish sat down.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Kosinski did not answer Ish. He just turned to the next person who had stood up to ask a question.
Sukenick, Bob, Ish, and I left the auditorium when Kosinski started reading from his latest novel that only sold 350000 copies, and we went to a gourmet restaurant where Coover, the great wine connoisseur that he is, ordered four different bottles of wine which he insisted on paying with the royalty money he had just gotten from his French publisher for, if I remember correctly, the translation of Spanking the Maid. But that’s another story.
Back in the auditorium at the Sorbonne. Today is Ishmael Reed’s day. Before talking about his work and reading from it, Ishmael thanked – but this time in that marvelous American language Ish can so well write and talk -- he thanked the entire French population, the President of the République, the Minister of Education, the President of the Sorbonne, and everyone else in the audience for giving a poor black writer like him, raised in the ghettos of Buffalol [yes that’s where Ish is from] the honor of speaking in such a prestigious historical place.
By the way, this was Ishmael Reed’s first trip ever to Europe.
And then he read, only the way Ish can read his own writing, as though he was speaking jazz. He read from Mumbo Jumbo.
The audience was quite different from the day before, but the applause were just as loud and as long as the day before. Ishmael Reed had conquered Paris. Or at least, those Parisians who still read books.
Well rapidly now. The next day was Ron’s day. He talked with his usual intelligence and lucidity about the situation of experimental fiction in America. Then he read from 98.6. One of the great American novels of the 70s that probably sold less than 1000 copies when it first appeared.
The following day Coover spoke and read. A reading by Robert Coover is always a special event. Certainly the best reader of all the writers of our generation. He read from Public Burning, that controversial American historical novel. He read the scene where the young lawyer Nixon steps into dog shit on his way to court to burn the Rosenbergs. Those who came to listen where thrilled. I should say the place was full every day.
Even when it was my day. I spoke about what it meant to be a French exiled writer in America, etc. And then I read from TIOLI. The Buick Special Chapter. It was well received. I think.
During the few days in Paris, Ron, Bob, Ish and I, had some superb meals in excellent restaurants. Only the final evening Jerzy Kosinski joined us. The organizer of the colloquium had invited all five of us to a banquet in a fancy three star restaurant. It so happened that I was seated next to Kosinski, and we had a really good talk together. We became buddies. After all we were both exiled writers.
One more thing. One afternoon we went to the old famous Shakespeare Bookstore, where James Joyce and all the writers of the Lost Generation used to hang out. That day, Ron was complaining that his leg was hurting and that he had difficulty walking. When the lady owner of the bookstore heard that, she gave Ron a cane. One of the canes that belonged to James Joyce, she told us. Ron kept it all his life. But it was that day perhaps, back in 1977, that his body started disintegrating.
It got so bad and so painful on the plane back to the States, that when we arrived at JFK we requested a wheelchair to get Ron out of the airport. Ron reminded me of that just before he changed tense, and we laughed. He even remembered how the custom agent said to him, after having inspected his passport, Welcome Home.
So maybe now that one of my books is being taught at the Sorbonne I should not be depressed, but truly impressed. Ron would have laughed with me if he were still around. Federman at the Sorbonne. What cringing irony, he would say.
mai 10, 2008
new book
a most amazing little book from the point of view of typography and topology
a master piece
cadex-editions.net/article.php3?id_article=312&a
-----Original Message-----
From: Sharon Blackie
Sent: Sat, 10 May 2008 5:20 am
Subject: Links
Raymond - would be so grateful if you could put a link on your blog to The Sam Book page - it is - tworavenspress.com/HTML%20Pages/The%20Sam%20Book.htm
Also - since we revised the site the url for the Double or Nothing page has changed. Any chance you could update? It is ... tworavenspress.com/HTML%20Pages/Double%20or%20Nothing.htm
And if you want to put a link to the flyer for your London event it is: tworavenspress.com/Logos/Federman%20workshop%20flyer.pdf
Best
S
Sharon Blackie B.A. (Hons), M.A., Ph.D.
Director, Two Ravens Press Ltd.
Green Willow Croft, Rhiroy, Lochbroom, Ullapool, Ross-shire IV23 2SF
Tel 01854 655307; mobile 0770 302 4048
http://www.tworavenspress.com/
http://www.sharonblackie.com/
Sent: Sat, 10 May 2008 5:20 am
Subject: Links
Raymond - would be so grateful if you could put a link on your blog to The Sam Book page - it is - tworavenspress.com/HTML%20Pages/The%20Sam%20Book.htm
Also - since we revised the site the url for the Double or Nothing page has changed. Any chance you could update? It is ... tworavenspress.com/HTML%20Pages/Double%20or%20Nothing.htm
And if you want to put a link to the flyer for your London event it is: tworavenspress.com/Logos/Federman%20workshop%20flyer.pdf
Best
S
Sharon Blackie B.A. (Hons), M.A., Ph.D.Director, Two Ravens Press Ltd.
Green Willow Croft, Rhiroy, Lochbroom, Ullapool, Ross-shire IV23 2SF
Tel 01854 655307; mobile 0770 302 4048
http://www.tworavenspress.com/
http://www.sharonblackie.com/
avril 24, 2008
Cook Books: Deconstructing Books Contest
Watch Raymond Federman, Davis Schneiderman, and Lidia Yuknavitch boil their books in noodles--and find out how to submit your own book-destruction video for a huge cash prize!
youtube.com/watch?v=g0tCMY02awo
Libellés : books, contest, cooking, deconstruction, noodles
avril 23, 2008
Raymond Federman - Un retour dans le débarras
A l'occasion de la nouvelle édition de "La Voix dans le débarras" et de la publication de "Chut !" aux éditions Leo Scheer, Les Impressions Nouvelles mettent en ligne une séquence réalisée en 2002 pour l'émission Mic Mac, sur Arte. Raymond Federman avait accepté de retourner avec Benoît Peeters à Montrouge, dans la maison de son enfance, où toute sa famille fut arrêtée lors de la Rafle du Vel d'Hiv.
dailymotion.com/video/x4wudm_raymond-federman-un-retour-dans-le_creation
THE WIND RISES ... ONE MUST ATTEMPT TO LIVE
I am working on the English version of Chut/Shhh – the French version is being accused of being repetitious – of repeating stories I’ve already told elsewhere – of being self-plagiaristic – of being too realistic – not experimental enough typographically – not self-reflexive enough – too traditional – and all kinds of things like that are being said in the reviews so far - though all the reviews are very favorable – but since the reviewers say Chut is not really fiction – it’s something else - but they don’t know what - so they say it’s auto-biographical – lucky for they don’t say it’s autofiction -- the word the French love the most to describe a kind of writing that resembles the life of the author – in any case nobody really can tell what Chut is – maybe Chut has invented a new genre that has not yet be classified and pigeon-holed by the cacademics – someone even went as far as saying Chut is not true – I don’t know in what sense – saying that in this book Federman tells things that have never happened to him to make us believe that he had a terribly unhappy childhood – but still the reviewers say that Chut is full of emotions – that it’s very moving – even sad while being funny at the same time – no one dares say that Chut is sentimental because that would really make Federman pissed – he who has resisted sentimentalism by kicking les belles-lettres in the ass at the risk of breaking his leg –
yes of course all of Federman’s books playgiarize each other – he admits that much himself – he warns the readers in advance that he is going to go steal something in the stories he told before – he even give exact references – titles - -page numbers – etc – so that the reader can verify – all this he can do because all the Federman stories are really part of one book – the big book he’s been writing for more than 50 years – so inevitably there are repetitions in that book – with variations of course – with Federman one never knows which is the good version – the true version of the stories he tells – and if you were to ask him he would tell you – the last one I told is the true version – until he tells another version which displaced the version which was the last – and which now becomes the one before the last – and so on until the final breath –
for as long as there is breath
old sam once said
there is the possibility
of telling the same story
another way
I quote
I don’t know why I told this story.
I could just as well have told another one.
Perhaps next time I’ll tell another one.
Living should, you’ll see it’s all the same.
That’s what The Expelled Beckett tells us.
And it is true that in life as well as in literature
there many things that are the same
but to get us out of the hole
in which writers fall in regularly
an old poet already under the ground
whispers to us
Le vent se lève ! ... Il faut tenter de vivre!
The wind rises ! .... One must attempt to live!
That is to say – to write ...
