Will Self To Give Annual Sebald January 11, 2010

This announcement is quoted from Will Self’s website:

Will Self is going to be giving the annual WG Sebald lecture at Kings Place in London on Monday 11 January at 7pm. Self will analyse Sebald’s Holocaust writing in the light of the evolving historical understanding of the Holocaust and the part the German people took in it. Self asks whether, when it comes to such crimes against humanity, it is possible for their [sic] to be a literature either by, or about, the perpetrators, and what purpose such writings might fulfil.

For further details and for tickets, which cost £9.50, visit the Kings Place website or the UEA website here.

If anyone goes to hear Self, I’d love it if you would write up a report as a comment to this post.

The Butterfly Image

I’ve just received a new book by Muriel Pic called L’Image Papillon suivi de W.G. Sebald: L’Art de Voler.  Here is the blurb from the publisher’s website.

Winfried Georg Maximilian Sebald (1944-2001), auteur majeur des lettres allemandes contemporaines, reste encore méconnu de la critique littéraire française. Avec cet essai pionnier, Muriel Pic montre que Sebald, représentant le plus inventif de la théorie critique en littérature, s’appuie sur la pensée de Walter Benjamin pour fonder un matérialisme littéraire. Celui-ci s’impose comme la solution poétique et politique permettant de pallier un déficit des mémoires face à la destruction, et, en premier lieu, de la mémoire allemande. Écrivant dans sa langue maternelle depuis l’Angleterre, voué à l’errance mélancolique, Sebald travaille une prose de l’exil en suivant les traces de Chateaubriand, Stendhal, Kafka, Nabokov, ou Simon. Critique à l’endroit des canons de l’histoire positiviste, l’écrivain en refuse les représentations et désigne un autre lieu de vérité : les images.

Dans cette prose documentaire où le regard suit les circonvolutions du temps, l’image papillon est l’image d’archive à partir de laquelle la littérature invente un récit et s’affirme comme le site d’une mémoire jusqu’alors refoulée. C’est à partir d’elle que s’élabore une histoire naturelle de la destruction : collectionnée et épinglée entre les pages d’un livre, dont elle fait un atlas de curiosités, elle acquiert une fonction allégorique et suscite une méditation sur la mort. Au fil de ces images, la narration mène l’enquête sur le passé en éprouvant l’efficacité poétique et épistémologique du paradigme indiciaire. Ses récits s’imposent comme une contribution majeure à une pratique littéraire en expansion : le montage.

Docteur de l’EHESS, Muriel Pic (née en 1974) enseigne la littérature française à l’université de Neuchâtel. Chercheur associée au CRIA et au CMB, elle a mené ses recherches sur le montage littéraire à l’université libre de Berlin. Outre de nombreux articles, elle a publié Le Désir monstre. Poétique de Pierre Jean Jouve (Le Félin, 2006) et réalisé l’édition de Pierre Jean Jouve, Lettres à Jean Paulhan, (Éditions Claire Paulhan, 2006).

Muriel was kind enough to send me a brief section translated into English:

Fluttering image and slow motion: Literary montage in the Work of W.G. Sebald

In the narrative works of W.G. Sebald, especially Austerlitz (2001) and Die Ringe des Saturn (The Rings of Saturn, 1999), the butterfly is a metaphor of the image itself. As in a childhood memory of Walter Benjamin, it is fascinating that its hunter, a child, a spectator, becomes the object of the chase; the spirit of he who was doomed to die penetrated the hunter:

“When in this way a vanessa or sphinx moth (which I should have been able to overtake easily) made a fool of me through its hesitations, vacillations, and delays, I would gladly have been dissolved into light and air, merely in order to approach my prey unnoticed and be able to subdue it. And so close to fulfillment was this desire of mine, that every quiver of palpitation of the wings I burned for grazed me with its puff or ripple. Between us, now, the old law of the hunt took hold: the more I strove to conform, in all the fibers of my being, to the animal – the more butterfly-like I became in my heart and soul – the more this butterfly itself, in everything it did, took on the color of human volition; and in the end, it was as if its capture was the price I had to pay to regain my human existence.” [1]

The image catches our looking instead of being caught by the “hunter’s image”.  From the cinematic image to entomologist’s plates to phantom apparitions and intertextuality – with Vladimir Nabokov, Franz Kafka [2] and Virginia Woolf – the butterfly and the hunter are at the heart of Sebald’s work. For this author, the writing is an artistic and literary enterprise of montage whose kinetic strength is that of recollecting. Sebald is watching the imago [3] which is taking him down an especially terrible path of memory.

Pinning down a wing that flutters

In the novel Austerlitz, the butterfly is the metaphor for an image impossible to catch, the epitome of a moving, cinematic image. On a quest to discover his past, Jacques Austerlitz finds out that his mother, the actress Agàta, lived at the Theresienstadt ghetto near Prague, with numerous other Czech artists and intellectuals, before being deported. Thanks to the work of a survivor of the ghetto, the author H.G. Adler, Jacques discovers that a Nazi propaganda film was made at Theresienstadt.[…]

But “none of these images penetrated [his] mind, they only flickered  (flimmerten) before [his] eyes like a source of continual irritation.” Between this stream of cinematic images and the hurrying of memory wanting to recollect, the images pass too quickly, like a futile butterfly hunt. Because of “the impossibility of fixing [his] eyes on these images which seemed to disappear as soon as they emerged”, Jacques’ decides to have a “slow-motion copy made [of the twenty-minute existing fragment] which lasts a whole hour.” “And in fact, in this document four times longer, people and things that had been hidden from [him] until then became visible.” In this way, thanks to the slow-motion, Jacques catches an image: “In the course of the performance, the camera lingers in close-up over several members of the audience, including an old gentleman whose cropped gray head fills the right-hand side of the picture, while at the left-hand side, set a little way back and close to the upper edge of the frame, the face of a young woman appears, barely emerging from the black shadows around it, which is why I did not notice it at all at first [4].” Finally caught, the image of the face of Agàta is carefully pinned between the pages of the novel.

Now, the metaphor of the butterfly no longer refers only to the cinematic image, impossible to catch, but also to memory: memory that preserves documents, as the entomologist preserves specimens in his Natural History cabinet. Sebald gives us a long description of this topic of memory [5] in Austerlitz, accompanied by a photograph of a collection of butterflies: “Indeed, Austerlitz went on, there was some kind of cabinet of natural curiosities in almost every room at Andromeda Lodge: cases with multiple drawers, some of them glass-fronted, where the roundish eggs of parrots were arranged in their hundreds; collections of shells, minerals, beetles, and butterflies; slowworms, adders, and lizards preserved in formaldehyde; snail shells and sea urchins, crabs and shrimps, and large herbaria containing leaves, flowers, and grasses.” In the Natural History cabinet, where flora and fauna, aquatic and earth-bound life-forms are collected, each specimen is accompanied by its “obituary”. Stuffed by a conscientious taxidermist, a parrot offers “a pale face that you might have thought was marked by deep grief [6]“. Here a Natural History is built from stills, taken live, a perfect foundation for the “illusion of a universality, a total and definitive reality [7]” manipulated by the Nazis, whose archives supposedly preserved historical and racial truth. And in the photograph of Andromeda Lodge’s butterfly collection, the reader will perhaps notice that the glass is cracked. The long line of a shock which perhaps let a butterfly escape from its name, far out of sight of the entomologist, crossing in its flight before the eyes of the writer. […]

[1] Walter Benjamin, Selected writings, vol. 3, 1935-1938, (The Belknap Press of Harvard University, 2002), 350-351.

[2] See Oliver Still, “Aus dem Jäger ist ein Schmetterling geworden” – Textbeziehungen zwischen Werken von W.G. Sebald, Franz Kafka und Vladimir Nabokov, in Poetica. Zeitschrift für Sprach- und Literaturwissenschaft, n° 29,1997: 596-623.   Adrian Curtin, Maxim Shrayer, Netting the Butterfly Man: The Significance of Vladimir Nabokov in W. G. Sebald’s The Emigrants, in Religion and the Arts, Volume 9, Numbers 3-4, 2005, 258-283(26). R.J.A. Kilborn, in W.G. Sebald, History – Memory – Trauma, éd. Scott Denham, Mark McCulloh, Berlin/New York, Walter de Gruyter, 2006.

[3] The term “image” comes from imaginem, imago: it means an artificial representation that looks like a person or thing, or a copy, statue, picture, idea, appearance (imitari “to copy, imitate”). In biology, the adult, sexually mature, stage of the insect (butterfly and moth) is known as the imago. In psychoanalysis, the term imago is an unconscious prototype of personae, the imago determines the way in which the subject apprehends others. It is elaborated based on the earliest real and fantasmatic intersubjective relations with family members.

[4] Austerlitz trans. Anthea Bell, (NY, The Modern Library, 2001): 251.

[5] For this question, I refer to Patricia Falguières’ work Les Chambres des merveilles, (Paris: Bayard, 2003).

[6] Austerlitz: 82-83.

[7] Arlette Farge, Le Goût de l’archive, (Paris: Seuil, 1989): 116.

(c) Muriel Pic

La Dictee

There is no future, only the onslaught of time.

Theresa Hak Kyung Cha’s Dictee (NY: Tanam Pres, 1982) is an experiment in autobiography that blends poetry and prose, history and memoir, and reproductions of photographs and documents.  Many of Cha’s themes overlap with those found in the work of W.G. Sebald: history, memory, war, cruelty, family.

To the other nations who are not witnesses, who are not subject to the same oppressions, they cannot know.  Unfathomable the words, the terminology: enemy, atrocities, conquest, betrayal, invasion, destruction.  They exist only in the larger perception of History’s recording, that affirmed, admittedly and unmistakably, one enemy nation has disregarded the humanity of another.  Not physical enough.  Not to the very flesh and bone, to the core, to the mark, to the point where it is necessary to intervene, even if to invent anew, expressions, for this experience, for this outcome, that does not cease to continue.

To the others, these accounts are about (one more) distant land, like (any other) distant land, without any discernable features in the narrative, (all the same) distant like any other.

But Cha adds additional layers: Catholicism and feminism.  Dictee opens with Communion, followed by confession, and it closes with a scene embodying acts of charity (water, medicine, advice) between a woman and a young girl.  Overseeing Cha’s enterprise are the nine classical Muses, the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (memory) who presided over the arts and sciences.  Each of Dictee’s chapters is assigned the name of a Muse.  The history that Cha probes is the story of twentieth century Korea (where her family originated): the Occupation by Japan as a result of the Sino-Japanese War; the country’s division into two parts as a result of the Cold War; and the violent student demonstrations of the 1960s.

But Cha’s main concern, it seems to me, is human communication itself.  Dictee (the dictation) is structured as an unending struggle to move from inarticulateness to utterance.  Words become syllables, sentences become strings of single words, continuity is disrupted.   Where, Cha seems to ask, does language become meaning?  Parts of the book are written in French and there are many references to the issues of translation and multilingualism.

Dictee is heavily influenced by film theory.  It contains abrupt jump cuts, makes powerful use of vantage point, and dwells on the intellectual dichotomy of listening to spoken language while reading sub-titles in a different language.  Following the lead of Michel Butor and other French writers of the nouveau roman, Cha sometimes moves into second person in an attempt to obliterate the boundary between reader and subject.

Her movements are already punctuated by the movement of the camera, her pace, her time, her rhythm.  You move from the same distance as the visitor, with the same awe, same reticence, the same anticipation.  Stationary on the light never still on her bath water, then slowly moving from room to room, through the same lean and open spaces.  Her dress hangs on a door, the cloth is of a light background, revealing the surface with a landscape stained with the slightest of hue.  Her portrait is not represented in a still photograph, nor in a painting.  All along, you see her without actually seeing, actually having seen her.  You do not see her.  For the moment, you see only her traces.

More than once, as I read Dictee, I was eerily reminded of Chris Marker’s 1962 film La Jetée.

A decade ahead of Sebald, Cha interlaced her text with uncredited news photographs, portraits, reproductions of documents, and even reproductions of what appear to be the handwritten manuscript for the pages of Dictee.

Theresa Hak Kyung Cha was born in Korea, but raised in the US.  After studying at the University of California, Berkeley, she studied filmmaking and critical theory in Paris.  A week after Dictee was published, she was murdered by a stranger on the streets of New York.  Tanam Press was an important publisher of avantgarde art titles (Jenny Holzer, Reese Williams, Philip Glass, Werner Herzog, Richard Prince) from 1980 to 1986.

Photography-Embedded Fiction 2009

Perhaps the trend that was at least partly inspired by W.G. Sebald’s practice of embedding photographs within his works of prose fiction is starting to wane a bit.  Only two years ago in 2007 there were more than fifteen such titles.  In 2009, the number has been far fewer.

Here is my list of the works of fiction that have been published in 2009 in which photographs are embedded as an aspect of the text.  Please leave me a comment if you know of any works that I have missed and I’ll add them to the list.  Here’s a link to similar lists that I have posted in previous years.

Shapton, Leanne.  Important Artifacts and Personal Property from the Collection of Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris, Including Books, Street Fashion, and Jewelry.  NY: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 2009.  Paperback original.  “The dissolution of a relationship” told through auction catalog format.  See my review here.

Tel, Jonathan.  The Beijing of Possibilities.  NY: Other Press, 2009.  Paperback original.  Short stories with embedded photographs.  See my review here.

Zornoza, Andrew.  Where I Stay.  Grafton, VT: Sky Tarpaulin Press, 2009.  Paper.  First edition.  Read my review here. Embedded photographs on every right-hand page of this diaristic novel.

More Sebald Activities in Paris

Paris seems to be the current capital of Sebald land.  In addition to the December 1, 2009 event I recently wrote about, here’s the text for an event being held November 28.

Samedi 28 novembre 2009, Petit Palais Musée des Beaux arts de la Ville de Paris

Lire Sebald, aujourd’hui.

Une rencontre organisée par la Maison des écrivains et de la littérature le samedi 28 novembre 09 au Petit Palais avec les écrivains Pierre Assouline, Robert Bober, Mathias Enard, Hélène Frappat, Christian Garcin et Oliver Rohe. L’oeuvre de Sebald, disparu accidentellement en 2001, a produit un effet très singulier sur les auteurs qui le lisent et l’évoquent. Secret ou avoué, l’écho que la lecture de ses textes produit, marque indiscutablement la littérature contemporaine. Comment et pourquoi, c’est ce que nous allons tenter de discerner lors de cette rencontre où les auteurs présents évoqueront leur Sebald.

La rencontre sera précédée de la projection du film, W. G. Sebald (1944-2001) et son oeuvre, des éditions Actes Sud.

Entrée libre et gratuite, dans la limite des places disponibles.

Auditorium du Petit Palais, musée des Beaux-Arts de la Ville de Paris, Avenue Winston Churchill 75008 métro Ch-Elysées Clémenceau.