The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts J. M. G. Le Clézio
Perhaps it would be a good idea for me to contextualize how I came to finish this book to forestall any complaints or misapprehensions about the insufficiency of my review. Yesterday, I took Sam (my son) to Disney Hollywood Studios so that he could ride Rockin' Rollercoaster a record (for him) 21 times. The park was crowded, more so than is expected for a week this far from Christmas in December, and the waits were long (at first) and even though we ended up with six fast pass rides and two cast-member accompanied entrances, it took the whole day to finish the challenge. And so, I had the leisure to sit and read. (On good days, because of my sinuses, I can manage that particular Roller Coaster once--on bad days it's better not to think about it.) Because Wolf Hall is something of a tome to haul about, I opted for M. Le Clézio's slender volume.
The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts consists of 11 short stories, each superb in its own right, all bound together by a set of themes and approaches. Like many postmodernists, M. Le Clézio has spent a good deal of time staring into the abyss. His characters are often isolated, and even when not isolated rarely communicate with one another in words. All communication is gesture and very often it is aggressive gesture (as in "Ariadne" and "David"). When they do communicate with one another it is only in the briefest, most superficial way. They are truly isolated, truly alienated, truly out of touch with the world around them, and truly trapped in an ever-expanding circle of fear.
And it is in this aspect of his work that M. Le Clézio is most adept and most accomplished. I've posted a number of times on the hallucinatory and gorgeous prose by which M. Le Clézio
conjures his effects. Even when the subject is not fear and trembling, or at least not exclusively, as in "Villa Aurora," the prose is deep, passionate, jewel-like, intense:
Later in the same story, we get M. Le Clézio's trademark--expanding alienation from those who have been sidelined by society to all of us.
Yes, we can't go home again, and so all of us suffer a fundamental alienation from ourselves, especially if we don't learn early on that we carry home with us. And few of us ever come to that realization. M. Le Clézio is an artist of alienation.
In "Anne's Game" we encounter another of his alienated characters trapped in the alien world he has constructed for himself--alien and beautiful:
That last sentence was, for me, one of those "I wish I had written that" moments. But it would be impossible for me to have written it, not because I lack the skill with language, but because I lack the temperament and the vision that results in moments like this. M. Le Clézio writes with the melancholy and despair of one who recognizes the problem, but has no clue about the solution. So, too, with all of his characters--they know they are trapped and they cannot fine their way out. To his credit, most of M. Le Clézio's characters are trapped by circumstance, not by their own stupidity, as is so common in much of modern fiction (see for example Ishiguro's beautiful but frustrating Nocturnes).
In stories such as "Ariadne," "Moloch," and "The Great Life," we encounter characters who are so profound alienated and disoriented that they cannot even get in touch with their own emotions. Their reactions to events and circumstances are truly outside the scope of what "normal" people might do. I think this is particularly true of "Ariadne," a profoundly violent meditation on fear and alienation amidst the concrete canyons we have constructed for ourselves.
In eleven stories of isolation, alienation, melancholy, and despair, M. Le Clézio chronicles a hostile world, a hostile society, a universe charged with fear and terror. Every character walks through some sort of living nightmare. I've read elsewhere that M. Le Clézio has a heart for the poor, the disenfranchised, the downtrodden; that he understands and empathizes with their plight. This seems true; however, there is more than this. M. Le Clézio shows us that every one of us, under the right conditions shares that alienation, that sense of fear and not belonging--that loneliness.
I cannot say how M. Le Clézio would regard what I must say next; however, he is, in his concerns, a very Catholic writer in the modern sense, and without any real hope of salvation. His every word reeks of the preferential option for the poor. His heart goes out to the lonely, the frightened, the disenfranchised even as he shows that these people, living closer to the edge, are also living closer to the surface. The closet of humankind is actually very limited in its styles and each of us draws from it what we wear everyday. Individuals wear some clothes to a shiny thinness, but we've really all the same basic outfits. M. Le Clézio trots out all the winter fashions as he presents his stories.
Now for one codicil, one unrelated thought, as remarks about the book conclude. On the basis of this one book alone, I asked myself, did M. Le Clézio merit the Nobel Prize? Is there anything here that calls for our attention? Does he actually earn his place in literary immortality? Can he compete with such luminaries as John Updike, Philip Roth, and the usual suspects we Americans trot out every year? That is to say, who is this obscure nobody the Academy picked up, dusted off, and pushed onto the stage? Well, all I can say is thank goodness that the academy does not listen to the yearly round of gripe and complaint. M. Le Clézio's prose is superb. His stories are deep and meaningful and touch upon deep, essential issues of the poor and of the not-so-poor. He has a profound compassion for the foibles of humankind and he expresses that compassion in prose that helps evoke the same feelings in others. It was interesting that in all of the stories of alienation I was never alienated from the author in the way that I am when reading Mr. Updike or Mr. Roth. M. Le Clézio's concerns are real and they are about foundational issues. Too often, I cannot feel that about Roth and Updike. Their concerns occasionally interest me, but more often than not, they are talking about people with whom I share little commonality and for whom I have little liking. I don't know that I like any of M. Le Clézio's characters any better, but I feel for them in a way that neither Mr. Roth nor Mr. Updike command. In short, on the basis of this slender work alone I would applaud the Nobel Committee on their good and wise choice. M. Le Clézio deserves the honor and he deserves a much wider readership than he presently commands in North America. (None of which should be read to say that Mr. Updike or Mr. Roth are themselves undeserving--I don't presume to make that judgment.)
I would strongly recommend that everyone take a look at these stories. The prose alone is worth the time, but the depth of feeling and the depth of perception and concern transcend the mere surface prettiness of the writing. M. Le Clézio is one writer after whom I would not be ashamed to model my own prose. However, I cannot despair in quite the same way, because I do not see these problems as having no solution. I see them as transcending the mere human fixes we can give them. That said, prose and stories like those M. Le Clézio tells, should move us toward what fixes mere human pragmatic approaches can offer. Compassion, warmth, humanity, and reaching out to one another--these are a start when dealing with the world that M. Le Clézio describes so well.
For me, it is on to a couple of the novels--Onitsha and Wandering Star, perhaps there I will be able to see if what is accomplished in the short work is borne out in the longer.
*****--Highly recommended
The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts consists of 11 short stories, each superb in its own right, all bound together by a set of themes and approaches. Like many postmodernists, M. Le Clézio has spent a good deal of time staring into the abyss. His characters are often isolated, and even when not isolated rarely communicate with one another in words. All communication is gesture and very often it is aggressive gesture (as in "Ariadne" and "David"). When they do communicate with one another it is only in the briefest, most superficial way. They are truly isolated, truly alienated, truly out of touch with the world around them, and truly trapped in an ever-expanding circle of fear.
And it is in this aspect of his work that M. Le Clézio is most adept and most accomplished. I've posted a number of times on the hallucinatory and gorgeous prose by which M. Le Clézio
conjures his effects. Even when the subject is not fear and trembling, or at least not exclusively, as in "Villa Aurora," the prose is deep, passionate, jewel-like, intense:
from "Villa Aurora"
in The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts
J. M. G. Le Clézio
Still, it's strange too when I think about those days--it's as if we all knew she was there, that she lived in the house, that this was her realm. Without even knowing what her real name was, we were aware of her presence; we were her familiars, her neighbors. There was a part of her that dwelled in the place, up there on the hilltop back them. Something we couldn't really see but that was present in the trees, in the palms, in the shape of the white house, in the two stone pillars of the gateway, and in the high, rusty gate chained shut.
Later in the same story, we get M. Le Clézio's trademark--expanding alienation from those who have been sidelined by society to all of us.
source: as above
A year later, I was able to return to the hilltop. I'd thought about it constantly, and despite all the activity and futility of student life, deep down, there was still that feeling of uneasiness in me. Why? I think that ultimately I'd never quite been able to get used to not being what I had been, the child who went through the breach in the wall and who'd found all those hiding places and passageways there in the great wild garden among the cats and insect calls. It has remained within me, alive deep down inside me, despite all the wide world that had drawn me away.
Yes, we can't go home again, and so all of us suffer a fundamental alienation from ourselves, especially if we don't learn early on that we carry home with us. And few of us ever come to that realization. M. Le Clézio is an artist of alienation.
In "Anne's Game" we encounter another of his alienated characters trapped in the alien world he has constructed for himself--alien and beautiful:
from "Anne's Game"
in The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts
J. M. G. Le Clézio
That is what he is thinking about as the powerful automobile rounds the large curve in the road with buildings on either side. The sun flashes for a fraction of a second on each bay window, firing a blinding spark. Below, the sea has grown steely; the waves have stilled, etching a net of fine wrinkles over the resplendent light.
That last sentence was, for me, one of those "I wish I had written that" moments. But it would be impossible for me to have written it, not because I lack the skill with language, but because I lack the temperament and the vision that results in moments like this. M. Le Clézio writes with the melancholy and despair of one who recognizes the problem, but has no clue about the solution. So, too, with all of his characters--they know they are trapped and they cannot fine their way out. To his credit, most of M. Le Clézio's characters are trapped by circumstance, not by their own stupidity, as is so common in much of modern fiction (see for example Ishiguro's beautiful but frustrating Nocturnes).
In stories such as "Ariadne," "Moloch," and "The Great Life," we encounter characters who are so profound alienated and disoriented that they cannot even get in touch with their own emotions. Their reactions to events and circumstances are truly outside the scope of what "normal" people might do. I think this is particularly true of "Ariadne," a profoundly violent meditation on fear and alienation amidst the concrete canyons we have constructed for ourselves.
In eleven stories of isolation, alienation, melancholy, and despair, M. Le Clézio chronicles a hostile world, a hostile society, a universe charged with fear and terror. Every character walks through some sort of living nightmare. I've read elsewhere that M. Le Clézio has a heart for the poor, the disenfranchised, the downtrodden; that he understands and empathizes with their plight. This seems true; however, there is more than this. M. Le Clézio shows us that every one of us, under the right conditions shares that alienation, that sense of fear and not belonging--that loneliness.
I cannot say how M. Le Clézio would regard what I must say next; however, he is, in his concerns, a very Catholic writer in the modern sense, and without any real hope of salvation. His every word reeks of the preferential option for the poor. His heart goes out to the lonely, the frightened, the disenfranchised even as he shows that these people, living closer to the edge, are also living closer to the surface. The closet of humankind is actually very limited in its styles and each of us draws from it what we wear everyday. Individuals wear some clothes to a shiny thinness, but we've really all the same basic outfits. M. Le Clézio trots out all the winter fashions as he presents his stories.
Now for one codicil, one unrelated thought, as remarks about the book conclude. On the basis of this one book alone, I asked myself, did M. Le Clézio merit the Nobel Prize? Is there anything here that calls for our attention? Does he actually earn his place in literary immortality? Can he compete with such luminaries as John Updike, Philip Roth, and the usual suspects we Americans trot out every year? That is to say, who is this obscure nobody the Academy picked up, dusted off, and pushed onto the stage? Well, all I can say is thank goodness that the academy does not listen to the yearly round of gripe and complaint. M. Le Clézio's prose is superb. His stories are deep and meaningful and touch upon deep, essential issues of the poor and of the not-so-poor. He has a profound compassion for the foibles of humankind and he expresses that compassion in prose that helps evoke the same feelings in others. It was interesting that in all of the stories of alienation I was never alienated from the author in the way that I am when reading Mr. Updike or Mr. Roth. M. Le Clézio's concerns are real and they are about foundational issues. Too often, I cannot feel that about Roth and Updike. Their concerns occasionally interest me, but more often than not, they are talking about people with whom I share little commonality and for whom I have little liking. I don't know that I like any of M. Le Clézio's characters any better, but I feel for them in a way that neither Mr. Roth nor Mr. Updike command. In short, on the basis of this slender work alone I would applaud the Nobel Committee on their good and wise choice. M. Le Clézio deserves the honor and he deserves a much wider readership than he presently commands in North America. (None of which should be read to say that Mr. Updike or Mr. Roth are themselves undeserving--I don't presume to make that judgment.)
I would strongly recommend that everyone take a look at these stories. The prose alone is worth the time, but the depth of feeling and the depth of perception and concern transcend the mere surface prettiness of the writing. M. Le Clézio is one writer after whom I would not be ashamed to model my own prose. However, I cannot despair in quite the same way, because I do not see these problems as having no solution. I see them as transcending the mere human fixes we can give them. That said, prose and stories like those M. Le Clézio tells, should move us toward what fixes mere human pragmatic approaches can offer. Compassion, warmth, humanity, and reaching out to one another--these are a start when dealing with the world that M. Le Clézio describes so well.
For me, it is on to a couple of the novels--Onitsha and Wandering Star, perhaps there I will be able to see if what is accomplished in the short work is borne out in the longer.
*****--Highly recommended
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