Showing posts with label French literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French literature. Show all posts

August + French Essay Update + Race/Cuba/Dissidence

I can hardly believe August is already here. Just two weeks ago I realized graduation was only a month ago, though it's sometimes felt like I've been home three months and at others like no more than, well, a couple of weeks. July is a hot blur; one minute a cool spring and moderate June were winding down and then the outdoors, at least out here, turned into the inside of a kiln.  I have been writing steadily and drawing (and animating, gardening, baking, etc.), but whenever I've tried to complete entries here, lassitude overwhelms me.  So I still have a number of posts from July to complete; many of them have made it only to the draft stage, but I do want to post them before we get too far into August, and find myself trying to keep up with this month....

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Some news about projects and so forth: a while back I mentioned the French essay on Abdellah Taïa's novel Une mélancolie arabe that I toiled over last year, for the Montreal-based journal Spirale. It is now published, as part of the "théâtres de la cruauté: du jamais vu" dossier edited by Nathalie Stephens, whom I want to thank once again for all of her excellent guidance, edits, suggestions, patience, and support. (Many thanks also to Catherine Mavrakakis, whose editorial help was also crucial.) If you read French, you can download Nathalie's introductory essay ("Présentation"), which engaging explores the dossier's key themes and constellation of ideas and provides an overview of the contributions, which includes essays exploring texts that range from Diamanda Galas's Guilty guilty guilty and David Wojnarowicz's Close the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration and In the Shadow of the American Dream: The Diaries of David Wojnarowicz, to Maryse Condé's Comme deux frères, to assorted works by Brazilian writer Hilda Hilst. Unfortunately these essays are not accessible by download, but if you're really interested in them and read French, you can order a copy via the link above.

Also, improved versions of my translations of Dominican poet Mateo Morrison's poems, and my translation of one of Congolese-Francophone writer Alain Mabanckou's poems have been accepted and will appear, I believe, later this year in different journals. I haven't done too many translations this summer, but I will eventually post several of the ones I did complete, nearly all by Brazilian writers: poets Ana Cristina Cesar and Paulo Leminski, two major figures in Brazil's late 20th century literary avant-garde, and fiction writer João Gilberto Noll, whom I learned about from colleagues both at and outside the university.  Between this blog and unpublished translations, I think I've translated close to 20 writers thus far, and one hope for the future is that I can get more of these into print and, if possible, be able to translate more complete books (or book-length collections of different writers' works).



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The Root.com recently ran several pieces on race and Cuba that I recommend.  A good deal of what writer Achy Obejas relates in her article, "Race in Cuba: Yes Virginia, there is racism on the island," comports with my pre-travel discussions about race, racism and Cuba, and my experience while there last year. One of the things I noted in the pieces I wrote on here last year about Cuba was the gap between the Revolution's idealism and sometimes impressive social and political vision and the laws resulting from it, and the actual conditions people were living, which must always be qualified by the ongoing US embargo and its negative economic and political effects. (I also noted the strong influence, throughout different aspects of Cuban society and its cultures, of the country's African heritage. And, I should also note, because I didn't in my earlier pieces, that a great many--the majority?--of the officials we met with in Havana, at least, possessed evident African ancestry, however they might describe themselves racially and ethnically.)


In the case of race and inequality, the Revolution did attempt, as Obejas notes and as I've read and seen, to wipe out racism and white supremacy through law and proclamation, but what was also evident, and what some of the Black Cubans I met conveyed to me directly, was that racism and racial and color hierarchies, sometimes very overt, persisted, and several urged me specifically to look at the leadership of the country. As one person put it in so many words, despite America's history and ongoing issues you elected Obama, yet Black people are a majority in Cuba, and who's at the upper reaches of our government?  Another expressed to one of the educators that I traveled with he regularly encountered overt racism and he was fed up.  In her piece, Obejas, who was born in Cuba but grew up in the US and travels regularly to the island, discusses some of the realities on the ground.

In a second piece, Obejas briefly interviews ethnologist and political scientist Carlos Moore, one of Cuba's better-known contemporary exiles. Last year, with David Colvin and Iva Carruthers, he drafted and disseminated a declaration entitled "''Acting on Our Conscience,'' that attacked racism in Cuba and which received the support of more than 5 dozen notable Black Americans, including Molefi K. Asante, Katherine Neal Cleaver, Winston James, Marta Moreno Vega, Melvin Van Peebles, Randy Weston, and Cornel West. Obejas asks him about this and racism in particular, and what provoked the declaration. For Moore, it was the Cuban government's imprisonment of Darsi Ferrer, an Afro-Cuban dissident.  As for his take on race:
My perspective on race relations is perhaps quite different from that of most people in that I do not see race as being primarily a question of interpersonal relations. I see it as being, fundamentally, a question of relations of power over the distribution of resources along racial lines. And by race, I mean phenotype, not biology. Consequently, I do not analyze racial matters in terms of ''betterment,'' ''achievement,'' ''advancement'' or ''representation.'' I view maters of race in terms of the power to distribute or deny resources.

To a huge degree this is, I think, the crux of the matter there, here, and in many other parts of the globe: where race, racism, power, politics, economics, and capital intersect.  Do read the rest of the piece to see what else he has to say.

Continuing with the Cuban theme, the new issue of The New York Review of Books features a short piece, with an unfortunately tendentious title, by Daniel Wilkinson on blogging, the Net, dissidence and the Cuban state. Wilkinson focuses on the Generation Y blog, but goes on to discuss the larger issue of how Cuban dissidents, despite technical, political and economic challenges, are using the Net not only to challenge the regime, but to convey to those outside many of the challenges of daily life.  Among them:

The biggest challenge for Cuban bloggers isn’t outright censorship. It’s simply finding a way to get online. To set up a private connection requires permission from the government, which is rarely granted. Public access is available only in a few government-run cybercafés and tourist hotels, where it costs approximately five US dollars an hour, or one third of the monthly wage of an average Cuban. As a result, bloggers often write their posts on home computers, save them on memory sticks, and pass them to friends who have Internet access and can upload them—for example workers in hotels and government offices. Others dictate their posts by phone to friends abroad, who then upload them through servers off the island. 

I found this too matched my experiences and difficulties, as a visitor in accessing the extra-Cuban Net while in Havana.  Computer access was relatively expensive (and slow, I might add), and thus prohibitive, I imagine, for the majority of Cubans, though I did note groups of young people at the computer stations in the hotel I visited to get the "better" and "faster" service.  In Pinar del Río, if I recall correctly, I didn't even try. (In fact, I did have to walk all the way to the center of town one night, to reach a hotel with a good and very expensive international phone connection, to call home.) I also imagined that everything I typed was being scrutinized by authorities in Cuba as well as the US, and typed accordingly. Nevertheless, as Wilkinson says, the Net is offering these bloggers a means to open yet another window onto what's going on in Cuba, which is affecting not only the government there but, as some of the dissidents he writes about also hope, the US government as well.

("Cuba--A Way Forward," Wilkinson's prior NYRB piece, with Nik Steinberg, is also worth reading.)

A final note: Raúl Castro, the current president of Cuba, has just announced a relaxing of government control of the economy. While Cuba, for obvious reasons, was nowhere near as exposed to the global financial meltdown led by Wall Street, it has, like almost every other country, especially the poor ones, across the globe, suffered from the worldwide economic slowdown, and this shift is, I think, an immediate and important response. Interestingly enough, I didn't hear a single mention of it on any of the newcasts I watched tonight.

Harvey Milk Day + Translation: Guillaume Dustan

Happy Harvey Milk Day!

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Five years back, after learning of his death, I wrote about Guillaume Dustan (1965-2005), the enfant terrible of late 20th century French gay male literature. I won't restate all of that here, except to note that around the age of 30, he began publishing a series of novels, drawn directly from his life, that placed him squarely at the center of the French autofiction movement, in which autobiography and fiction are so closely merged that they unsettle the question of genre. Dustan published 8 or 9 books, most of them fiction but several works of philosophical essays, especially on the topic of queerness, before his death, from an accidental drug overdose. He was also an editor for Balland's now extinct Rayon Gay line--which I also wrote about on here, and which is how I first learned about and had a brief email exchange with him, getting clearance for a translation--and a film producer and actor. Dustan's first three books, only one of which, Dans ma chambre (In My Room) from 1996, has been translated, are pulse-like accounts of his very active sex-and-love life, but they are also shorn of sentimentality; the concise, speedy, casual prose paints a rich picture, often full of feeling, without evoking affect in the usual ways. In 1999, he published the novel Nicolas Pages, which was somewhat of a departure. Denser, more full of anecdotes, digressions, and self-analysis and philosophizing, it takes up Dustan's pursuit of and relationship with the eponymous, younger author and conceptual artist,
Nicolas Pages (1970-, at right), who had only a few years before, in 1997, published his first book, Je mange un oeuf, which I've I translated a portion of.  I subsequently did translate some of Dustan's novel, and realized this week, while teaching a unit on conceptual writing and rereading the works of Kenneth Goldsmith, Rob Fitterman, and Tan Lin, that one way to think about Pages' first novel, and a good deal of the more chronologically-grounded, stylistically flat or affectless, verisimilitudinous works like Pages, would be as a form of documentary realism, or conceptual fiction. Pages, as I noted is a conceptual artist, but as far as I can tell, I haven't seen that link made in US criticism, though Pages and Dustan are frequently linked to Bret Easton Ellis, whose influence is evident in their work, and whom both approvingly cite repeatedly. (Other writers whose names have been evoked in relation to both are Renaud Camus, Hervé Guibert, Céline, and the American queer master Dennis Cooper.) One great aspect of reading and translating Dustan's Nicolas Pages was seeing his appreciation of Pages' first book stated so clearly and forcefully in the opening pages of the novel; I have long wondered if it was just me who saw validity in what Pages was doing. Now that Goldsmith and company are big, perhaps there will be more appreciation for at least some of their counterparts, especially Pages and the late Dustan, overseas.



Here's a little snippet from Nicolas Pages (Éditions Balland, 1999, winner of the 1999 Prix de Flore), which gives a flavor of the jagged, sometimes snaky qualities of the prose (the infelicities of the rough translation are all mine), and the self-referentiality of the narrative:

It happened like this. He was late getting to FNAC Saint-Lazare for an FG radio blah-blah with Alain Royer and Gwen Fauchois. Then we figured that he couldn't be far away, his bags were already there, set up. We had to start. I'd put on my wig, to get myself together, to make an impression too. I found it comical to put a wig to go on the radio. I took a small jog around the book display gondola--on casters--sitting at the entrance to the room (my choice: my girlfriends' gay books from the press). And then there he was. First the head and the top of his usual soft T-shirt neither too wide nor too tight, up to this point black or blue, today green, atop the black mesh. The hair was a little longer than in Liège, but still short and you could see that although he had left a longer strip, one end of the crown was higher on the right, or perhaps on the left. His eyes were still brilliant too. His face so expressive, but reserved. I also still found it gorgeous. Everything happened very quickly. I was happy to have the wig, it gave me a little distance. We got to work. I spoke about why the wig ("for a peaceful coexistence between the male and female in the same person"). He read a passage from my book, the one where I cite "Sweet Dreams." I thanked him. I read a passage from his, I don't know which one, I had just gotten up to go look for an example in the stacks he'd left here for FNAC, this cunt still hasn't faxed me his invoice sheets, it's the hugest rush right now, he's going to move to in New York on July 11th, it's June 29th now, I settle on the Mykonos trip, I read, I hear his voice speaking the text, it drives me crazy, it drives me as crazy as in Mykonos, contrary to my memory, he doesn't stop fucking, I'm jealous, I'm jealous even when he speaks about people that I do not know of, from a time when I did not know him, I am really blown away, I am serious. I said that I thought that his book was the most important book since American Psycho (besides mine, I thought). That's really what I think. He thanked me. He spoke. He only spoke of things he was sure about. I appreciated his smarts. I removed my wig so as not to hold the public's attention during his time. After, we placed his book at FNAC, while drinking champagne with Alain, Gwen and some people in the bar, nice people. Nicolas likes to drink. He drinks but he maintains control. It's because of that that I started to like him. He brought back to me my proud youth. I was someone beautiful before I lost my principles. He's handsome like a cowboy, like Rahan, like Doctor Justice (two nights later, at Dispatch, where he's at the bar, ordering—he goes all the time to order drinks and he rolls pretty good joints also, more than me but it's normal since he sees what I have to do, he says nothing. He's hovering before me, the back of his black Adidas top two centimeters above. I touch him thinking that it's maybe not a good thing. I touch him thinking that I'm against public touching, except in the case of an obvious emergency. He looks at me with an air a bit near neutral which means I'm afraid. I think about Quentin who was always feeling me up at the gallery. Nicolas is upstanding. He's 27 years old. I'm 32. We don't have the same history. But no big deal, seeing as though everyone has the same one. I hope that we'll have enough points in common. Up to the age of 24 I never made any effort. I had the power to not want to please anyone. I no longer said the obvious things. Only a half-word, if anything).

Copyright © Guillaume Dustan, from Nicolas Pages, Éditions Balland, 1999, 2010. Translation, John Keene, 2003, 2010. All rights reserved.
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