We'll start things off with a selection from probably his most famous (and possibly best) work, Tropic of Cancer. It describes his routine as a prototypal "starving artist," in the city perhaps most associated with that role: Paris. The first line, dealing with his Parisian rush hour whimsy, also harkens back to my last post, as a sort of precursor to the dérive:
Nothing
better between five and seven than to be pushed around in that
throng, to follow a leg or a beautiful bust, to move along with the
tide and everything whirling in your brain. A weird sort of
contentment in those days. No appointments, no invitations for
dinner, no program, no dough. The golden period, when I had not a
single friend. Each morning the dreary walk to the American Express,
and each morning the inevitable answer from the clerk. Dashing here
and there like a bedbug, gathering butts now and then, sometimes
furtively, sometimes brazenly; sitting down on a bench and squeezing
my guts to stop the gnawing, or walking through the Jardin des
Tuileries and getting an erection looking at the dumb statues.
Just
to take a walk into the outskirts of Paris – Montrouge, Gentilly,
Kremlin-Becetre, Ivry – was sufficient to unbalance me for the rest
of the day. I enjoyed being unbalanced, derailed, disoriented early
in the morning. (The walks I refer to were 'constitutionals,' taken
before breakfast. My mind free and empty, I was making myself
physically and spiritually prepared for long sieges at the machine.)
Taking the rue de la Tombe-Issoire, I would head for the outer
boulevards, then dive into the outskirts, letting my feet lead me
where they would[...] If I was suffering from a hangover, as I
frequently was, all these associations, deformations and
interpenetrations became even more quixotically vivid and colorful.
On such days it was nothing to receive in the first mail a second or
third copy of the I
Ching,
an album of Scriabin, a slim volume concerning the life of James
Ensor or a treatise on Pico della Mirandola. Beside my desk, as a
reminder of recent festivities, the empty wine bottles were always
neatly ranged[...] Breakfast, chez
moi.
Strong coffee with hot milk, two or three delicious warm croissants
with sweet butter and a touch of jam. And with the breakfast a
snatch of Segovia[...] Belching a little, picking my teeth, my
fingers tingling, I take a quick look around (as if to see if
everything's in order!), lock the door, and plunk myself in front of
the machine. Set to go. My brain afire.
As
for the suburbs, so sinister and forlorn – everyone I knew who had
gone to live in the suburbs had given up the ghost. The current of
life never bathed these purlieus. There could be only one purpose in
retiring to these living catacombs: to breed and wither away. If it
were an act of renunciation it would be comprehensible, but it was
never that. It was always an admission of defeat. Life became
routine, the dullest sort of routine. A humdrum job, a family with a
big bosom to slink into, the barnyard pets and their diseases, the
slick magazines, the comic sheets, the farmers' almanac. Endless time
in which to study oneself in the mirror. One after another, regular
as the noonday sun, the brats fell out of the womb. The rent came
due regularly, too, or the interest on the mortgage. How pleasant to
watch the new sewer pipes being laid! How thrilling to see new
streets opening up and finally covered with asphalt! Everything was
new. New and shoddy. New and desolate. New and meaningless. With
the new came added comforts. Everything was planned for the coming
generation. One was mortgaged to the shining future. A trip to the
city and one longed to be back in the neat little bungalow with the
lawn mower and the washing machine. The city was disturbing,
confusing, oppressive. One acquired a different rhythm living in the
suburbs. What matter if one was not au
courant? There
were compensations – such as warm house slippers, the radio, the
ironing board which sprang out of the wall. Even the plumbing was
attractive.
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