The inappropriateness of his hoax matched the trouble he felt, his quiet despair. They each responded to the other. The changes in his life plunged him into melancholy.
At this moment, he would have liked to have held Courrège tightly in his arms, to have found a human being without the least trace of irony in their eyes, with whom he could have spent the evening.
* * *
LETTER TO THOMAS WHARTON
BY AN INTERPOSING NOVEL
Dear Thomas Wharton,
First of all, thank you for Logogryph.
Look, please try to understand me: Prosopopoeia is a prank in bad taste, granted. This hoax comes out of a simple Borgesian fantasy. I must tell you, however, that thanks to the success that will dissolve all our trivial preoccupations, all writers dream up such an outrageously famous book, the book of a lifetime, in their moments of indulgence. I only ask you to consider the momentary solace elicited in evoking this successful falsity, to take this unrealization into your hands and experience it. As an author, I too understand the difficult task assigned to us of creating fictional scenarios for people who haven’t asked us for anything. By writing, we actually impose excess dreams, invade the fantastical ecology of strangers. Don’t be alarmed by much of our violence, it’s only rhetorical, an amalgam of agitation and form. Please do as I do: Forget that the ideal work does not exist and defend the fairy tale. It’s all that remains.
Take care, and keep writing to us.
B. L.
* * *
* “Eros Is Dead in Chicago: Nelson Algren Blames Playboy” (Trans.)
† A reference to Gaston Miron, one of the most widely read authors of Quebec literature, and to Jean Royer’s 2004 book about Miron, called Voyage en Mironie. (Trans.)
10.
Diderot Interlude
Directed by:
Stéphane Lafleur
Starring:
Rémy Girard
Pierre-Luc Brillant
Caroline Dhavernas
Chloé Bourgeois
David La Haye
&
David Lynch
couche-tard at the joliette metro stop, 10:30 p.m. The character of Ghislain, played by Pierre-Luc Brillant, is standing behind the counter. He is waiting for customers.
A portly, middle-aged man comes in, heads straight for the jerky stand. The man, Diderot, played by Rémy Girard, then walks over to the cash register with a pack of Jack Link’s beef jerky and cheddar-flavoured sticks.
diderot: I am Diderot.
ghislain: I am Ghislain the reader.
diderot: Do you know the author of Jacques the Fatalist? Do you still study the book at school?
ghislain: Yes, yes, I’ve read excerpts. It’s been a while…
diderot: So you know me.
ghislain: By name, I know you by name, of course.
diderot: You seem a bit hazy.
ghislain: That’s because I don’t know you personally.
diderot: You know me by name, like you say, but not personally. I imagine that you don’t study much philosophy, do you? Do you read much?
ghislain: I’m in the reading business. I work in publishing, but to pay the bills, I sell ketchup potato chips.
diderot: So you also know Holland?
ghislain: Yes, very well, but also by name only. But not as well as you, the Encyclopedist.
diderot: They’ve reduced me to this, yes, but I am multiple, myriad. If I understand you correctly, they still associate me with those enlightened non-entities?
ghislain: I’m afraid that’s true.
At that moment, a customer, played by a very beautiful Caroline Dhavernas, comes into the dep. She walks straight to the beer fridge and returns with four cans of Kilkenny. She goes up to the till, stands behind Diderot at first, but soon gently cuts in.
customer 1: Hi, excuse me! Could I pay right away? I’m in a bit of a hurry.
diderot: Sophie?! (Stunned, he turns around, looks at her, falls at her feet.) Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. Madame Volland! Did you write me back? Did you send me a letter even longer than the last one? Ah, your hands, your eyes, your belly… (He touches the customer’s stomach.)
customer 1 (backing up, alarmed): How can this guy know my name?
ghislain (cutting in): This is Diderot. He’s come to buy some beef jerky.
customer 1: “Diderot,” like my dog! (She pays for the beer.)
ghislain: He means no harm. He’s just not in the right century.
Customer 1 leaves the dep, forcibly pulling on the door behind her, but unable to slam it.
diderot (listless): Sophie… My thoughts are my escorts, but my escorts don’t think of me anymore.
ghislain: I remember now, yes. I think I read you recently, monsieur. Mille et une nuits reissued you.
diderot: They reissued my fairy tales?
ghislain: No, cheaper books. I read Pour une morale de l’athéisme.* It’s a dialogue with a marshal…
diderot: Yes, the Marshal de Broglie. But I hope that you aren’t only interested in this minor work for atheists. I don’t imagine this is still an issue for your civilization today, a civilization of jerky and cheddar cheese in a tube. An excellent blend of flavours, by the way. I looked into it. I’m up to date. Besides, your newspapers are terrific, and your typographers do remarkable work. You’ve moved on, in any case. Beyond these stupid arguments to satisfy the wizened devout and the swaggering atheists?
ghislain: We ask questions to relax the spirit. We ask questions to trick our intelligence, to pass the time. To give you an example, I am nutso about ethics.
diderot: “Nutso”? You eat nuts?
ghislain: No, I read them.
diderot: You read nutsos? Fascinating.
ghislain: Of course. I’m a reader for a publishing house.
diderot: In Holland?
ghislain: No, here!
diderot: Don’t tell me that they still publish stuff in Holland.
ghislain: I’m afraid they do.
diderot: Ah, so you work there?
ghislain: Why would I work in Holland?
diderot: Good question. You tell me. And the censorship over there?
ghislain: Ah, censorship doesn’t exist anymore.
diderot: Yes, it does.
ghislain: No, it doesn’t. Anyway, not here.
diderot: Impossible, my dear sir. Censorship is the privilege of those who govern. Although you don’t have kings anymore, you’re still governed?
ghislain: By a few stock market tycoons.
diderot: Oh, really?
ghislain: If it’s an opinion, and not defamatory, we can say it.
diderot: I understand: too many dead horses to beat. Freedom is the goldmine of vermin. That’s not me, but an old advisor to Louis XV. But who worries about that fool now?
ghislain: We punish thought crimes, but on the sly. Forced labour and capital punishment have been replaced by a series of hypocritical measures, each more degrading than the next. We live in generalized hypocrisy.
diderot: If that’s all, it’s not all that bad. The hypocrite is harmless, sullen, an asshole. All my life, I dealt with hypocrites. They’re good people incapable of doing anything well. Sometimes, they transform into cardboard fences, but their defences are easily torn down with one good kick. If that’s all, you’ve succeeded.
ghislain: Succeeded how?
diderot: In the transition.
ghislain: The transition to what?
diderot: The transition to atheism. Bravo!
ghislain: I doubt it.
diderot: Why doubt it? Hypocrisy is natural. It’s the fool’s defence. You’re not going to tell me that there are no more fools?
ghislain: I’m not going to tell you that?
diderot: The reason you’re still working in this money souk is because you’re not yet convinced that you’re anything but a muzhik. I hope I’m not offending you. I’m analyzing the situation.
ghislain: I’ve already thought about it myself.
diderot: You’re a serf, I will make you see it.
ghislain: No one is under the obligation of anyone anymore.
diderot: Yet you have accepted the rules that keep you here. Therefore, you are a vassal.
ghislain: A minimum-wage employee, in any case.
diderot: If I understand correctly, you have chosen your vassalage. It’s ingenious.
ghislain: I live through my own hypocrisy. I’m normal.
diderot: You live according to the general ethics.
ghislain: Exactly.
diderot: Visionary books talk about two kinds of ethics: one is general, common to all nations and religions, and roughly followed; the other belongs to each nation and each religion—in this one we believe, pray in temples, advocate in our homes, and don’t follow at all. So, ethically speaking, you have based yourself on the roughly general.
ghislain: Yes, that’s right, we’re a society of the “roughly” and who complains about it, in truth?
diderot: And the particular religion? Your newspapers?
ghislain: Everything that’s said on TV, in theatres and newspapers indicates a general movement that we more or less pretend to follow. Yes. We pray by applauding. We pray by shouting in telephonic tribunes.
diderot: I love this religion of information. It’s the logical continuation of the encyclopedia.
ghislain (looking at the Jack Link’s pack in Diderot’s hand): Are you ready to pay?
At that moment, three people enter the dep, polite, but kind of punk: Chloé Bourgeois, David La Haye, and David Lynch. The first buys a bag of Humpty Dumpty ketchup chips; the second, a package of gummy bears, a large Oasis orange juice, and microwavable Chef Boyardee raviolis; the third grabs a twelve-pack of Molson.
Noticing that he’s interfering with the smooth running of commerce, Diderot steps back to let the customers go ahead of him.
customer 2 (played by Chloé Bourgeois): Are you going to the Foufs on Tuesday? (She looks Ghislain in the eyes.)
ghislain: No, Tuesday is Law and Order on CTV. I’m staying in.
customer 2: I thought I saw you hanging with the Gatineau gang.
ghislain: No, that wasn’t me.
customer 3 (played by David La Haye, in a work-family balance mode): Don’t listen to her. She’s not good with faces. She’s not trying to annoy you, just thinks her pet fish is a genius.
customer 4 (played by David Lynch disguised as a trickster, a David Suzuki of a parallel world): Did-rot!
He addresses Diderot like they’ve know each other for a century. Diderot stares at him politely.
customer 4: Did-rot! Did-rot! Did-rot! (in broken French) Tou est oune bonne ami de moi, a good friend. Tou est un writer de first class. Tou est oune highlight in the partition (pronounced in English) des loumières. But Did-rot! (He pronounces it slowly.) Fuck you for the mystery! Tou… We can’t detruire la mystère with such force… Tou sais pas, you don’t know, pas plus que toi, toi, toi (he points at the actors waiting around him) what hides behind the atomic tissu… derrière le soup des atomes… qui sait, who knows? (He switches to English for the last statement.) You should have known better, respected the power of mystery. Science is nothing but a blank sheet of paper. I’m a person who draws. I want to put the mystery back on the paper. But I’m clever, and I’m an atheist too… What do you know?
diderot: I’ve met Benjamin Franklin. He was a perfect gentleman. I love American people. You’re free of superstition, in a way. But think about that scientific sheet of paper. Everybody writes on this sheet. Everybody knows this sheet as their own. But the sheet is atomic too, and if your thinking were more subtle, you would have discovered that every sheet is a laughable symphony. At the same time, every sheet is a blank religion.
Close-up of the expressive extremities of all of the actors. Visual sequence in the hysterical kitsch style of Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream. Commercial exultation. The last shot lingers on the logo of Jack Link’s jerky—a black bull that looks like the bear paw of Blackwater (an American private security services contractor). Quick superposition of the two logos, but without dramatic effect or alienating music. Then, a close-up of the door hinge; a close-up of the Couche-Tard clock indicating 10:58 p.m. Fade to black.
* * *
* For an Ethics of Atheism. (Trans.)
11.
Heraclitus Motor Home
we all resemble books that never end at the right page.
Ninety-nine percent of books are from the past. There are no more steps when the end comes ad nauseaum. Let’s stop there. Ghislain. Ghislain. A two-cent character in a cheap comedy. Come back, turn around, rewind your monkey’s street organ, your word machine.
Nothing ever ends. Everything transforms. Memory doesn’t give rise to anything anymore. Ghislain talks to himself. Ghislain agrees with the third person singular. Ghislain has returned to singularity. Nothing left except robots of the self, clever ordinary creatures, voices adjusted for showrooms.
Ghislain saw nothing, knew nothing. He’s sobering up in the tunnel of dead hours. The mercantile tunnel of change: Heraclitus motor home.
Make no mistake: Ghislain is drawn from life. He breakfasts early and leaves, sobering up because he has to, his head back in his bed.
Ghislain can’t manage to think for himself at this moment, so he delegates.
He delegates while sitting in the book’s antechamber. The sliding door opens onto thwarted ambitions.
All around him, the narrowing of his focus redefines the world. It’s an endless thread of spongy polymer, soft and empty inside.
The end no longer has any reason to be in a world where the impossible no longer holds.
Ghislain spits, drinks some water, rises in his bed from the beginning. Nothing ever ends, no cause, no consequence.
Ghislain would like to cry, because that’s the stuff of fiction. All this noise for nothing, all life to improve the fate of the species.
Hitting the woods, beating the hog, running towards destiny.*
Ghislain coordinates his end while delirious about Malcomm Hudd. It’s his choice. He stuffs you in a waxed bag and puts the lot over a fire, in a double boiler. Boil quickly for two minutes. Set on a chaste porcelain plate; knead with the stomach; knead with the eyes; knead with your most significant past.
Ghislain is not dead; Ghislain does not dream; Ghislain is not in agony; Ghislain has decided to delegate everything because it suddenly weighs on him to repeat himself, to admit in front of the mirror that even lies don’t amuse him anymore.
Ghislain thinks about Maldonne, who pretends to be resting on a bus on her way to Chicago, and it does him good to smile thinking about this bitch who believes in the relocation of thought, and to whom he is attached, almost aggressively, through confusing emotions.
Maldonne talks to Ghislain in her head on the bus that’s towing life along at a steady speed. She removes her earphones. Wonders what she’s doing there, suspended in the weightlessness of delicious comfort. Then goes back to her reading.
Maldonne is reading. No one sees the title of the book she’s reading. Everyone knows that reading alone makes you seem suspicious, disrespectful, or treacherous. If you read, you die less than me; if you read, I need to be on guard. We need to pray for those who read. No idea is guaranteed; no author. Maldonne is heading towards her freedom in a straight line.
Maldonne dog-ears a page, underlines a few lines. Each time she takes notes, she looks out the window at the world flashing by in a Warholian long take.
Twelve hours of this, three hours of that, six hours of this, eight hours of that,
so much time to kill between two headaches and two unexpected conversations with the stranger on duty.
Chicago will be her cure. Chicago will be where she’ll shed her skin. A cicada’s dry exoskeleton on a moist blade of grass.
Pleasure doesn’t stop anything, and books make us cough, redirect our instincts for the worst, also for the better. So much the worse.
The bus lulls the passengers to sleep in the tribal night of the Great Lakes, forest roads, and myriad mythologies. Books on strange trees, on menacing seasons. Books on nocturnal monsters.
Maldonne sees the faint light of a PlayStation screen in a child’s hands, his eyes full of concentration. He’s also reading. This child is reading the world, and she doesn’t understand it better than him, she who contemplates.
We live among local scenes and characters, among the hyperintelligent of the technological city and the trash-picking kids of São Paulo.
We are all mirrors. We understand so little of what surrounds us that we start to conceive, invent games to soothe the spirit.
The darkness changes shape beyond the windows.
The darkness clarifies the world, accentuates the echoes.
We advance without knowing the end. Holding it within us, because we have yet to arrive there.
* * *
* A nod to Raymond Queneau’s 1980 book, Courir les rues, Battre la campagne, Fendre les flots (Hitting the Streets, Mounting a Campaign, Making Waves). (Trans.)
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Elyssa Porlier for her invaluable help with my research in the field (Couche-Tard). I would also like to thank my translator, Oana Avasilichioaei, for her excellent work—a tour de force—and for maintaining the richness and elegance of the English language, while composing with the book’s numerous changes of register. Lastly, I wish to thank J. C. Sutcliffe for mentioning that Lectodôme (Readopolis) had yet to be translated in a review of Universal Bureau of Copyrights—my first English translation (also by Avasilichioaei)—published in the Times Literary Supplement. His mention helped put in motion the process that lead to this translation. In this respect, I also wish to salute all those who helped make Readopolis a reality: Éric de Larochellière, the publisher of Le Quartanier; Jay and Hazel Millar and the BookThug team. —B. L.
Readopolis Page 17