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A review by arirang
Dear Reader by David Bellos, Paul Fournel
2.0
"It's a reader. A Kandle. An iClone. One of those gizmos"
"How do I go to the next page?"
"You turn pages by sliding the corner on the bottom."
"Like a book?"
"Yeah, that's the prehistoric side of it. A sop for seniors. When people have forgotten about books they'll wonder why it works that way. Vertical makes more sense. Scrolling down would be more logical."
"Jack Kerouac will be pleased."
She doesn't get it.
"La Liseuse" by Paul Fournel has been translated into English by the talented David Bellos as "Dear Reader".
The novel is narrated by Robert Dubois, former head and owner of his eponymous publishing house but now merely a senior employee there after a corporate take-over.
In a large part the story is a sentimental look, indeed largely a look back, to the world of literary publishing, and to the art of reading in general, and how it is challenged both by corporate pressures and technology - specifically the e-reader.
Dubois as a narrator has at times a strong (albeit potentially ironic) whiff of curmudgeonly old-fashioned man, in his views to e.g. relations between the sexes, not just publishing. Confronted by a MBA who suggests extensive market research before deciding which books to print, Dubois retorts:
"People have got into the awful habit of putting out books just too see how many copies they sell. It's called publishing."
The novel is packed with literary jokes and references - e.g. the Kerouac quip in my opening quote (a reference to the original manuscript of On the Road's being in the form of a scroll) - many specific to the French literary scene (Robert's new boss calls him "Gaston", a reference to the most distinguished of French publishers Gaston Gallimard).
The book is at it's strongest in describing the various aspects of the literary and publishing worlds. For example, commenting on book signings and talks, Gaston remarks of his favourite author as she answers the same repeated questions ("'Yes my book is entirely autobiographical' (as if reality were any mark of literary quality)"): "I sincerely admire Genevieve for underselling her work day in and day out",
And on the role of publishers and other stakeholders in forming the literary canon, Gaston tells an anxious intern who he has asked to opine on a new novel:
"What ought to reassure you is that literature's gatekeeper is not you. Nor are the writers themselves. Literature isn't something pre-existing that you insert into a text, it's a very complex construction that's built only with hindsight, and by all. Writers contribute to it, that's for sure, the publisher and the imprint certainly add their mark, but then it's for the media, the booksellers, the academy, and secondary and primary schools to decide. They don't agree with each other, they keep changing their views, and so literature never stops changing its boundaries and shape. Writers you thought had vanished make a comeback, and some you thought set up for eternity disappear. There's a hard core left over that everyone agrees about, but not everyone actually likes them."
It's at it's most warm when writing about the physical act of reading. E.g. contrasting the tactile experience of reading physical manuscripts to looking at them on his new e-reader:
"I sink onto the sofa, wrap my legs in a blanket, and read. My habitual technique is quite simple: I stack the pile of sheets on my paunch, and as I read I transfer them one by one to my chest. The increasing pressure on my ribcage gives me an accurate reading of how much work I have done. For the first twenty I read with great attention, as slowly as I can make myself read, then I speed up gently, allowing my professional experience and what I know of the author and the book's concept to take over - imagination does the rest. This is my semi-somnolent reading style, which constitutes my deepest mode of engagement with a text."
Compared to the e-reader:
"With a flick of the fingers I turn pages that don't fall on any pile. They depart body and soul to some imaginary place I can hardly imagine. My chest is anxious and gives me no guide to how far I've got. There's no noise of turning pages to break the silence of the house. I miss the slight breeze I used to feel on my neck from each page as it fell."
It's rather less successful when it attempts "a reflection on the future of reading" (author's postscript), with Dubois commissioning some interns to derive literature for the mobile age. It's not really Dubois's forte, nor the authors and the suggestions don't really convince.
There's also a slightly jarring side story of Dubois's wife, who we gradually realise is seriously ill, which seems to introduce an unnecessary element into what is at heart a rather light tale.
What is not obvious when reading is that the text is Oulipan, as explained in the author's postscript. (Which incidentally contains the wonderful phrase "anticipatory plagarists" to describe how Oulipan techniques can often be seen in works that pre-date the concept).
The particular constraint in this book doesn't really seem much of a constraint at all, and not one of those where you look back on the text with a sense of revelation. (Albeit it does explain the rather forced references to "cream" at various points.)
Although as with all Oulipan novels, the constraint is even greater for the translator, who has the additional constraint of fidelity to the existing story as well as the challenge of a different language. David Bellos - well known as the translator of Perec - tackles it with relish, and is to be commended.
For an excellent review that explains the Oulipan system used (and which enjoyed the book more than I did) see: http://messybooker.blogspot.co.uk/2014/12/dear-reader-paul-fournel-translated-by.html
"How do I go to the next page?"
"You turn pages by sliding the corner on the bottom."
"Like a book?"
"Yeah, that's the prehistoric side of it. A sop for seniors. When people have forgotten about books they'll wonder why it works that way. Vertical makes more sense. Scrolling down would be more logical."
"Jack Kerouac will be pleased."
She doesn't get it.
"La Liseuse" by Paul Fournel has been translated into English by the talented David Bellos as "Dear Reader".
The novel is narrated by Robert Dubois, former head and owner of his eponymous publishing house but now merely a senior employee there after a corporate take-over.
In a large part the story is a sentimental look, indeed largely a look back, to the world of literary publishing, and to the art of reading in general, and how it is challenged both by corporate pressures and technology - specifically the e-reader.
Dubois as a narrator has at times a strong (albeit potentially ironic) whiff of curmudgeonly old-fashioned man, in his views to e.g. relations between the sexes, not just publishing. Confronted by a MBA who suggests extensive market research before deciding which books to print, Dubois retorts:
"People have got into the awful habit of putting out books just too see how many copies they sell. It's called publishing."
The novel is packed with literary jokes and references - e.g. the Kerouac quip in my opening quote (a reference to the original manuscript of On the Road's being in the form of a scroll) - many specific to the French literary scene (Robert's new boss calls him "Gaston", a reference to the most distinguished of French publishers Gaston Gallimard).
The book is at it's strongest in describing the various aspects of the literary and publishing worlds. For example, commenting on book signings and talks, Gaston remarks of his favourite author as she answers the same repeated questions ("'Yes my book is entirely autobiographical' (as if reality were any mark of literary quality)"): "I sincerely admire Genevieve for underselling her work day in and day out",
And on the role of publishers and other stakeholders in forming the literary canon, Gaston tells an anxious intern who he has asked to opine on a new novel:
"What ought to reassure you is that literature's gatekeeper is not you. Nor are the writers themselves. Literature isn't something pre-existing that you insert into a text, it's a very complex construction that's built only with hindsight, and by all. Writers contribute to it, that's for sure, the publisher and the imprint certainly add their mark, but then it's for the media, the booksellers, the academy, and secondary and primary schools to decide. They don't agree with each other, they keep changing their views, and so literature never stops changing its boundaries and shape. Writers you thought had vanished make a comeback, and some you thought set up for eternity disappear. There's a hard core left over that everyone agrees about, but not everyone actually likes them."
It's at it's most warm when writing about the physical act of reading. E.g. contrasting the tactile experience of reading physical manuscripts to looking at them on his new e-reader:
"I sink onto the sofa, wrap my legs in a blanket, and read. My habitual technique is quite simple: I stack the pile of sheets on my paunch, and as I read I transfer them one by one to my chest. The increasing pressure on my ribcage gives me an accurate reading of how much work I have done. For the first twenty I read with great attention, as slowly as I can make myself read, then I speed up gently, allowing my professional experience and what I know of the author and the book's concept to take over - imagination does the rest. This is my semi-somnolent reading style, which constitutes my deepest mode of engagement with a text."
Compared to the e-reader:
"With a flick of the fingers I turn pages that don't fall on any pile. They depart body and soul to some imaginary place I can hardly imagine. My chest is anxious and gives me no guide to how far I've got. There's no noise of turning pages to break the silence of the house. I miss the slight breeze I used to feel on my neck from each page as it fell."
It's rather less successful when it attempts "a reflection on the future of reading" (author's postscript), with Dubois commissioning some interns to derive literature for the mobile age. It's not really Dubois's forte, nor the authors and the suggestions don't really convince.
There's also a slightly jarring side story of Dubois's wife, who we gradually realise is seriously ill, which seems to introduce an unnecessary element into what is at heart a rather light tale.
What is not obvious when reading is that the text is Oulipan, as explained in the author's postscript. (Which incidentally contains the wonderful phrase "anticipatory plagarists" to describe how Oulipan techniques can often be seen in works that pre-date the concept).
The particular constraint in this book doesn't really seem much of a constraint at all, and not one of those where you look back on the text with a sense of revelation. (Albeit it does explain the rather forced references to "cream" at various points.)
Although as with all Oulipan novels, the constraint is even greater for the translator, who has the additional constraint of fidelity to the existing story as well as the challenge of a different language. David Bellos - well known as the translator of Perec - tackles it with relish, and is to be commended.
For an excellent review that explains the Oulipan system used (and which enjoyed the book more than I did) see: http://messybooker.blogspot.co.uk/2014/12/dear-reader-paul-fournel-translated-by.html