Pomp and Intertext

Cultural Commentary by Erica Eller

Tag: Dalkey Archive

Book Review: L.C. by Susan Daitch

L.C. by Susan Daitch (Dalkey Archive, 1986)

L.C. is a remarkable depiction of the French Revolution from the ground up, through the diary of L.C. I can’t believe this is a first novel.

I’m struck by the title, which reminds me of the way that women once had to obscure their gender by tactics such as reducing their name into initials. It immediately makes me think of the author H.D. (Hilda Doolittle). And just who is the woman behind the initials? Lucienne Crozier, both the heroine and the puppet of a uniquely framed novel. Women, Daitch seems to suggest, are the potent shadow force of history that takes shape into a visible presence throughout the course of this novel through the telescoped narratives of three women: Lucienne Crozier, her independent, bourgeois diary translator Willa Rehnfield, and a politically radical counter-translator who is Rehnfield’s assistant and literary executor named Jane Amme. Lovers of history get to enter into the endless hall of mirrors that bibliophilia represents in this book. The book makes us ask questions. Who is this L.C. and who is the woman translating her diary? Why did this text mean so much to these women? What is at stake in this particular representation of the diary? How is history to be represented? Who has the final word? How do our personal experiences shape our impressions of others? What is the use of history, anyway?

The book begins with an introduction to the diary of Lucienne Crozier, written from 1847-1848 by its translator, Dr. Willa Rehnfield written in 1968.
The physical matter of the book itself is pined over by the scholar with a fetishistic fascination. She reminds us that it was a time when the revolution stirred the social order into a turbulent whirlwind, which gives the diary its significance. Rehnfield avoids defining the political stance of Lucienne Crozier who lived at a time when publications placed Marxism alongside feuilletons, making them “strange bedfellows.” She seeks to debunk the myth of the joy of revolution and its social disruption. Rehnfield presents Lucienne Crozier as a woman who is trapped in history in spite of her private observations as if written by a “penless journalist.” Rehnfield explicitly reminds the reader that “the voice of the translator, therefore, is destined to appear in the literal and metaphorical margins of the text,” a statement which defines the framed questioning of the book as a whole. The novel includes a brief note written by Rehnfield that acknowledges the strange help of the man who lent and then later retracted the diary from her possession, suggesting it had been smuggled away from someone as part of an antiques trade.

The bulk of the novel presents the diary of Lucienne Crozier who intelligently describes the cultural milieu of Paris as a world of art, poverty, political intrigue, and terrorism. She was a member of the middle class whose wealth was diminishing until she is married off to Charles Crozier whose family was interested in a small piece of land she owns where rail might be built. Charles travels the world doing business, while Lucienne stays home in Paris living a life of relative freedom, since she doesn’t have to work. In reality, she wants a divorce and relative independence from her husband, in spite of the fact that he is mostly disinterested in her affairs, whether they are deceptive or not. She becomes an art model for Eugene Delacroix who one day strips her of her clothing and paints her in Morrocan costume. This painting is traced throughout the story, and eventually recovered in the contemporary moment of 1968. Lucienne is one degree from Chopin, George Sand, Baudelaire and other recognizable proper names of the era through her artist connections. Yet, Lucienne has a smug attitude towards the arts: “My disinterest might border on the heretical, but I’m not impressed by mirrors of nature, still less by artificial drama: landscape after seascape, bowls of plums after plates of pears, nude after nude.” Her dead-pan attitude forms a unique kind of pre-modern skepticism and she more or less represents Paris as a wasteland. Her comrades represent an array of conflicting political points of view including artist anti-feminist apologists for the nobility (Delacroix), members of the Marxist “Opposition” (Jean de la Tour), the fashionable and politically oblivious feminine perspective (her friend Fabienne), the feminine working class who in spite of shifting paradigms has no say in the Marxist discourse (her maid, Mathilde). She also argues about politics with her brother Eugene. Much more than art, Crozier is passionate about politics making comments such as, “It’s not a secret system. Only citizens who own property can register to vote…” and the mere thought of granting the vote to bourgeois women seems extraneous to the men. Through her relationship with Jean de la Tour, Lucienne Crozier starts going to secret meetings at 14 Juilliet and her comments provide a unique critique regarding the blindness of the radicals to the political potential of the female population.This part of the diary seems to suggest that the role of women in times of revolution always brings out the conservative underbelly of exclusively male leadership regarding gender. Lucienne Crozier survives the chaos of the actual revolution with people flooding the streets and a woman dying in her arms. After the revolution, Crozier describes declares: “The city behaves like a human body, unable to rid itself of disease.” Friends of hers are murdered and women are told to stay at home at night. Bodies float down the river. She and Jean de la Tour go underground together and eventually leave for Algiers as other members of their underground political organization are murdered.

In the Epilogue to the diary, another voice appears. This is the voice of Jane Amme, the former assistant to the work of Dr. Willa Rehnfield and the literary executor of her work. She begins to debunk the myths that she feels Rehnfield has constructed about Lucienne Crozier. Namely, Rehnfield doesn’t describe in any great detail how she came into possession of the diary. While Rehnfield questions the document’s confidentiality in the form of a personal diary…to what extent does this glimpse into an unedited, personal interior representation of the confusion and messiness of all of the different perspectives that make up a historical narrative deserve to be wrested out of its relative anonymity into the public sphere? But, Amme suggests that the high-profiled status of the diary actually suggests that it is not merely a private discourse surrounding the revolution, but a document written with the full intention of being discovered in its own right as an embodied depiction of that history. She begins to scrutinize Rehnfield’s perspective on history as a scrupulous collector of anecdotal material whose favors those female individuals who pre-date movements and climb social ladders. Amme goes on to suggest that Rehnfield herself was locked in a state of apolitical contemplation in her work. Amme states, “Lucienne would not have approved of her.”

Amme discovers a portion of the diary that had not been included with the larger work that had been prepared for publication. This portion was the part of Lucienne Crozier’s diary that describes her voyage to North Africa. In Rehnfield’s translation, Crozier is reduced to immobility as a woman and she eventually dies there in North Africa. Amme, however, discovers the portion of the original transcript that corresponds to this part of the diary among Rehnfield’s papers and decides to re-translate the work from her much different perspective from that of Rehnfield to allow the reader to determine for themselves how translation distorts a text. Amme, it turns out was an organizer of the Berkeley Free Speech Movement who had helped organize the bombing of the house of an important public figure, thereby murdering them. She, like Lucienne Crozier, had to go underground to escape the FBI’s questioning. She worked as Rehnfield’s assistant precisely because of Rehnfield’s impersonal approach in not asking for references. In Amme’s re-translation, which ends the book, a uniquely different perspective of Lucienne Crozier surfaces. She is an active political agent in North Africa, dressing in drag to gain mobility and acting as a spy of sorts. In the end, Amme decides to provocatively destroys the original that she used for translation. This leaves us with the ethical question of how history is scripted and who has the final word. Comments such as: “To all this Willa Rhnfield would have said, no voyeur is truly inert” direct the reader to enter into the discourse of historic representations and its many implications. The result of the novel is a strange impression of Lucienne Crozier whose role in the French Revolution is never quite clear because it always mediated.

Daitch’s subtle manipulation of supposed objectivity, through the lens of different individuated consciousnesses tears away at any sense of gendered female essentialism, and heightens the sense of intention and instrumentality in each depiction of the translated text. Daitch engages with a project of fictional historic recovery that raises all of the compelling questions of representation that go along with it. Who is speaking? Why are they speaking? What do we learn from history if nothing more than a reflection of our own hopes and desires for the future? The collaborative mosaic that comprises history is parsed into a telescopic presentation in which Daitch is able to attach minute differences in vocabulary and narration to different translations. The excitement of historic change is captured in a vague sense of a generational revolution that transpired from the 1950s to the 1970s in the United States academia, suggested by the difference between Rehnfield and Amme.

Lastly, I commend Susan Daitch for exhibiting a sophisticated feminine addition to the theme in contemporary fiction of literary executorship most notably explored in Vladimir Nabokov’s Pale Fire. Anyone who has read that book knows that its depiction of women lacks substance. Clearly, the mimetic filters and shifts of Nabokov’s work hearken back to Lewis Carroll’s children’s classic, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. I couldn’t help but wonder, does Daitch choose the initials L.C. to somehow insert herself into this novelistic trajectory of influence?

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Book Review: On Elegance While Sleeping by Viscount Tascano Tegui

Book cover of On Elegance While Sleeping by Viscount Lascano Tegui

This book has an impeccable first paragraph that involves a manicurist, the Moulin Rouge, and an accusation of murder. I read the paragraph aloud to a friend over the phone the day after I read it, and I would paste it here, but I want you to seek it out on your own. I know that if you’re a book addict, nothing will stop you.

I love the title of this novella-length gem that is structured in a diary form with dates that move curiously back and forth in time. The short impressions leave you with an elegant array of surreal memories, some of which caused me to conjure memories of my own. Like all surrealist early twentieth century fiction, the sexuality of the book is pre-gender-politics. The narrator’s homosexual lust is taboo and “Sodomite” but he nevertheless indulges in lavish descriptions of beautiful men with a degree of lackadaisical decadence and a tinge of melancholy regarding the social structure of outcasting that sends one character from their small hometown of Bougival into the city of Paris, where he would develop into a flaneurish phenom. The same dagguerreotype-like impression occurs with the narrator’s description of his prostitutes and their abortions. In fact, one passage presents a brilliant meditation on life as the escape from abortion. The narrow window through which one fetus expels out into the world is a gift in spite of the myriad of abortive obstacles in the form of needles, poisons, and slices that occurred in a dark medical closet of an early 20th century whorehouse. The narrator’s memories of women and whores are eclectic in their sexual array from the eleven year old girl with forty year old eyes, who posed with her leg stretched out for him in a way he could never forget, to his disinterest towards the exoticism he ‘discovered’ after being invited to view of a medley of Arab women sans-veils.

This book takes you back to pre-Civil-war era Spain and its macabre poverty that strikes an alarming backdrop to the sketches. In that regard, this book stands out from the well-known French surrealists. It captures the rurality of the war that authors like Bataille were not able to capture (I’m thinking of his extreme depiction of the sexual transgression and urban violence during the Spanish Civil War in Blue of Noon). The narrator describes his hobby of pulling up dead bodies from the river that got caught beneath the mill in his childhood. He writes about Mary Rogers sitting in a flower shop that she runs, whose namesake is the famous victim that fueled a generation of mystery novels in England and France…that very Mary Rogers who Poe wrote about in one of his Tales of Mystery and Ratiocination. He writes about syphilis, rashes, scalp treatments, cyanide, and other bygone tinctures. While these impressions are never dull, they mount in an ever-increasing heap that grows into a deliberately grotesque assortment that becomes monotonous in its very entropic heterogeneity. The book ends with a sad and misogynistic finale in which the narrator decides to murder a young, destitute, English, blond woman whose lineage is scrutinized, like all of the other whimsical, but penetratingly sardonic caricatures of people. At times, the book presents itself as a meditation on death, but like all great tragic misfits, the narrator ends the novel in an act of absurd, base murder.

I crooned, laughed, and shuddered at the fleeting days-gone-by compiled into this diary-form piece of impressionism. I was impressed with the range of striking images and powerful control that the author exhibits. Perhaps the attitude of the book is summed up in this self-fulfilling prophecy: “Novelists overplay their hands when they put an end to their characters with some catastrophe–a terrible fire, a murder, what have you. They don’t trust the asphyxiating monotony of everyday life. The florist’s was no more fascinating than a piece of dried seaweed” (71). In reading this book, it felt as if I had entered a strangely perfumed sepulchre where memories refrained like gamelans, and statues crumbled to their final, awkward collapse.