Commonplace Book

'Societies do not like hermits and do not forgive them for their flight. They disapprove of the solitary figure throwing his "Go on without me" in everyone else's face. To withdraw is to take leave of one's fellows. The hermit denies the vocation of civilization and becomes a living reproach to it. He is a blot on the social contract..."

from The Consolations of the Forest by Sylvain Tesson (February 27)

Commonplace Book

'...When crowds enter the forests, it's to chop them down. Life in the woods is no solution to ecological problems. The phenomenon contains its own counter-principle: the masses, taking to the woods, would bring along the evils they'd hoped to flee by leaving the city. No exit.'

from The Consolations of the Forest by Sylvain Tesson (February 22)

White Man by Shusaku Endo (1955)

This is the story of a psychopath and his war with God. The main character is a young Frenchman of Lyon, who is established at the beginning as a collaborator with the Nazis, and is in fear of the coming invading Allies, though what puzzles me is the date given. It is supposedly 1942. Through a bit of research I see that French North Africa was invaded in 1942, but not mainland France I think. Not sure whether this is an error, or a slice of history of which I'm not aware. As he sits in his little flat contemplating this, he retraces the steps which brought him here. It very quickly becomes obvious that this is also a study in perversion. As an ugly, cross-eyed boy, he witnessed the family's maid, Yvonne, savagely beating a dog in the street, and the sight of her milky white legs enclosing the dog and the violence of the attack pleased him to the extent of beginning the awakening of his sluggish sexuality. How much his psychopathy is the result of parental lack of love (they almost taunt him with his ugliness) and how much of it is innate is I suppose the classic question. It soon develops that he is secretly obsessed with violence, and is also sourly dismissive of any article of faith, regarding it as a stupid delusion. At the same time he is extra-aware of people's notions of God, setting himself up in opposition - "I'll show you, and become an impersonation of Evil to do so" is almost how it seems, giving himself away as an unknowing believer in forms of external agency. On holiday in Aden with his father, he takes the opportunity of being left alone one day to inveigle an Arab boy to a lonely spot and beat him atrociously. Back in Lyon, he becomes entangled with a young student seminarian, who witnesses him in a rage of frustration tearing up the underwear of a female fellow student while she is on the sporting field. There is also a hint that the seminarian either also fancies him, or fancies saving his soul; it's a grey area. Either way, the seminarian soon recognises that he is dangerous and unhinged. He attempts to protect Marie-Therese, the young female student, from his interest, but our fellow is too wily, and manages to get her to succumb with a sob story. He regards it simply as an effort to be made to persuade the seminarian that evil will triumph: "I [evil] will always exist; your goody-goody beliefs can't win!" is the way it goes. We next come across him in the present, in witnessing him as a slowly emerging confederate of the Nazis, taking part in his first torture-sessions at a lonely chateau just outside Lyon; the seminarian and Marie-Therese are the subjects, as they have been assisting the Resistance. The torture is bloody, protracted, but not egregious. The writing in this last part, pulling poetically together all the strands of his character and obsession, is outstanding, even in translation, which is saying something. All in, a stunning novella about vileness, which is completely lacking for me in terms of identification and empathy, and yet, through a cool, intensely well-modulated style, it grips and satisfies.

Commonplace Book

'...Romances, it has been justly observed, are Histories which we do not believe to be true, whilst Histories are Romances which we do believe to be true...'

from Some Account of My Cousin Nicholas by Thomas Ingoldsby (Richard Barham) (Second Volume, Chapter III)

Commonplace Book

'The roundup I witnessed was most deliberate. Those innocent men became victims simply because they happened to be in town that day, simply because they chanced to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The idea that a mere whim might bring on death spreads terror better than anything else. If there were only some law, or some rule, that determined who was to die, we could protect ourselves by adhering to it, but there was nothing we could do to thwart chance. After the incident, the people of Lyon could no longer leave their houses. Going out just might mean death.'

from White Man by Shusaku Endo (Chapter VII)

Commonplace Book

'Once more the inexplicable frozen look struck over him from her opened eyes, as if one of the minutes of Time had yawned to show him its deep, mute, tragic abyss, and was extinguished.'

from Rhoda Fleming by George Meredith (Chapter XXX)

Commonplace Book

'And now, farewell, my worthy ass! You have been thinking me one through a fair half of this my letter, so I hasten to be in advance of you, by calling you one. You are one: I likewise am one. We are all one. The universal language is hee-haw, done in a grievous yawn.'

from Rhoda Fleming by George Meredith (Chapter XXVIII)

Commonplace Book

'...I wonder whether you will ever perceive the comedy of life. I doubt whether a man is happier when he does perceive it. Perhaps the fact is, that he has by that time lost his power of laughter; except in the case of here and there a very tremendous philosopher.

I believe that we comic creatures suffer more than your tragic personages. We, do you see, are always looking to be happy and comfortable; but in a tragedy, the doomed wretches are liver-complexioned from the opening act. Their laughter is the owl: their broadest smile is twilight. All the menacing horrors of an eclipse are ours, for we have a sun over us; but they are born in shades, with the tuck of a curtain showing light, and little can be taken from them; so that they find scarce any terrors in the inevitable final stroke. No; the comedy is painfullest...'

from Rhoda Fleming by George Meredith (Chapter XXVIII)