Life in Suspension/La Vie Suspendue

Let me introduce myself.
I’m the Memory Collector, your companion and spirit guide.
Let’s unwind the clock, peel the past.
The reflections you give me, conjure, surrender from within,
I throw into the fire, the cauldron of resolutions.
They burn into embers and flickers that evolve into butterflies.
They flutter away, free and heal of all strongholds
so they can revisit and reinvent who you are.
Let the dance begin.

I’m in my mother’s womb in Paris.
She’s scared. I want to get out.
I’m three years old in Terracina, Italy, sharing a room with four girls.
My grandfather visits from Greece.
He holds my brother on his lap
and says, a boy at last, I’m not impressed with girls.

I’m four years old, in Monte Carlo.
My mother takes me to school.
A pigeon poops on my scarf.
She reassures, it brings good luck.
I’m five years old, in Karben, Germany.
It’s Saint Nicholas day, my birthday.
Marieluise feeds me Lebkuchen, Stollen and Pfeffernüssen.
They taste like heaven.

I’m six years old in ballet class in Geneva, breaking my point shoes.
The Russian master ingrains in me the correlation between pleasure and pain.
I now know the two centers sit next to each other in the brain.
I’m seven years old, in the Swiss Alps, making snowmen, skiing, hunting for Easter eggs.
My mother laughs then says, your father can’t be left alone.
I’m eight years old, in the Jura mountain, in love with my dog, playing chess with my dad.
I’m ecstatic.

I’m nine years old.
My grandmother takes me to the market in Tarragona
to buy the bitter and pungent quince she craves.
I’m ten years old.
My cousin drowns me in the beautiful blue waters
of the Spanish Mediterranean because I threw sand at him.
My head hits the hard bottom, all the air’s gone from my lungs.
My last thought is, no one knows I’m here.

I’m eleven years old.
My mother makes jam with apricots, strawberries, peaches and plums.
She’s filled the house with the intoxicating scent of gardenias.
My brother throws another temper tantrum.
I’m twelve years old in math class, mad with laughter.

I’m thirteen years old.
The Music Conservatory in Geneva is sheer magic,
an enchanted world I inhabit alone, the key to my soul.
My piano teacher has such faith in me.
I’m fourteen years old, between worlds.
My aunt married a fascist. He grabs my dad by the throat.
It’s the middle of the night. It’s loud. I can’t sleep.

I’m fifteen years old, in Northern Wales,
riding a fabulous horse along stunning steep cliffs,
racing him to full gallop in bewitching Celtic wind,
relinquishing cravings in the dust.
I’m sixteen years old, off to San Diego.
My mother cries at the Paris airport.
She breaks my heart but the pull is stronger.

I’m learning to let go, trust the ripeness of the moment.
That everything happens at the right time.
To appreciate what I have.
I’m connected to my bones,
filled with the richness and texture of space, uplifted,
vibrating, reverberating. I become the sound
of Tibetan bells, echoing and hovering in the cosmos.
I perceive the whole world below, life in suspension.

From Life in Suspension (Salmon Poetry, 2016)

La Vie Suspendue

Je me présente, si vous le voulez bien.
Je suis La collectionneuse de souvenirs,
votre compagne et guide spirituelle.
Déroulons le temps, effeuillons le passé.
Vous invoquez vos souvenirs, me les livrez en offrandes,
je les jette dans le feu, dans le chaudron des dénouements.
Parmi les cendres tournoyantes, naissent des papillons qui vous guérissent,
vous libèrent de vos chaînes, vous redécouvrent pour vous réinventer.
Que la danse commence.

Je suis dans le ventre de ma mère à Paris.
Elle a peur, je veux sortir de là.
J’ai trois ans, à Terracina, Italie.
Je partage une chambre avec quatre filles.
Mon grand-père vient d’arriver de Grèce, tient mon frère sur ses genoux
et dit, enfin un garçon, les filles ne me passionnent guère.

J’ai quatre ans, à Monte Carlo.
Ma mère m’emmène à l’école.
Un pigeon me chie sur le foulard.
Elle me console, ça porte chance.
J’ai cinq ans, à Karben, Allemagne.
C’est la Saint Nicolas, mon anniversaire.
Marieluise me gave de Lebkuchen, Stollen et Pfeffernüssen.
Je suis au paradis.

J’ai six ans, en classe de danse classique à Genève.
Je casse mes pointes.
Le maître de ballet russe m’initie au grand art de lier douleur et plaisir.
Je sais à présent que tous deux nichent ensemble dans ma tête.
J’ai sept ans, dans les Alpes suisses,
je fais des bonshommes de neige, skie, cherche les œufs de Pâques.
Ma mère rit puis dit, ton père ne peut rester seul.
J’ai huit ans, dans le Jura.
Je suis folle de mon chien, je joue aux échecs avec mon père.
Je suis en extase.

J’ai neuf ans, à Tarragone.
Ma grand-mère et moi allons au marché
acheter les coings amers et âcres qu’elle adore.
J’ai dix ans.
Mon cousin me noie dans les belles eaux bleues
de la Méditerranée espagnole parce que je lui ai jeté du sable.
Ma tête heurte le fond de la mer, mes poumons manquent d’air.
J’ai pour dernière pensée, personne ne sait où je suis.

J’ai onze ans.
Ma mère fait des confitures d’abricots, de fraises, de pêches
et de prunes. Elle a rempli la maison du parfum grisant des gardénias.
Mon frère pique une nouvelle crise de nerfs.
J’ai douze ans, cours de maths. C’est une crise de fou rire permanente.

J’ai treize ans.
Le Conservatoire de Musique de Genève est pure magie,
un monde enchanté que j’habite seule, clé de mon âme.
Ma prof de piano croit tant en moi.
J’ai quatorze ans, à la lisière des mondes.
Ma tante a épousé un fasciste. Il a saisi mon père à la gorge.
C’est le milieu de la nuit. C’est bruyant. Impossible de dormir.

J’ai quinze ans, au Pays de Galles, chevauchant un fabuleux
cheval qui galope vers le nord, le long de falaises
étourdissantes, le vent celte m’ensorcelle,
laissant mes désirs s’envoler dans la poussière du galop.
J’ai seize ans, je pars pour San Diego, la Californie.
Ma mère est en pleurs à l’aéroport de Paris.
Elle me brise le cœur mais l’appel est plus fort.

J’apprends à ne pas m’attacher,
à apprécier ce que j’ai,
à croire en la magie du temps qui transforme,
que tout arrive à son heure.
Je suis en symbiose avec mes os.
La richesse de l’espace et sa densité me ravissent,
me transportent, me font osciller, vibrer.
Je deviens le son de cloches tibétaines, écho flottant dans le cosmos.
Je perçois le monde entier, la vie suspendue.

La Vie Suspendue (Salmon Poetry, 2016)

About Hélène Cardona
Hélène Cardona’s recent books include Life in Suspension and Dreaming My Animal Selves(both from Salmon Poetry), the translations Beyond Elsewhere (Gabriel Arnou-Laujeac, White Pine Press), winner of a Hemingway Grant; Ce que nous portons (Dorianne Laux, Éditions du Cygne); The Birnam Wood by her father José Manuel Cardona (forthcoming from Salmon Poetry in 2018); and Walt Whitman’s Civil War Writings for WhitmanWeb.  
She has also translated Rimbaud, Baudelaire, René Depestre, Ernest Pépin, Aloysius Bertrand, Maram Al-Masri, Eric Sarner, Jean-Claude Renard, Nicolas Grenier, and Christiane Singer. She contributes essays to The London Magazine, co-edits Plume and Fulcrum, holds a Master’s in American Literature from the Sorbonne, received fellowships from the Goethe-Institut & Universidad Internacional de Andalucía, worked as a translator for the Canadian Embassy in Paris, and taught at Hamilton College & LMU. Publications include Washington Square Review, World Literature Today, Poetry International, Hayden’s Ferry Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Drunken Boat, Asymptote and The Warwick Review.  http://helenecardona.com

Hélène Cardona was born in Paris and raised all over Europe before settling in the US. She earned her MA in American literature from the Sorbonne, where she wrote her thesis on Henry James. She is the author of 7 books, more recently the bilingual collections Life in Suspension, called “a vivid self-portrait as scholar, seer and muse” by John Ashbery, and Dreaming My Animal Selves, described by David Mason as “liminal, mystical and other-worldly.” Cardona’s luminous poetry, hailed as visionary by Richard Wilbur, explores consciousness, the power of place, and ancestral roots. It is poetry of alchemy and healing, a gateway to the unconscious and the dream world.

Her translations include Beyond Elsewhere (Gabriel Arnou-Laujeac), winner of a Hemingway Grant; Ce que nousportons (Dorianne Laux); Birnam Wood (José Manuel Cardona): and Walt Whitman’s Civil War Writings for WhitmanWeb. She contributes essays to The London Magazine, and co-edits Plume, Fulcrum, and Levure Littéraire.

MY CREATIVE PROCESS

How would you describe your own (very individualistic) poetic voice? What are your intentions in your poetry?

I write as a form of self-expression, fulfilment, transcendence, healing, to transmute pain and experience into beauty. For me, poetry is a process of self-revelation, an exploration of hidden dimensions in myself, and also a way to express the profound experience of the fundamental interconnection of all in the universe. Writing is cathartic as it extends a search for peace, for serenity, rooted in a desire to transcend and reconcile the fundamental duality I see in life. Ultimately, I seek expansion of consciousness.

We are stretched to the frontiers of what we know, exploring language and the psyche. The poem is a gesture, an opening toward a greater truth or understanding. Art brings us to the edge of the incomprehensible. The poems, in their alchemy and geology, are fragments of dreams, enigmas, shafts of light, part myth, and part fable. Mysticism constitutes the experience of what transcends us while inhabiting us. Poetry, as creation, borders on it. It is metaphysical. It offers a new vision of the universe, reveals the soul’s secrets and mysteries. These lines from the poem “The Isle of Immortals” encapsulate my philosophy:

The ultimate aim is reverence for the universe.
The ultimate aim is love for life.
The ultimate aim is harmony within oneself.

What defines my writing is the sacred dimension of the poetic experience. And it is founded in very concrete reality, a reconciliation of the spiritual and the carnal. It speaks of transformation and seeks the unison of all that lives. 

Clearly, your poetry is enjoyed by a wide range of different readers; but I was wondering if you have a kind of ideal reader? That is, who is the reader you imagine when you are writing?

Thank you for saying that. I’m delighted to have a wide range of readers. But I don’t write for a specific kind of reader. I’m hoping my poetry leaves the reader in awe, with a renewed sense of wonder and of the sacred. 

Your poetry collections Dreaming My Animal Selves and Life in Suspension are bilingual, and you write in French and English equally fluently. What are the challenges of presenting your work in this way? For example, are there things that one language can do which the other can’t, and vice versa?

English has been my language of choice for a long time now. French is my mother tongue but English became the dominant language when I moved to the United States. Actually it took over even before, when I wrote my thesis on Henry James for my masters at the Sorbonne. I was already an anglophile, having lived and studied in England, and I loved writing in English. I feel as if English, even though it was my fifth language, chose me. So I write in English first and then translate into French. I love this exercise of going back and forth because it enables me to make beautiful discoveries. I’m also influenced by other languages, including Spanish, German, Italian and Latin. It’s very stimulating and enriching. I was born in Paris and grew up in Switzerland, France, Monaco, England, Wales, Germany, Greece and Spain, absorbing different cultures and ideas. 

When I wrote my first collection in English, I did not originally intend it to be a bilingual collection. It was my first publisher’s idea that I present it as a bilingual collection. This turned out to be a brilliant idea. It was fascinating because it rekindled my love of the French language and of writing in French again. The French translation absolutely informed the English version. I made discoveries with the French and it became a dance between both languages. I also felt more freedom than if I were translating someone else because it was my own text. This has been the process for all three collections.

To answer your question, there are always things one language can do which the other can’t. And so the process is a bit like that of a detective searching for clues and of a mathematician looking to solve a problem.

In my interview with John Ashbery for Le Mot Juste, which was also published on the Poetry Foundation, I commented that French leaves less room for ambiguity. It’s a very precise language. So is English but English is more fluid. Interestingly, Ashbery responded that he needs “sort of a sfumato effect to hide in or to find material in.” 

How do all the languages influence you and your writing?

I think they stimulate the mind in different ways. I’m naturally curious about other cultures. Having been raised in a very international environment makes me a citizen of the world. Both my parents were immigrants. My mother left Greece to move to France. My father escaped the Franco dictatorship so as not to be jailed for his writing. That’s how my parents met. I am an immigrant too. After moving to the U.S., I became an American citizen. So I’m keenly aware about not fitting into molds. I wasn’t the typical French girl growing up. At home, all my parents’ friends were foreigners. My dad worked for the United Nations in Geneva and Paris, among other places, and his colleagues were mostly from South America or Spain, but also from Iran and other countries. I literally grew up in the U.N., which is a microcosm of the world.

So very early on I would transition between languages and countries. It’s harder to be nationalistic when you’re made of several countries. It opens up your mind. When you learn new languages it creates synapses in the brain. They inform my writing, consciously, and unconsciously. All kinds of associations come to mind when I read or write.

Your poetry draws heavily on dream, mythical and psychoanalytic imagery and archetypes. In this sense, I suppose it’s not really “poetry of the everyday,” perhaps.  Why are you drawn to this kind of imagery in your poetry?

I like to cultivate a relationship with my inner self through dreams and love to remember them. I keep a notebook by my bed and write them down. You always dream, it’s only a matter of remembering. The day is the waking dream. When I trained with Sandra Seacat at the Actors’ Studio in New York, she introduced me to a particular form of dream work, which could be called Jungian. I have done this work for many years now. It’s very therapeutic. And it can also be used to develop a character in a play or movie. Your inner self has all the answers and will give them to you, as long as you’re meant to know what you’re asking for. 

In the dream you are connected to your inner self and to the divine. We experience the dream’s intelligence and the world psyche. Everything in the universe is connected. Dreams provide insight into the personal and archetypal dimensions of the unconscious. I’ve continued to train with different teachers and shamans. Dream work is medicine for the soul and helps us integrate our conscious and unconscious selves so we can explore our path, gain self-insight and wisdom, and fulfill ourselves. Many poems are born from dreams. It’s a wonderful gift to be given to hear a new melody or lines this way. For instance, the poem “My Mother Ceridwen” came from a dream: my mother appeared to me as the Celtic goddess Ceridwen.

You’ve talked in interviews about the “transformations” of self involved in acting, costumes and performance. What are the similarities and differences, do you think, between the kinds of transformations of selves in your poetry, and those involved in, say, acting?

Acting and writing are two creative outlets for me, two ways of expressing who I am. It helped me a lot when I was in drama school studying Shakespeare from a performer’s perspective that I had already read most of the plays and knew the language. The fact that I had studied so much literature made it easy for me to analyze the texts. But then you want to get out of your head as an actor. And studying the Meisner technique was very useful for that. It helps you be in the moment and react to what’s going on in the room, to be acutely aware of your surroundings, of others. It shifts the attention from you to whoever is with you. Which in turn is helpful when you read poetry. There is an audience you want to address, you can’t just be in your head. And you have to project. There isn’t always a mike. So good diction helps. I also like to hear what I write, the sounds and rhythms. If I stumble, maybe I need to change a word.

As an actor I am drawn to films that are visually beautiful and poetic. At the same time, I always pay close attention to the screenplay. It’s the backbone of the film. I was lucky to work with Lawrence Kasdan (Mumford). He writes all his screenplays, and they’re usually original screenplays. He’s a terrific writer and director. I was also lucky to work on Lasse Hallström’s Chocolat. Robert Nelson Jacobs’s screenplay was nominated for an Oscar and won the BAFTA award. It’s based on the beautiful novel by Joanne Harris. Great writing helps the actor. 

Acting and writing both raise your consciousness and in that sense, enhance one another.
On a personal level, it’s very satisfying to have more than one creative outlet. If I’m not working on an acting project, I can write. I can always use my time creatively.

Which of your many talents - acting, voice-over, poetry, etc. - do you enjoy spending time on the most?
I’ve worn many hats over the years: teacher, writer, actor, translator, dancer, shaman, dream analyst. I have multiple selves. To be an actor you have to be a chameleon. The search for fulfillment is a recurrent theme in my life. It’s the title of the thesis I wrote about Henry James. Jean-Claude Renard writes that “I” by essence becomes “Other,” that is to say “someone who not only holds the power to fulfill his or her intimate self more and more intensely, but also at the same time, can turn a singular into a plural by creating a work that causes, in its strictest individuality, a charge emotionally alive and glowing with intensity.” In that sense the work’s artistry affects others and helps their own transformation. This applies to any art. I’m happy as long as I can express myself through art and I love to work. Whether writing or acting, I find myself in an exalted state of concentration and consciousness, like a meditation or trance. It’s as if time stops or expands and I’m able to touch other worlds and keep a sense of connection with what is bigger than me.    

What are you working on at the moment?

With my partner John, we have adapted his novel Primate into a screenplay and we’re looking to get it made into a film. 

I just co-translated, with Yves Lambrecht, Walt Whitman’s Civil War Writings for WhitmanWeb. It was commissioned by the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. It was a ten-month long endeavor. The Civil War Writings retrace Whitman’s writing and service as a volunteer nurse during the American Civil War. We also translated the in-depth commentaries that scholars Ed Folsom and Christopher Merrill wrote for each text. The poems and texts are thus bookended with a foreword and afterword. They explore how writing and image can be used to examine war, conflict, trauma, and reconciliation in Whitman’s time and today. 

Ce que nous portons, my translation of What We Carry by Dorianne Laux, was recently published by Editions du Cygne in Paris.

Adapted from an interview with Jonathan Taylor in Everybody's Reviewing

Pióro

– Czy nie wiesz, gdzie są martwe ptaki? – zapytało dziecko kamień, bo nikt, kogo pytało wcześniej, nie wiedział. Nie grzebie się ich i nie grzebią się same, więc powinny leżeć na ziemi. A że jest ich dużo jak ludzi, powinny leżeć jeden obok drugiego. Jeśli nie jeden na drugim. Nie tylko pod drzewami, ale też na chodnikach i ulicach, bo ptaki na pewno potrafią umrzeć w locie, skoro ludzie mogą robić to, idąc. Nie jest to coś, do czego koniecznie trzeba się zatrzymać.

– Więc gdzie? – spytało dziecko, bo w całym ogrodzie nie było ani jednego ciała, z którego wyprowadził się ptak. Było tylko pióro. Dziecko dotknęło się nim i pomyślało, że wszystkie ptaki, które umarły w powietrzu, nie spadły. Zrobiły się lżejsze o siebie i zawisły.

Dlatego może zdarzyć się grad bębniący o dachy wróblami albo czarny deszcz, który wypłucze z góry wszystkie wrony. Albo taka zima, że trzeba będzie odśnieżać gołębie. Może też nic się nie zdarzy i martwe zwierzęta zostaną w niebie, a ludzie na ziemi.

Fragment of "To Feed a Stone" by Bronka Nowicka, Biuro Literackie publishing house
Translated from the Polish by Elzbieta Wójcik-Leese.

Bronka Nowicka graduated from the Film, Theatre and TV Direction Department at the Polish State Film School in Łódź, and from the Faculty of Painting at the Academy of Fine Arts in Kraków, where she now is a PhD student. Her fields of inspiration, exploration, and creation include human-thing relations, images in motion, language, encounters. She is looking for new media in the field of art; she uses a computer tomography scanner as a film and graphic tool.
She creates videos,tomo-videos, video installations, photographs. She took part in exhibitions at the International Centre for Graphic Arts in Kraków, the Susanne Burmester Gallery in Germany (in Putbus, on the Rügen Island), the Małopolska Garden of Art in Kraków, the Promotional Gallery at the Academy of Fine Arts in Kraków, the Fine Arts College in Kazimierz Dolny, the Art Centre in Sosnowiec, the Ducal Castle in Szczecin, the Media Art Faculty Gallery in Warsaw, the Kunstnernes Hus during the Festival for Digital and Visual Poetry in Norway (Oslo), The Trubarjeva Hiša Literature in Slovenia (Ljubljana). She participated in the international literary festivals, including Prima Vista (Tartu, Estonia), Kosmopolis (Barcelona, Spain), Slovenian Book Days (Ljubljana, Slovenia), Festival of the European Short Story (Zagreb – Rijeka, Croatia). She took part in interdisciplinary artistic projects, interalia Corresponcences & Interventions, Open Studio of Mechanisms for an Entente, Labirynt Wolności (the Labirynth of Freedom); interdisciplinary scientific conferences, eg. “Posttechnological experiences. Art-Science-Culture” at the HAT Centre (Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznań). She is the author of publications on new means of narration in the field of video art (e.g. in Załącznik Kulturoznawczy, Wiadomości ASP). She is the director of theatrical plays (e.g. “Shining City” – Studio Theatre in Warsaw, “Look, The Sun Is Going Down” – the Adam Mickiewicz Theatre in Częstochowa and the Na Woli Theatre in Warsaw, “Theatre de compose ou I'homme belle” – the Jaracz Theatre in Olsztyn, “Far Away” – TVP Kultura). She is a screenwriter and director of television programs: educational and travel series. In 2015 the Biuro Literackie publishing house published her poetic book “Nakarmić kamień” (“To Feed a Stone”) that was awarded the third prize in the competition Złoty Środek Poezji (The Golden Mean of Poetry) as the best poetic debut, and the prestigious Literary Nike Award for the best book of the year. From 2017 Bronka Nowicka is one of New Voices from Europe – the project implemented by Literature Across Frontiers and European Platform for Literary Exchange, Translation and Policy Debate.

Popiół

– Smakuje ci chryzantema? – zapytało dziecko kamień i włożyło do ust płatki zbite w kulkę podobną do miniaturowej kapusty. Każda chryzantema miała taką w środku, ta jednak była najokrąglejsza i najbardziej złota. Chrupała jak kapusta, ale smakowała cmentarzem.

– Gorące – dziecko wsadziło palec w szarą górę, która usypy-wała się w popielniku.

– Mróz – powiedziało i polizało oszronioną furtkę. – Krew – dodało.

Poczęstowało się ziemią, a gdy ją przeżuło, powiedziało:

– Czarne.

Pisało patykiem na ciele: „czereśnie”, „czarodzieje”, „poranki”. Ze znikających ze skóry słów można było powyjmować mniejsze. Tym samym patykiem wydłubać śnienie z czereśni.

Tak dziecko karmiło kamień, żeby żył.

Fragment of "To Feed a Stone" by Bronka Nowicka, Biuro Literackie publishing house
Translated from the Polish by Elzbieta Wójcik-Leese.

Bronka Nowicka graduated from the Film, Theatre and TV Direction Department at the Polish State Film School in Łódź, and from the Faculty of Painting at the Academy of Fine Arts in Kraków, where she now is a PhD student. Her fields of inspiration, exploration, and creation include human-thing relations, images in motion, language, encounters. She is looking for new media in the field of art; she uses a computer tomography scanner as a film and graphic tool.
She creates videos, tomo-videos, video installations, photographs. She took part in exhibitions at the International Centre for Graphic Arts in Kraków, the Susanne Burmester Gallery in Germany (in Putbus, on the Rügen Island), the Małopolska Garden of Art in Kraków, the Promotional Gallery at the Academy of Fine Arts in Kraków, the Fine Arts College in Kazimierz Dolny, the Art Centre in Sosnowiec, the Ducal Castle in Szczecin, the Media Art Faculty Gallery in Warsaw, the Kunstnernes Hus during the Festival for Digital and Visual Poetry in Norway (Oslo), The Trubarjeva Hiša Literature in Slovenia (Ljubljana). She participated in the international literary festivals, including Prima Vista (Tartu, Estonia), Kosmopolis (Barcelona, Spain), Slovenian Book Days (Ljubljana, Slovenia), Festival of the European Short Story (Zagreb – Rijeka, Croatia). She took part in interdisciplinary artistic projects, interalia Corresponcences & Interventions, Open Studio of Mechanisms for an Entente, Labirynt Wolności (the Labirynth of Freedom); interdisciplinary scientific conferences, eg. “Posttechnological experiences. Art-Science-Culture” at the HAT Centre (Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznań). She is the author of publications on new means of narration in the field of video art (e.g. in Załącznik Kulturoznawczy, Wiadomości ASP). She is the director of theatrical plays (e.g. “Shining City” – Studio Theatre in Warsaw, “Look, The Sun Is Going Down” – the Adam Mickiewicz Theatre in Częstochowa and the Na Woli Theatre in Warsaw, “Theatre de compose ou I'homme belle” – the Jaracz Theatre in Olsztyn, “Far Away” – TVP Kultura). She is a screenwriter and director of television programs: educational and travel series. In 2015 the Biuro Literackie publishing house published her poetic book “Nakarmić kamień” (“To Feed a Stone”) that was awarded the third prize in the competition Złoty Środek Poezji (The Golden Mean of Poetry) as the best poetic debut, and the prestigious Literary Nike Award for the best book of the year. From 2017 Bronka Nowicka is one of New Voices from Europe – the project implemented by Literature Across Frontiers and European Platform for Literary Exchange, Translation and Policy Debate.

The Emotional Core of the Story part II

Photos by Piotr Ryczko

Innocuous questions posed?

The questions that kicked off the story "The emotional core of the story"  two weeks ago were simple enough. 

Should we write what we know? Or should we take a wild chance, put everything on some wild card, a complete unknown, anything to blast our way out of the safe and comfy shell of ours, out of our comfort zone.

These questions, although seemingly innocent, open up a slew of themes which beg to be queried.

Last time, I concluded at how important it is to arrive at a deeper emotional connection between us, the writers, and the characters in our stories. The true stuff of life, our hard earned emotional experience which has burnt its way into our subconscious, and made us into who we are.

This time around I would like to go deeper into the process of writing my novel "A child made to order". Into my own experience of enquiry about the main character of this novel and the emotional connection I developed with Viola. A protoganist which was as far away from my own personality as I could possibly imagine. Or so I thought initially.

But more importantly I would like to break down my process of enquiry into some more manageable steps and conclusions.  So  others might hopefully take away something of value from this.

But first let's look at the origin of the process itself.

Self-enquiry, its true meaning and ultimate goal

Self-enquiry is a well known spiritual process, used by Buddhists to arrive at deeper truths about what is hidden within us. The divine part which is hidden in us. It can be as simple as a prolonged focus on the question "Who am I?". When done with scrutiny and vigor, it can uncover our ego and mind as illusions. Bear in mind, this enquiry takes an incessant effort and patience on our part. Think of this process not in terms of months, but a life-time.

The people who are familiar with this process in practice might object to it immediately. They would say it is not aimed at things in this world, not at our psychology, our wounds, and our subcouncious.

I think differently of this matter. I do believe that given a meditative mind, cleansed of the incessant chatter of our thoughts, we are able to uncover some groundbreaking truths about ourselves and the world around us. You might ask, what has this to do with writing? Surely spiritual practice and its immaterial rigor has nothing in common with the creative process.

Well, I think otherwise.

I believe most of us are already doing this process, more or less consciously. Regardless if we are a hardcore spritual practitioner or hate the mere thought of meditation.

Just think about it. Isn't writing a very active form of meditation? Many artists describe the process of creation, the inspired flow, as a hyper-focused union with something so much larger than our own personality. As a blissful state, a place we disappear into. A swallowing of our whole essence into the immanent.

That's why I think that by writing, we are able to arrive at these truths. The same way spiritual self-enquiry is able to do. Be it psychological or spiritual questioning.  And by writing a lot, we vibrate ever higher with our mind, our focus, reaching for ever more refined and universal answers.
 

The protagonist's fragmented psyche

With this in mind, let’s get more specific about my experience of this process. And how this can translate into our writing.

Viola, the main character of “A child made to order” is a 42 year old woman who has been through eleven gruelling IVF cycles. This emotional rollercoaster of high hopes and crushed dreams have laid her psyche in ruins. A short quote from the novel sums up the inner resentment and frustration so havily experienced by Viola and other infertile women.

It’s also an ample illustration of how many years of emotional battering can distort these women's self-image and project their inner drama, and low self-esteem, onto others.

“Sara! Sara! Baby! Get a grip on yourself. Just listen to yourself.  Just think about it. The one thing you were meant to do, that only thing we can do, you’ve failed at. And miserably at that. Remember who you are, Sara! And if you should forget, then just listen to your period. How do you feel when it comes around?” Marianne whispered to her. She knew Sara needed her more than ever. This wretched girl was lost, and it was Marianne’s duty to make her see this obvious fact.

“It’s what?” Sara asked, unsure if she possesed the correct answer. Then she focused her tear-filled eyes on Marianne’s face. And the blogger clapped at her like an obedient dog.

“It’s one cosmic joke, girl. And the last laugh is on you. What’s the point? That’s how you should feel. The period is a fucking taunt! And so is this man. Because when he learns the truth, that’s how he will think about you. Right?” She put Sara in her place. After all, what was that stupid little girl thinking?

excerpt from the novel "A child made to order"

The protagonist

Having done several months of research, collecting a mountain of notes, read countless recounts, and consulted with a psychologist who has dealt with infertile women, I chose deliberately to enter the story as late as possible, just about when Viola was turning 42.

This is the time, when given an opportunity to surface, the motherly instinct can overwhelm a woman’s otherwise completely rational life. I thought this was the perfect opportunity to have the protagonist go deeper into a  off the rails. 

An immense potential for engaging drama.

Enquiry as a process

With this character and the process of self-inquiry in mind, I focused in on the classical model of the main character’s need and want. I also formulated a few simple questions.

What is the one thing Viola needs so most dearly in the world? The thing without which her world would never be complete.

I knew she wanted a baby, but I needed to go deeper than that. Was it the love which she would be able to give to her child? Or was it, more egoistically angled, the love she would receive from that child?

And did any of this resonate with my self?

I found out that the answers didn’t come at first. It was a struggle. Sometimes they didn’t surface for several weeks. This may  be one of the the hardest part of our work as writers. To identify what is truly ours in our writing. Or why it is the way it is.

And often, the answered remained elusive. Because the real issues, our own flaws, and wounds, they would do just about everything to stay concealed in our own subconscious.

Still, if we keep at it, formulate the question, re-focus on this matter while we write, I believe our true nature surfaces sooner or later.

For me personally I learned that my inner being didn’t necessarily need a child like Viola did, but there was a deep need for unconditional love in my persona. In other words, love which wasn’t asking for something in return. But was sufficient in itself and was rather a spiritual search.

I also found out that our needs can often turn toxic. They can overwhelm us, and lead us to destructive behavior. That is if we let them, and we are not mindful of ourselves. This is exactly what happens to my protagonist. And this is what happened to me in the past where my spiritual path, an uncompromising search for the transcendent, laid my life into a wasteland.

And if you think about it, this is what happens in every gripping story. This experience is the real ammo for our storytelling.

This was the case with Viola where her life goes off the bend when she suddenly gets the opportunity at the impossible. To give birth to a child.  This spins her unquenched desire into an emotional storm which blinds her rationality, where she burns all the bridges in her life, fires herself from her own dream job, and puts her in an uncanny mental territory, where she is able to kidnap a stranger's child on a subway.

The writing, the inquiry led me to the conclusion that even the most beatiful things, or maybe especially the most beautiful things in our life can be such a double-edged sword. Being so crucial to our own existence,  they also hold immeasurable power over us.

A power strong enough to derail our normal existence into an emotional war zone.

Tapping into our psyche

I continued to tap into my emotional past. Not in a literal sense, I wasn’t writing a biography, but I pulled at the raw emotions of it all. A fountain of untapped feelings which gave the narrative the rawness it required.

I soon realized that although the research is critical, the facts aren’t so important as the raw energy of the emotions in the story. I wasn’t writing a clinical account of an infertile woman, and this wasn’t a non-fiction book. What I was after was rather the vibrant and relentless emotional battering of the reader’s senses. And the best scenes were the ones, where the protagonist's hurt, and pain overlapped with my own. Emotionally and metaphorically.

I repeated this process for other areas of the Viola’s character. And found such an interweaved web of character traits, mirror images which reflected back some fragments of myself. As the process became second nature, a fountain of questions welled up.

What is the thing that Viola detested most about herself? Why does she detest vulnerability so much? What did others to her?  How far would she go to conceal her wounds? What would she do? Would she be willing to sacrifice her relationship, even the most trusted people? And what would it take for her to break through that shell?  To free her from her past.

These questions were aimed at the main character of the novel, but there was no escaping it,  they were also always gunned at me. To test what resonated and what didn't. What my mind was bored by. What it was frightened by, or what it rebelled at. The rebellion and the fear were always good signs. The right direction.

I also found out that the hardest truths about ourselves, our flaws which cause our most destructive patterns, are the ones which are the most elusive to our own mind. And when you think about it, they are like our blind side, right in front of our nose, staring right into our face, and so obvious for everyone else, except us.  Rarely made conscious by our own eyes and mind.

And that is also the reason why self-inquiry is so challenging. Maybe the most challenging part about writing.  To keep at it, and uncover hidden, often painful truths about ourselves.

But on the other hand, it is also why this process can be so wonderfully fruitful because many times we won't have any clue why we write what we do. But in due time, with patience, some consideration for our neurotic nature, something deep wells up from our inside. It opens up and makes us conscious of what is in between those seemingly empty lines - universal truths about ourselves.

I believe that to tap into this well, launch into this self-discovery, can elevate our writing, from the mundane to the sublime.

Lastly, we do this not only so we can write better drama, but also so we can hopefully become just a little bit more human. Towards one another.

"Yeah, that’s a well (the emotional wounds) that you can go back to. There won’t always be water in it, but you can go back and check. As your life moves on you, start to say, “What am I really confronting now? Is there a metaphor, is there a story metaphor that will express what I’m trying to understand about my life?” You have to be very calculated about how you access that pain. It’s no fun being at the mercy of destructive impulses, and the one thing that art does is it allows us to put a leash on them. I think you learn that pretty quick. Otherwise, you end up going to jail or overdosing..." - Paul Shrader

And finally I want to leave you with a few well-chosen words from Paul Shrader, the screenwriter of the Taxi Driver fame, who touches upon the very same issues of my story, accessing our own emotional history, our pain, as the source for our stories.  But what he does, is to add his own two cents. Words which carry with them such great wisdom.

Piotr Ryczko is the published author of the London based publishing house  “The Book Folks”.  His first novel, a Scandinavian psychological thriller “A child made to order” was released on Amazon Kindle and Paperback. It placed itself amongst the 100 best novels in its category. The same publishing house plans to release the novel PANACEA at the end of 2017.
His short films have won quite a few international prizes.  They can be seen here: piotr-ryczko.com/shorts/
Born in Poland and raised in Norway, he loves both countries but has a soft spot for his hometown, Oslo. Piotr loves to hear from readers and writers and can be found on Storygeist where he writes flash fiction, html5 stories, non-fiction and screenplays for his films.
He is also an avid photographer which he does as a hobby, as well as a means to communicate his visual ideas during the filmmaking process. www.facebook.com/RyczkoPhoto/

Chained Dusk

Voices murmur, in delirium:

'Too easy it to fall in love
Every now and then,
Every now and then'

They grow harsher:

'Too difficult to hold on
To one love, 
Grow,
Grow, 
You must withdraw'

I start chasing cars on pavements
Hawkers come and cross
Selling newspapers
And at times mottiya-threads.

These are fragments?
No, 
I am no Saphho.
All is lost.
What I remember is that strange face
Holding my neck with cold hands
Kissing my face lightly yet strangely
Hands that grew tighter and tighter
Face was drawn closer and closer
Dream choked, died of suffocation,
Dream that is no longer there, 
Not even in bits and pieces. 
It rests in the grave of my memory, 
Silently.

Ramsha Ashraf is a Pakistani poet who tries not to let any tradition confine her individuality. She has one poetry collection, titled as Enmeshed, published to her credit.

Love, Suddenly: Etgar Keret Invents Hebrew Romance

The article looks at the emergence of romance as a viable literary device in Israeli literature in the 1990s, especially in the works of young writers who used the privacy of romantic coupling as an escape from the more national thematics of previous literary generations.  Historically, modern Hebrew works paid little attention to romance, certainly in comparison to the ubiquity of romantic love in other contemporary, nineteenth century European literatures. In Hebrew literature, romance played a secondary role that was usually subordinated to communal, Jewish and later Zionist concerns. During the 1980s, however, especially after the first Intifada in 1987, this dynamic began to change. The article examines this change in the works of Etgar Keret as a representative voice of a new Israeli cultural generation. 

One of the illustrative ways Hebrew literary critics characterized and distinguished literary generations from one another during the past century has been to focus on the common use and function of the narrative voice as an expression of the age.¹

Thus, the anguished and introverted voice of the lonely first-person singular narrator in many works of the Hebrew Revival came to symbolize the hesitant and precarious beginnings of a new Hebrew culture in the Land of Israel at the beginning of the twentieth century. Similarly, the first person plural of the following literary generation, the 1948 Generation, came to symbolize the next stage in the Hebrew cultural revolution and its success in establishing a cohesive national culture whose members strongly identified with it at the expense of more personal concerns. The turn to a plurality of first person narratives in the 1960s, during the State Generation, marked a break from the group culture of the first native, Israeli generation and a rebellion against it. By looking closely at works by Etgar Keret, this essay suggests the emergence of yet another narrative voice or literary grouping in Israel in the early 1990s: the “first-person dual” or the romantic voice. Although the first-person dual, "גוף ראשוניים", does not exist as a grammatical category in Hebrew, the sense of a pronominal narrative voice in many works by Keret and his contemporaries is neither that of an individual “I” or a communal “we,” but that of the romantic couple.

Characterized by terse narratives that usually unfold in urban settings, the new romantic writers abandon the grand Zionist narrative of the past in favor of stories that are both smaller and larger in scope—the preoccupation with romantic love as the ultimate fulfillment of the human condition. Unlike previous generations, many works by contemporary romantic writers like Etgar Keret, Uzi Weil, Gadi Taub, Gafi Amir and others, appear largely unconcerned with Jewish identity, Jewish nationality or Jewish history. Moreover, the move these authors make away from the particular and the local toward more universal literary themes, and especially the construction of the romantic experience within a capitalist framework, is distinctly marked by the abandonment of the tension between individual and community, that has stood at the center of modern Hebrew literature since its inception. Instead, these writers attempt to seclude themselves within the protective confines of the lovers' nest rather than in relation to a community.

The emergence of romance in Hebrew literature is noteworthy and intriguing because, historically, modern Hebrew works paid romance scant attention, certainly in comparison to its ubiquity in European literature. After all, the development of modern literature in Europe—the novel in particular—is directly linked to romantic love as an individualizing force; a mode of rebellion, liberation and fulfillment in an increasingly bourgeois, capitalist and secular world. The very name for the novel, român, in many European languages makes clear the extent to which the literary form itself centered on relations between the sexes.²

Generally speaking, this was not the case with modern Hebrew literature, which waged a different cultural war at its beginning and focused more on reforming the Jewish community and forging new connections between its members that were not based on religion.

There were, to be sure, genuine attempts to incorporate romance into modern Hebrew letters. The most obvious example would be the very first modern Hebrew novel, Avraham Mapu's 1853 Love of Zion (אהבת ציון). Other notable examples come from the Hebrew Revival at the end of the nineteenth century and beginning of the twentieth (Berdichevsky and Gnessing, for instance). But most of these served more ideological than romantic concerns. Mapu's novel was a maskilic critique of the moribund Jewish community of his day, while he precarious freedom that Revivalist heroes won from their traditional Jewish communities often came at the expense of their love life, which tended to be tortuous and abortive. That is, the failed love affairs of the uprooted young Jew, the Talush, were yet another indication of his existential limbo, stuck between the declining old world and an unknown Jewish future.

More contemporary successors of these early writers, with the exception, perhaps, of S. Y. Agnon, did not use romance more significantly either. Most of the works that appeared immediately before and after 1948 did not dwell on romance because they were much more concerned with the urgent matters of state-building. The next literary generation, often called New Wave or State Generation, continued to [dis]use romance. Amos Oz epitomized this in his signature novel of the period, My Michael (1968), when he endowed the love life of the heroine, Hanna, with distinct national symbolism.³

For many of these writers, romance played a secondary role that was usually subordinated to communal, Jewish and Zionist concerns.⁴

During the 1980s, especially after the first Intifada in 1987, this dynamic began to change. Among the influences that brought these changes about and opened up Israeli culture to greater outside influences were the deep political and economic changes after the Six Day War. Throughout the 1980s, Israel experienced accelerated development and the greater establishment of a western, capitalist society, a trend which was expedited by the emigration to Israel of hundreds of thousands of Russians in the early 1990s and symbolized by the signing of the Oslo Accord in 1993.

The addition of nearly one million workers and consumers to Israel’s economy, and the first real chance of peace with the entire Arab world, or at least a glimpse of what it might look like, jolted the country and began to change it in what seemed at the time as profound ways. It brought Israel much closer to Western consumerist society and exposed it to its popular culture, especially American television programs that saturated the air after deregulation opened up the local media market at the beginning of the 1990s. The new programming was eagerly embraced by a public thirsty not only for entertainment choices but for a confirmation that it really belonged in the West. Inevitably, these changes made Israeli society more susceptible to global trends as well, in particular the millennial atmosphere of the 1990s with its anxiety and uncertainty regarding the future, which often give rise to the kind of “nostalgic yearnings for a secure, familiar past” that reverberate in many works by Keret and his peers.⁵

This may be the reason for the appeal which Keret and other romantic writers had for an an increasingly fragmented society, especially in an age that was distinguished by the expansion and richness of its literary output, by women, Mizrahim, gays, religious writers, and Arabs.⁶

Throughout the 1990s Keret and his confrères were repeatedly mentioned in the daily press as well as in more academic venues, individually and as a group, as the voice of a new Israeli age; an age that was alternatively called postmodern or postzionist. Their resonance in the unraveling society of a “fin de siecle” Israel and the ability of what I call romantic writers to reach across a plurality of voices by constructing a fragile but distinct voice is the subject of this study.⁷

The romantic writers developed against this millennial background and staged what Gadi Taub has so poignantly called a “dispirited rebellion.”⁸

Taub, himself one of the romantic writers, published in 1997 a collection of essays in which he defined a new Israeli generation in what was essentially a post-national era. The importance of Taub's thesis resides in the window it opened into the mindset of a generation of Israelis who were born after the 1967 triumph and whose consciousness was forged in an increasingly safe, economically advantaged and militarily strong Israel.⁹

The romantic writers were the products of this generation and, somewhat paradoxically, derive their anxieties from their unprecedented privilege as powerful and secure Jews.¹⁰

One of the more notable consequences of this cultural shuffle has been a crucial change of priorities in the nation's cultural agenda, a kind of “privatization of collective memory and prioritization of the private, domestic sphere,” as Miri Talmon calls it.¹¹

Indeed, a mounting tension between the private and the public spheres, an increasing pessimism about Israel's political course, a heightened frustration with the ability to change it and an acute wish to disengage from it in order to protect one's sanity and psychological integrity in the face of it marks Keret's generation.

The first Intifada did not trigger this dynamic as much as clarified and articulated it for many.¹²The ground for this realization was laid long before it broke out, not just by the changes in the country's material culture, but especially by so-called new historians and sociologists, whose challenges to well-accepted perceptions of Israeli history gradually entered into academic and then public discourse since the beginning of the 1980s. Studies such as Benny Morris' 1987 The Palestinian Refugee Problem, Ella Shohat's 1989 Israeli Cinema, and Tom Segev's 1984, 1949, The First Israelis, and his 1991 The Seventh Million, to name the most prominent of them, began to reexamine some of Zionism's most deep-rooted and hallowed claims about Israel’s wish for peace, about its relations with Arabs, about its immigration and social integration policies, and about its relationship to the Holocaust and its survivors. Although these challenges were not immediately accepted and were strongly resisted by the establishment, some of the well-researched and pointedly argued alternative explanations they provided slowly gained credence, especially with younger people. A sense that Israel might not have been right at all times, that it was not always the victim and that there are other, legitimate sides to the Mid-East story slowly enfeebled Zionist dogma.¹³

The preeminence of romantic love in the works of Keret and others was in many ways an escape from the confusion of a frustrating reality and a rebellion against it. One of the peculiar characteristics of works by young writers like Keret, who began to appear on the literary scene in the 1990s, is their urban imagery and setting: bars, gun-toting detectives, nightly taxi rides in the city and beautiful, mysterious women, which often seem taken from generic American films and television programs. In this “capitalist realism,” as Eva Illouz calls it in her illuminating study about the connection between love and modern consumerism, romantic love is perceived as inherently liberating and individualizing, a mode of rebellion, escape and fulfillment in an increasingly alienating world. It is after all a commonplace that Romantic Love replaced religion in twentieth century Western culture and has become one of the most pervasive mythologies of contemporary life in the West. But since nationality, not religion, held center stage in Zionism, the closer identification with the West and the eager adoption of its values, especially love, undermined in the Israeli case nationalism not religion.

This kind of romantic consumerism occurs most conspicuously in the rebellion of post-army Israeli youth, who take prolonged trips abroad, especially to the Far East. Such excursions serve a double purpose. On the one hand, they allow young Israelis to disengage physically and mentally from a dismal local reality that is still stuck, as it were, in a primitive and anachronistic conflict while the rest of the civilized world is out having fun. But the trips also foster closer associations with the West through the consumption of tailored tours to exotic locations, replete with extreme sports and drug parties. Today we know that these changes were not as enduring, and that in many ways, the economic boom and the chance for peace were artificial. But the promise of both, the economy and the peace, was nevertheless powerful and alluring at the time, perhaps even more so because they were not yet real. It goes directly to the nature of Keret's writing and the writings of his contemporaries, who were sometimes labeled urban, lean-language or post-modernist writers.
¹⁵

For the most part, these young men and women, most of whom were journalists as well, were quick to perceive the new trends and comment on the possibilities they held for a truly western, civil society in Israel, a middle-class Israel that would finally be able to lead the bourgeois life it always craved despite its nominal adherence to a regnant statist socialism.

This, essentially, is the sentiment that Keret as a romantic writer expresses in his works, which usurp the grand Zionist narrative of the past in favor of a more Western-universalist one. While the new narrative retains elements of the former, such as the Arab-Israeli conflict, the Ashkenazi-Mizrahi divide and secular-religious tensions, these no longer hold the same values they held before. As part of a post-modern, post-national literary universe, they are subsumed under and serve a grander romantic narrative, to which Jewish history, culture and identity are in many ways incidental.

Etgar Keret began writing as a young soldier in the early 1990s. He sent his first stories to so-called lowbrow, popular media, such as the teenage weekly Ma'ariv lano'ar and the glossy women's magazines At and La'isha because, as he confessed tellingly, he preferred to be read by many than evaluated by few.¹⁶

Whether Keret meant this in earnest or not, popular and critical acclaim swiftly followed the publication of his first anthology of short stories, Pipelines, in 1992.¹⁷

Throughout the 1990s the daily press was full of passionate critiques of Keret's stories which seem to have hit a public nerve. Common to most of these critiques is Keret's ability to succinctly express some of the seemingly irreconcilable tensions of the new era, that is, the unbearable lightness of Israeli being in a post national age. So many of Keret's stories revolve around misfits, wrote one critic, that the Other becomes the most well-defined group of the 1990s; a passive and haphazard collection of individuals that replaces the actively unified "we" of previous, more nationally-minded generations.¹⁸

Numerous critics recognized Keret's existential angst and noted his particular writing style, his ability to translate the visual sensibility of a video clip into words as a critical component of his popularity: the accessible, spoken idiom, the frenetic tempo, the accumulation of disparate cultural elements, the visual and verbal quotes, and the extreme brevity of the text. Keret's cinematic writing style has been noted especially after the publication of his second anthology of short stories, Missing Kissinger, two years later in 1994. One critic who reviewed the new volume described Keret not only as a typical product of the mass media generation, but went even further to suggest that his allusions to popular TV series, comic books and detective films is reminiscent of the way older Hebrew writers used biblical allusions.¹⁹

That the writing style of young Keret appealed to his peers, to the first generation of Israelis who grew up with a substantial presence of commercial media needs little explanation. His popularity in more judicious quarters is less obvious. One reason that may explain this concordance is the fairly quick way in which Keret came to be regarded as a postmodernist, a category that was bandied freely in Israel in the early 1990s. Like any new critical method of inquiry, postmodernism drew a lot of attention as a novel method of cultural analysis when it began to make inroads into the Israeli academy in the late 1980s and early 1990s.²⁰

Iconoclastic studies questioning the various truths of the Zionist story that began to emerge in the 1980s were boosted by the academic respectability of postmodernity, which doubts the legitimacy of any system of values, encompassing theories and grand narratives. Despite its instability as a systematic method of inquiry, postmodernism became a potent source of fuel for the changes that swept Israel at that time.²¹

Because Keret's stories were written so "visually" and because many of them presented a confusing, mean and hellish Israel they were described fairly early on as quintessentially postmodern.²²

Even when critics did not literally define them as such, they pointed out many postmodern elements in Keret's works, like the influence of the mass media,²³generic blurring,²⁴the confusion of style and substance,²⁵ obscuring the boundaries between representation and reality,²⁶ and an ostensible disconnection between writer and narrator.²⁷

The influence of the mass media, especially films and television, was one of the most frequently mentioned postmodern features of Keret's writing. The lack of generic coordinates and the jumbled accumulation of disparate cultural artifacts were often perceived as the absence of a moral compass as well; a moral relativism that is revealed in the alleged absence of an implied narrator, that ephemeral moral voice usually invoked by the tension between the actual writer and the narrator he or she creates.

Many of these signs can be detected even before reading Keret's actual stories by looking at the jackets of his anthologies. The 1992 Pipelines, for instance, features a detail from Edvard Munch’s famous etching “the Scream,” which, significantly, is rendered in pink.²⁸

The choice of Munch’s work highlights the haunting nature of many stories in the anthology, which remains Keret’s most obviously political or socially-aware work to date. The stories in Pipelines deal with the legacy of the Holocaust, Jewish-Arab relations, army service, the Intifada and the dissolution of civil society in Israel because of it. At the same time, the very use of “the Scream,” which the cover serves up as a cliché of a cliché, in its choice of detail and the lurid pink instead of the dramatic darkness of the original painting, undermines the haunting dimension of the stories by manipulating the meaning of the etching through a manipulation of its surface, appearance or “performance,” to use postmodern parlance. The painful substance of the disturbing etching is not changed or removed but trifled with by cheerfully coloring it. The conversion of the original scream into a pop-culture artifact atenuates the tension between the overwhelmingly articulate image and the raw and seemingly inarticulate etched lines that produce the work's affect in the first place. In other words, the pink color silences the scream by reversing what Andy Warhol did in his famous series of lithographs. Instead of elevating an ordinary, ubiquitous commercial product to the level of art in a defiant, warped mimicry of consumerism and mass production, which was what Warhol did, the jacket of Pipelines commercializes a unique and meaningful work of art.²⁹

One of the most obvious examples of Keret’s adroit use of postmodern stylistic devices is the story “Arkadi Hilwe Takes the Number Five.”
³⁰
The title of the story offers the first hint about the tight symbiosis in the story between style and content as well as the volatile potential of its disparate elements; a potential that is fully realized in the story. Although the title reads like a smooth colloquialism, a casual reference to someone's bus ride, the discord begins already with the passenger's name. Arakadi is an obvious Russian name. Hilwe is an obvious Arabic name. Joining them together as someone's first and last name is immediately jarring to Israeli ears and highly ironic. The number five bus is also significant, not just because it traverses Dissengoff Street, Tel-Aviv's central and most symbolic street that often stands for the city itself. One of the first and most devastating suicide bombing attacks in Israel would take place aboard that bus on October of 1994, marking a shift in the conflict with the Palestinians that eventually led to the withdrawal from Gaza and parts of the West Bank more than ten years later.

True to its title, the story continues to describe an especially horrific Israel, a terrifying universe devoid of compassion, a disintegrating society awash with blood whose conflicting elements clash violently with one another in a cacophonous jumble. The story is packed to excess with gruesome images that are delivered with a chilling detachment that accentuates the horror. The first words that open the story are "son of a bitch," uttered by a fat drunkard who is waiting at the bus station with Arkadi, spoiling for a fight. Arkadi ignores him and continues to read his paper, which is plastered with gory pictures of mutilated bodies. "I am talking to you" the drunkard persists, adding the epithet "stinking Arab" for good measure. "Russian, Arkadi replied, hastening to hide behind the side of his family that was not maligned yet. My mother is from Riga. Sure, said the fat man with disbelief, and your father? From Nablus, admitted Arakadi and returned to his paper to look at a picture of "Burnt Kurdish dwarfs flung out of a giant toaster" and another picture of lynching.

The vulgar belligerence of the drunkard and the grisly pictures in the paper are but a prelude to a story that reveals a Clockwork Orange-like world of senseless, random violence that is fueled by the disparate ethnic and political factions that make up Israeli society, culture and history. Arkadi responds with chilling violence to the drunk's persistent nagging. "It was five o'clock and the bus did not arrive yet. In a speech on the radio the Prime Minister promised rivers of blood and the fat man was a head taller than him. [Arkadi] kicked the fat man's balls with his knee and followed it immediately with the crowbar he hid between the pages of the paper. The fat man fell to the ground and began crying, Arabs! Russians! Help! Arkadi gave him another smack on the head with the crowbar and sat back on the bench."

The frightening miscommunication continues in Arakadi's conversation with the bus driver, with an old passenger and finally with his mother. Don't worry about him, "he's epileptic," Arkadi tells the bus driver who wants to help the sprawled and spasmodic fat man. "If he's epileptic, where's all the blood from," the driver inquires. "From the Prime Minister's speech on the radio," Arakadi replies apathetically. Once inside the buss, Arakadi sees an old passenger working on a crossword puzzle and asks if he can help. "Was I talking to you, you stinking Arab," the old man snaps at Arakadi. In a twist on a crossword puzzle definition, Arakadi rejoins with "a question often used by Border Patrol policemen (28 letters)." Minutes later he gets off the bus and as it drives off he ducks behind a garbage bin anticipating the blast of the explosives he just left on it. "The explosion came seconds later covering Arakadi with trash." On his return home he finds his grandmother sitting in a tent on their roof-deck watching a commercial on TV in which a sexy swimsuit model "was swimming the backstroke in a river of blood that flowed along Arlozorov Street." Arkadi fantasizes about having sex with the model and does not hear his mother, who is trying to tell him that his grandfather was crucified this morning at the central bus station during a special operation to enforce parking regulations. "Are you talking to me?" he asks her. "No, I am talking to God," his mother replies angrily and curses in Russian. "Oh, Arakadi said in return and went back to the TV. The picture now focused on the model's lower body parts. The slimy blood flowed all around them without touching them. There was a supertitle above it and the emblem of the city, but Arakadi resisted the temptation to read it."

It is not hard to follow the different elements of Israeliana that crowd this short story. Recent Russian immigrants, dissipate Israeli youth; fat, lazy and gone bad, Arabs, the Arab-Israeli conflict, the Intifada, the greater conflict in the Mid East, suicide bombings, social disparity, injustice, violence, racism, political cynicism, and above all the apathy of a society who has been flooded ad-nausea with all of these images by an invidious mass media that replicates and amplifies them until they cease to make sense, to represent a recognizable reality. The end of the story exemplifies the gory, macabre collage that makes it and by extension the country itself. Each of its pieces is packed with so much symbolism that it quite literally explodes or collapses and loses its ability to represent anything in a meaningful way.

Among the elements in this story that make no sense, the protagonist, Arakadi, is the least possible, a textual contrivance that highlights the text's postmodern stance as well as Keret's vigorous sense of humor. Although all literary characters are essentially textual inventions, they are inventions based on key mimetic values such as individualization, psychology, complexity and depth.³¹

In modernist texts characters are ontologically secure beings that construct the text and produce its meaning. Readers decipher the literary conventions and codes that make up a character and assemble them by translating these conventions into a coherent image drawn from recognized life experiences. Postmodernist characterization tampers with the assemblage of traits so that characters fail to develop a personality and become instead purely textual effects, empty signifiers that point nowhere. In extreme cases—Arakadi for instance—the postmodern character is not representative at all but illustrative, a cartoon that cannot be read for psychological subtext or representation of identity but as a political and social illustration of an ideological reality.

As a Russian Arab Arakadi is a conceivable character, but not a very plausible one. He is a signifier that cannot be easily signified in contemporary Israel where Jews and Arabs rarely socialize and seldom marry. But even if he were, his political allegiance makes his character improbable still. As an Arab-Jew blowing up Israeli Jews Arakadi is literally cutting his nose despite his face. This is also where the texts deepest irony lies. Arkadi's very being negates itself so that he no longer refers to a recognized reality and exits as a self-referential linguistic entity. By drawing attention to the impossibility of representation, the notion of character itself is deconstructed here. Arakadi thus becomes a stylistic device, a "wordy" creation that eliminates the mimesis of reality in fiction and causes the character to collapse into the discourse, as Buchweitz writes.³²

It is here, when the traditional categories of interpretation fail to explain Arakadi, where Keret's style becomes his message. The writer's inability to cope with an uncertain, unstable, and insecure Israeli reality is conveyed through the abuse of literary norms designed to lament the loss of direction, meaning, and ideals. The textual chaos simulates disillusionment. Instead of attempting to pursue authenticity, the text abandons it and promotes the corruption of narrative conventions as a comment on a world that exhibits a similar disruption or collapse. 

One of the most affective ways in which narrative technique is corrupted in the story is the maintenance of a superficial, textual level that connects the story's disparate elements seamlessly. The story is made up of a string of jarring scenes or situations that are only circumstantially connected, placed one after the other in an artificial continuum. Almost none of them flows from what precedes it either syntactically or logically in the way we usually expect a traditional narrative to progress. 

"Son of a bitch," the fat man muttered and hit his fist hard against the bench of the bus station where he was sitting. Arakadi continued to look at the pictures in the paper, ignoring completely the words that surrounded them. Time went by slowly. Arakadi hated waiting for buses. "Son of a bitch," said the fat man again, this time more loudly and spat on the pavement close to Arkadi's feet. "Are you talking to me?" Arkadi asked, somewhat surprised and raised his eyes from the paper to meet the alcohol-shot eyes of the fat man. "No, I'm talking to my ass," the fat man yelled. "Oh," said Arakadi and returned to his paper. The paper had a color picture of mutilated bodies heaped high in the city square. 

Although the fat man announces himself loudly and crudely, Arakadi is oblivious to his existence. Not because he is uncomfortable or afraid of him, as we later learn, and as most people would in a similar situation. Arakadi simply does not see him or hear him and engages in a leisurely reading of his paper, dwelling on the mundane inconvenience of waiting for public transportation. Nothing in his behavior belies the ominous fact that he is a violent terrorist who in a few moments will execute his mission in cold blood. The mission itself is unimagined because Arakadi is presumed Jewish. Like the bloody pictures in the paper that are separated from their explanatory text, Arkadi remains cryptic as well, undecipherable. His literal reaction to the fat man's facetious reply, "no, I'm talking to my ass," only simulates understanding, and underscores the lack of communication between them or even the willingness to connect and empathize. So is Arakadi's final refusal or inability to read the supertitle on TV, which functions as a symbolic writing on the wall. But since Arkadi himself is a symbol he cannot interpret or comprehend his surroundings without an intermediary. He is one more symbol in a world populated by symbols.

It is perhaps strange, therefore, that many of Keret's other allegedly postmodern stories promote surprisingly naive, old fashioned and even conservative ideals such as patriotism, heroism, true friendship and especially true love. This has not been the most common assessment of them, although it was among the first. In one of the earliest interviews with the young writer, Gil Hovav declares Keret the first Jewish musketeer: "finally, we too have a charming and adventurous gunslinger, quick tempered and ready to fight, someone who will do everything he can to save his lady or civilization." Considering the clear system of values in Keret's 1992 Pipelines, writes Hovav, values that include honor, honesty, manliness, loyalty and a sense of adventure, one wonders if this interdisciplinary musketeer was born in the right century.³³

Even those stories that initially shocked and confused readers and earned Keret a defiant, rebellious reputation promote a bourgeois, civilized world above all; bourgeois civilization with all its attendant ideals, including propriety, respect, fairness, chivalry and especially romance. ³⁴ Although much of Keret's language and plots make such an assessment sound initially strange, one of the shortest stories in Pipelines, “Shlomo, Homo,You Mother-Fucking Fag” (שלמה הומו כוס אל-אומו), illustrates this point convincingly.

The story reads almost like a prolonged joke that decries the absence of meaning and grace. Shlomo is a miserable schoolboy who is picked on by his classmates during a class trip to the park. The teacher, who ostensibly is the only one who feels compassion for him, tries to comfort him some during the trip. But when at the end of the day Shlomo asks her pathetically: “Miss, why do all the kids hate me?” the teacher shrugs her tired shoulders, puffs on her cigarette and replies casually: “how should I know, I’m only the substitute teacher.” While the story deals flippantly with a harsh injustice, it offers no explanation or consolation for it. In many ways it even exacerbates the injustice and the atmosphere of violence and aggression by adding the epithets from the title to Shlomo’s name every time it is mentioned. The teacher, who significantly is a substitute teacher, not a “real” one, like the park, the artificial lake and the giant statue of an orange, which are all mockups of Zionist achievements, goes through the motions and helps Shlomo only because it is part of her job description. That she has no real compassion for the child becomes clear in the end, when she cannot or will not offer the boy any words of consolation. The boy is thus left alone in the desert of a new Israeli society that does not make a real effort to provide a meaningful message that would unite its disparate elements under a redeeming narrative.

Perhaps this is why some critics believed Keret's works bespoke despair and evinced a sense of gloom and helplessness about the state of the country. Author Yoram Kanyuk, who himself took part in the cultural revolution that transformed Israel after 1948 from a cohesive pioneering society to a more pluralistic and liberal one, commented with a mixture of admiration and regret on Keret's generation. Kanyuk delighted in the lean language of the young writers, in which he may have found an expression of his own efforts at limbering the stiffer Hebrew of his day.³⁵ But he saw little connection between their mode of writing and the cultural agenda he and his peers promoted in the first decades after statehood. Young writers, comedians, and journalists today, Kanyuk wrote, seem to have abandoned the greater idea of the State in favor of a new kingdom, that of the city of Tel-Aviv, which they made into the capital of its own culture. This kingdom, he contends, has nothing to do with age-old Jewish traditions (נצח ירושלים) or with the more recent Zionist heritage (יפי הלילות בכנען). Keret's generation, Kanyuk seems to be saying, is not interested in carrying on a dialogue with former literary traditions, as his and former literary generations did. This is a generation content to shut itself in a Tel-Aviv of its imagination, detached from the rest of the country, floating in a vacuum.

Urbanity as a sign of sophistication, complexity and artifice as well as a designation of place was indeed one of the most distinct features of Keret's generation. Generally, it was understood as a defiant stance against what Kanyuk calls Zionist heritage, which valorized the land and vilified the city for reasons that had to do with Zionism's own revolutionary agenda. Perhaps this is why some readers understood Keret's hyper urban spaces as an expression of despair; despair of contemporary Israeli reality, as Gavriel Moked also writes.³⁶ A society that is hermetically confined to the kind of urban spaces it occupies in Keret's literature must be ailing, these critics quipped, especially if one measures it against Zionist ideals that sought to sever the “problematic” connection between the Jew and the city. That this kind of critique was still leveled in the 1990s, even if most of the ethics that animated early Zionism faded by then points to the tenacious hold Zionist ideals had on a culture that was created in their image.

The confusion which Kanyuk and Moked felt about Keret and other writers is strange because both critics identify some of the core issues that constitute the literary dialogue these young new writers conducted with his predecessors without identifying it as such. But as "Arkadi" and many of Keret's other stories make clear, the sense of despair clearly denotes disillusionment. The abuse of literary norms that grabs readers' attention, the postmodern patina of the texts should not be read as literary negligence or incompetence. Keret's Israel is populated by black-and-white stick-figures as a stance against a treacherous reality that has flattened rounder figures and made their existence doubtful and problematic. His literary engagement with the times differs from the engagement of his literary forerunners only in kind but not in principle. Keret's alleged withdrawal from contemporary Israeli life—Kanyuk and Moked probably mean the traditional commitment by Israeli authors to social issues—ensconcing himself in a semi-virtual urban bubble called Tel-Aviv, marks the peculiar passive aggression that distinguishes his generation. Unable or unwilling to influence what they perceived as a dysfunctional, morally relative culture that seemed to lack the instinct for social and cultural reform, Keret and some of his contemporaries retreat into more confined worlds of their own making over which they have much better control: they can warp these fictional worlds in a frustrated act of displacement or recreate them anew on a smaller and more manageable scale in which romance functions as an element of escape, consolation, and grace.

Indeed, Keret's preoccupation with romance and love was far less noted than the jarring postmodern idiom that characterized his works and conveyed their apocalyptic tenor. Although Keret's frustrated heroes often punish themselves and direct their aggression against their own person, they often find refuge and solace in the pursuit and attainment, however brief, of so-called romantic love. These opposite solipsistic expressions—passive aggression and emotional fulfillment—that transpire within the confines of one's own privately created world, mark an easing of the tension between individual and community that was the hallmark of modern Hebrew literature since its beginning. In other words, the desire and search for True Love becomes an organizing principle of redemptive significance.

A simple statistical examination of Keret’s works will clearly show how in the four collections of short stories he published between 1992 and 2002— Pipelines 1992, Missing Kissinger, 1994, Kneller’s Happy Campers, 1998, Cheap Moon, 2002—the number of stories devoted to relationships, not just with women actually, but with male friends and even with pets, but always and repeatedly relationships involving two, has increased from a fifth of the stories in the first anthology, Pipelines, to two-thirds of the stories in the last anthology, Cheap Moon. ³⁷

Love, romance or abiding friendships gradually emerge in Keret’s works as answers to some of the existential confusion they portray, to a world that lost its moral compass and makes little sense. This takes place already in the last story in Keret’s first anthology, Pipelines, a story called “Crazy Glue,” in which a married couple is isolated from everyone and everything around them in a brief moment of connubial bliss. In the story, the couple’s relationship is threatened by an affair the husband has with a colleague at work. Fearful that his wife suspects the affair, the husband decides to come home early one day instead of staying out late with his mistress. On his return he discovers that his wife glued down everything in the house: “I tried to move one of the chairs and sit on it. It didn’t move. I tried again. Not even a millimeter. She glued it to the floor. The refrigerator didn’t open either, she glued it too.” The narrator finally finds his wife glued as well, “hanging upside down, her bare feet attached to the living-room’s high ceiling.” Confused and annoyed at first, he tries to peel her off but then gives up and sees the humor in the situation. “I laughed too. She was so pretty and illogical, hanging upside down like that from the ceiling. Her long hair falling down, her breasts poised like two drops of water under her white T. So Beautiful.” He then climbs on a pile of books in order to kiss her. “I felt her tongue touching mine, the pile of books pushed away from under me; I felt that I was floating in the air, touching nothing, hanging only by her lips.”

The magical-realism with which the story ends masks the more conventional and even conservative values it promotes of marital fidelity and constancy. Strangely, the beginning of the story feels like a throwback to earlier times, with the husband hurrying to work in the morning and the wife staying at home to do house chores. The mise-en-scene as well as the dialogue seem deliberately conventional, almost clichéd, including the husband’s parting words “It’s already Eight, … I must run,” after which he picks up his briefcase and kisses her on the cheek, and his predictable addition “I’ll be home late today because…” These, as well as the row the couple has before that, somehow conjure up a 1950s American film, pastel colors and all. The only indication it takes place in Israel is the Hebrew of the story and the mistress’ name, Michal.

The fact that the happy ending of such optimistic films is realized by the end of the story through magic—albeit ironically—only heightens the pathos and deepens the longing for such solutions in the contemporary Israeli context. This is true for the magical superglue as well, which is another metaphor for the frustrating wish for clarity and stability. Placed at the end of a volatile anthology, then, “Crazy Glue” presents a solution of sorts that privileges permanency and especially love. The story also exhibits two major components of Keret’s writing: the longing for the restoration of bourgeois values and the universal frame of references and imagery, especially from popular media, through which these values are manipulated and delivered.³⁹ The final image of the story combines the two whimsically and eloquently by expressing reconciliation, unity and the permanence of love through a common cinematic device, the “freeze frame.”

This sense of isolation within the confines of a romantic relationship, unhinged from the immediate spatial and temporal surroundings is much more pronounced in Keret’s second anthology, Missing Kissinger, in which almost half of the stories deal with coupling. These stories abandon larger social or moral issues and instead retreat into the narrower, simpler confines of 1-on-1 relationships. The narrator finds refuge from an incomprehensible world of disappearing borders, shifting meanings and contradictory messages in the clear and simple allegiance he pledges to and demands from his immediate partners and derives his very reason for existence from the strength of these relationships.

The world in Kissinger is certainly a violent world of disillusioned adolescents who grow up to discover that there are no dreams, that the relative safety of childhood is gone forever and that life is in the gutter, to use a familiar Israeli phrase (החיים בזבל). However, the protagonists compensate for it by moving between nostalgia for the past—albeit often a problematic past, with broken homes and dysfunctional families—and attempts to find companionship and love, even briefly, with someone they hope to forge a special connection that will return a sense of stability, meaning and belonging to their life.

The story “Corby’s Girl,” in which two guys vie for the same girl, conveys this sense eloquently. At the beginning of the story the beautiful, tall and blondish Marina dates Corby, a common street thug (ארס). The uneven pairing is quizzical, especially to the narrator’s brother, Miron, who eventually woos the girl away from Corby. Corby does not fight to have his girl back, but he does punish Miron. “You stole my girl while I was still dating her,” he yells at Miron after beating him up with a crowbar and kicking him hard in the ribs. But then he does something peculiar that is less in keeping with his image and reputation. “Do you know,” he says to Miron, “that there is a commandment against what you did.? … It’s called ‘thou shalt not steal.’ But you, it runs past you like water.” He then grabs Miron’s brother and forces him to repeat what the bible proscribes as punishment for violating that commandment. Fearing Corby’s brutality, the brother refuses to comply but is finally tortured into confessing it: “Death, I whispered. Those who violate it deserve to die.” Satisfied, Corby lets the two go and turns to his friend. Did you hear that? He says to him, “he deserves to die. And that, he pointed toward the sky, did not come from me but from the mouth of God. There was something in his voice as if he too was about to cry. Yalla, he said, lets’ go, I only wanted you to hear who's right.”

Actual displays of love or romance barely if ever appear in this story, certainly not warm and compassionate expressions of them. Yet the story is one of Keret’s most tender and romantic stories in which love does conquer all. It subdues even a brutal thug like Corby, whose violence is really a seering expression of his heartfelt devotion to his lost girlfriend. Love elevates the uneducated, inarticulate Corby into a literate judge and turns an idle bum into a moral and ultimately also a kind and forgiving ogre. Corby does not really think of his girlfriend as property that can be stolen. But he does subscribe to a rudimentary gentlemanly conduct, which Miron violated. Under these circumstances, Corby’s vindication is perceived as both right and fair toward Miron, and touching toward Marina. Even Miron sees it at the end. Was it worth it, his brother asks him, now that she’s with you? “Nothing in the world is worth that night,” replies Miron, who confesses to his brother that he has been thinking a lot about Corby since then. It is not as if Miron thinks Marina or any other girl unworthy of the hassle he went through. That’s not it. He is extremely sorry for taking Marina away from Corby. What he mourns at the end of the story is the demise of Corby’s true love.

“Corby’s Girl” is one of many stories by Keret in which the quest for romance ultimately fails; not just romantic relationships between lovers, but also romance in the sense of a naive belief in an idealized existence, like in the story “A Hole in the Wall” (חור בקיר). “On Bernadot Bouleverad,” begins the story, “right by the central bus station, there’s this hole in the wall… Someone told Udi once that if you shout your wishes into that hole in the wall, they come true.” Although Udi didn’t believe it, he tried his luck one day and shouted into the wall that he wanted Dafna to fall in love with him. The wish did not come true, but another one Udi made, to have an angel for a friend, did materialize. The angel, however, turned out to be a bit of a dud. He walked around with his wings folded under a big coat, refused to fly and seemed altogether depressed. The two hang out together for a few years and seem to bond until one day Udi pushes the angel off of the roof, “for kicks, he didn’t mean anything bad by it, he just wanted to make him fly for a bit… But the angel fell down five stories like a sack of potatoes” and splattered on the pavement below. Udi then realizes that, “nothing the angel ever told him was true; that he wasn’t even an angle, just a liar with wings.”

Romance in this story is inverted. Ostensibly, nothing in it is romantic except, of course, for its highly romantic premise. Udi’s life itself is utterly devoid of romance. Like his friend the angel, he seems slightly depressed, someone who leads a glum existence without purpose or joy. It is surprising that Udi even bothers to go to the wall and shout into it because that would denote either gullible optimism or desperation, the first of which Udi seems to lack and the second he is beyond. It is surprising still what Udi wishes for, an angel, and that his wish actually comes true. But the most surprising thing of all is Udi’s reaction at the end of the story, his shock and dismay not at the death of the man, but at the death of the angel. The real romantic core of the story is Udi’s naiveté, his unrequited longing for a “miracle” even after years during which the magic slowly wears away.

In part, Keret's focus on relationships or love is the legacy of earlier trends that began in the 1960s, especially by female writers (Amalia Kahana-Carmon, Yehudit Hendel, Shulamit Hareven). Their cultivation of intimate, interior spaces over the larger national and social engagement that characterized many of their male contemporaries slowly came to dominate Hebrew fiction since the 1980s. But even these earlier texts by women, that explored the economy of romantic relationships, were contextualized within a viable and discernible Israeli environment, even when they rebelled against it. What distinguishes the pursuit and attainment of love, or more precisely “couplehood” in the narratives of the 1990s is not just a rebellion but a disengagement from a clearly identifiable Israel; a literary world that looses much of its local color in favor of elements borrowed from a more global culture. Love becomes chief among these elements not only because it insulates against a problematic Israeli present but also because of the central place it occupies in the lending culture, the popular culture of the West.

Keret may have written extremely brief texts that never develop the wealth of issues they touch on, like a string of trailers that are never followed by an actual film, as one critic put it. ³⁹ But what these “trailers” denoted was precisely the problem - the absence of an actual film; a film in the sense of a grand, national narrative. There was no “film” because there was no “script” and there was no script because, metaphorically speaking, no one knew what to put in it and how to write it in a post-Zionist or post national age. Critics may have been annoyed at what they called Keret's contrived pose, at his smarmy linguistic imitations twice removed in which everything sounded so “cool,” like “two tourists stuck in a minefield.”⁴⁰ But this is just how a young Israeli X Generation felt at the time, and Keret, better than many of his peers, gave that generation one of its most poignant and evocative voices.

–

Dr. Yaron Peleg's scholarship is concerned with the history of modern Hebrew literature as well as the invention or production of Israeli culture in the first half of the twentieth century and the legacy of such key cultural innovations as language, literature, body culture, militarism, religious holidays, and music in the second half of the twentieth century and beyond. His most recent publication, Directed by God, Jewishness in Contemporary Israeli Film and Television, looks at the ideological changes in Israeli society in recent decades and the growing influence of the Jewish religion on secular culture in Israel. He is the Kennedy Leigh Lecturer in Modern Hebrew Studies at University of Cambridge.

"Love, Suddenly: Etgar Keret Invents Hebrew Romance" was first published in Hebrew Studies 49, no. 1 (2008): 143-164.

¹ Gershon Shaked is the most persuasive proponent of this distinguishing feature. See his הסיפורת העברית, 1880-1980 (Hasiporet Ha'ivrit, Hebrew Fiction, 1880-1980) (Jerusalem: Keter, 1977, 1988).
² See Robert Polhemus, Erotic Faith (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1990), in which he documents and investigates the connections between romance and the novel during the genre's hay day in the nineteenth century.
³ This has been a common reading of the novel as illustrated by Gershon Shaked, for instance, in גל חדש בסיפורת העברית (Gal hadash ba-siporet ha-ivrit, New Wave in Hebrew Fiction) (Merhavyah: Sifriyat Po'alim, 1974). The same can be said for New Wave female writers like Yehudit Hendel, Amalia Kahana-Carmon and Yehudit Almog, who, generally speaking, seem more concerned with a feminist agenda than with the potential for romance in their works from that time. In the long run, the focus of these women writers on physical and psychological interior spaces and on the political dynamics of romantic relationships legitimized such concerns leading, eventually, to the more integral incorporation of romance into Hebrew letters.
⁴ This is an obviously cursory list and a truncated literary history that is meant to draw attention to the general lack of interest or attention given to romance in Hebrew letters in comparison to other western literatures.

⁵ Miri Talmon-Bohm, A State of Becoming: Transitions in Israeli Cinema and Culture, unpublished manuscript, p. 2.
⁶ See Gilead Morahg and Alan Mintz, The Boom in Israeli Literature, (Hanover, NH : Brandeis University Press) as well as Avner Holtzman, מפת דרכים (Road Map) (Hakibbutz Hame'uhad, 2005).
⁷ One of the most prominent writers of the 1990s, Orly Castel-Bloom, may seem glaringly absent from this analysis. It is my contention that despite her obvious post-modernist style, Castel-Bloom's works continued to engage directly with the national issues that preoccupied her predecessors. The legacy and future of Zionism deeply inform her works and are central to their understanding. This is not the case with the works of Keret and his ilk.
⁸ Gadi Taub, המרד השפוף (Hamered Hashafuf, The Disspirited Rebellion) (Tel-Aviv: Hakibbutz Hame'uhad, 1997).
⁹ On the significance of the Six Day War in Israeli history and its profound influence on its culture and politics, see Tom Segev, 1967 (Tel-Aviv: Hakibutz Hame'uhad, 2005).
¹⁰ I am referring here to the 1970s and 1980s during which Israel's military and economic power were firmly established and were not yet eroded morally by the escalating conflict with the Palestinians and its current reverberations in Israeli and world politics.
¹¹ Ibid, p. 3

¹² Early in his book, Ibid., Taub credits this sense of disconnect to the first Intifada. He writes, "as long as the political problems in Israel had to do with the nation's very existence and Israelis agreed on a common and more or less just way to ensure it, the personal and the communal coexisted well together" (pp. 13-14). But since 1967 this coexistence began to unravel, becoming increasingly uneasy after the 1982 war in Lebanon and especially after the Intifada in 1987. "A system of values based on secularism and humanism," continues Taub, "cannot support the occupation of another nation beyond a certain point," and a soldier who is required to forcefully maintain this control has to find at some point a rationale for his own behavior and that of his government. If the soldier is not religious, "he must find a political justification for his actions. The search for political rationalization becomes a deep psychological need, more than an intellectual one so that, suddenly, a lot of weight is placed on the political" (p. 14). Among the most common reactions to this tension was a great wish to disconnect oneself from anything political, a refusal to deal with it and a tendency to turn away from it and look elsewhere.
¹³ The first Intifada broke out against this background, and when the country was rallied to fight the Palestinians in the name of some of the tired old slogans about self-defense and existential threats, the call did not ring so true anymore. Moreover, the discrepancy precipitated a cognitive dissonance of national proportions that could not be maintained for long. Taub quotes an angry teenager who had this to say in 1988:
Life is not what it used to be, on all counts. All the great visions, which in our case means the overused Zionist vision, are preparing us for a vague fulfillment that will never materialize and designate our lives here and now as an interim stage, a state of emergency full of dangers whose end no one can predict. The paranoid assumption, even if true … that our proud and small Jewish state is constantly under threat, is used as a shrewd ploy to unite the people and as a wonderful excuse for all the things we ought to have accomplished but never managed to after forty years, five wars and thirty four records by Hava Alberstein. (p. 19)

This heated but unusual response for the a-political 1980s ends on a more typical postmodernist note: forty years of Zionist development are dismissed by comparing them with a veteran, folksy singer, Hava Alberstein, ridiculed here for her old-fashioned music and goofy lyrics from a bygone, gullible era. The majority of young people who were of army age did not actively engage with this tension, certainly not politically. In fact, a sense of disillusion and political disengagement marked the age and distinguished it from past generations. Taub predicates his book on this phenomenon, which he defines by the oxymoron "dispirited rebellion."
¹⁴ Eva Ilouz, Consuming the Romantic Utopia: Love and the Cultural Contradictions of Capitalism (Berkeley : University of California Press, 1997). p. 91.
¹⁵ These references were ubiquitous throughout the 1990s. See the footnotes below for key texts in which they were made.
¹⁶ Gil Hovav, “סיפורים מהביצים של הנשמה” (Stories of the Balls of Your Soul) כל העיר (Kol Ha'ir), Feb. 28, 1992. Eventually, the stories were published in more respected media, like the socialist daily דבר (Davar), the Tel-Aviv weekly העיר (Ha'ir) and the Jerusalem weekly כל העיר.
¹⁷ Both the reading public and the literary establishment doted on Keret almost from the start. His stories captivated disinterested teenagers as well as the heart of more seasoned critics. Students in a problematic Bat-Yam high-school, for instance, who usually had no stomach for literature, reacted enthusiastically after their teacher introduced them to some of Keret's stories: "See, that's the way to write! Short, with a little violence, a little sex and some humor beside. Now, that's literature!" Ibid. Enthusiastic gut reactions of this kind were soon accompanied by more considered evaluations by leading writers and critics like Batya Gur, who pronounced Keret's stories "genuine works of art." See, Batya Gur, הארץ (Ha'aretz), June 17, 1994 (no title).
¹⁸ Fabiana Hefetz explored the internal world of those misfits. Keret's contemporary protagonists, writes Hefetz, live in a truly pluralistic universe; a morally defunct environment that has no clear or set system of values. However, through adroit literary manipulation readers find themselves enjoying what they would otherwise find offensive: bad language, violence, various descriptions of hell and even death, almost as if they were watching a good TV show. See, F. Hefetz, “רק הגיל צעיר” (Young only biologically), ידיעות אחרונות (Yedi'ot Aharonot), March 6, 1992. ¹⁹ Yehudit Orian, “ליצנות מרירה ופסימיזם מחוייך” (A Smiley Pessimism), ידיעות אחרונות, May 6, 1994. This is a strong statement that puts Keret on a par with older masters of canonical literature and legitimizes his innovative incorporation of popular "low" culture by comparing it to the Bible.
²⁰ See Laurence Silberstein's study of this critical trend in, The Postzionist Debates: Knowledge and Power in Israeli Culture (New-York: Routledge, 1999).
²¹ Abraham Balaban, for instance, predicated an entire study of contemporary Hebrew literature on some of its definitions and analyzed the works of Keret and others according to them. See, גל אחר בסיפורת העברית: סיפורת עברית פוסטמודרנית (Gal aher basiporet ha'ivrit: siporet ivrit postmodernistit, Another Wave in Hebrew Fiction: Postmodern Hebrew Fiction) (Keter: Jerusalem, 1995).
²² In 1996 David Gurevitch conclusively presented Keret as a postmodernist in his article, “חלומות ממוחזרים” (Recycled Dreams), in which he includes other writers, most notably Orly Castel-Bloom and Gafi Amir. See, עיתון 77 (Iton 77), vol. 194, March, 1996, pp. 38-43.
²³ Y. Orian, ibid, F. Hefetz, ibid, Alon Gayer, הארץ, June, 12, 1994.
²⁴ B. Gur, ibid.
²⁵ Gideo Samet, הארץ, August 19, 1994, Einat Avrahami, “הרבה בקרובים - והסרט איננו,” (Lots of Trailers but No Movie), מעריב (Ma'ariv,) May 6, 1994, Liza Chodnovsky, “?האם קיימים חורים שחורים” (Do Black Holes Exist?), עיתון 77, August-September 1988, Gavriel Moked, מעריב-יומן תל אביב (Ma'ariv-Yoman Tel-Aviv), December 18, 1998.
²⁶ Yigal Schwartz, “הפוך על הפוך” (Twice Inverted), הארץ ספרים (Ha'aretz Book Review), May 14, 1997, p. 6.
²⁷ Asher Reich, “לאתגר קרת לא אכפת” (Etgar Keret Doesn't Care), מעריב, June 22, 1994.
For reasons beyond the publisher's control the cover of the second edition was replaced with an original illustration of black lines over a pink background depicting a tranquil Tel-Aviv street scape in which various small details are surrealistically warped or missing. The affect is similar to what I describe above.
²⁹ A similar twist occurs in the jacket of Keret's second anthology, Missing Kissinger, which features a reproduction of “the Crying Child;” a sentimental painting that is probably the most recognizable icon of kitsch in Israel, sold in popular street markets as posters, oil paintings, painted rugs etc. The kitschy quality of the picture resides in the utter lack of ambivalence about the rosy-faced little boy with his sandy hair, sad, blue eyes, button nose and sweet, red lips. Even the tears that trickle down the boy's plump cheeks are meant to highlight the simple, emotional affect of the image at the expense of a more complex artistic engagement. One of the most important aspects of the garish portrait, and indeed of kitsch in general, is its excess, the overabundance of sentimentalism, sensationalism, melodrama and romance that finally numbs viewers to any and all of these emotions. See Gurevitch's discussion of kitsch this in his article, ibid. Many stories in the anthology are presented through similar excess; through the accumulation of familiar cultural references and quotes that ostensibly stay at surface level and never leave it to reflect on it from above by providing a more distant perspective.
³⁰ Pipelines, Ibid, pp.62-64.
³¹ My discussion on postmodern characterization here is based on a paper delivered by Nurit Buchweitz at the NAPH conference in Stanford, California in June 2005 titled The Evacuation of Character in Postmodernist Prose: The case of Keret and Kastel-Bloom.
³² Buchweitz does not analyze this particular story. I extrapolate from her more general discussion.
³³ Gil Hovav, ידיעות אחרונות, Feb. 28, 1992.
³⁴ Arik Glassner writes that “Keret’s heroes are not entirely losers. They are goody-two-shoes in a macho world, that is, losers in one context but part of the hegemony in another,” “לקרוא את מסעי גוליבר באיסלנדית” (Likro et mas'ot Guliver be Islandit, Reading Guliver’s Travels in Icelandic), הארץ, January 28, 2004.
³⁵ "I read [the works of Keret's generation] and I feel jealous. When I did similar things in my days the critics tore me to shreds. Keret is being taught at the university and will receive the Israel prize yet… Keret's ability and that of his peers to express themselves this way vindicates my own failure." Yoram Kanyuk, “כמו אדישות שמחה” (Like Happy Apathy), הארץ ספרים, Dec. 16, 1998, p. 6.
³⁶ Gavriel Moked, יומן תל-אביב, מעריב, Dec. 18, 1998.
³⁷ And this peculiar fact holds true for Keret’s contemporaries as well, Taub, Weil, and Amir, who published less than Keret during that same time, but whose collections of short stories—always short stories—deal primarily with the dynamics of romance in urban settings.
³⁸ The appellation “bourgeois” here is meant positively as a sign of stability, propriety, civility etc., and not in the more derogatory sense it had in socialist-Zionist discourse.
³⁹ E. Avrahami, Ibid.
⁴⁰ Y. La’or, Ibid.

Tales of the Orange Time of Day

“I think I might be an old-fashioned writer. People often comment that I'm a 19th-century writer. And I think maybe it's true. I think there are different ways to look at the world.”

–YIYUN LI

1

On the north coast of Indonesia, just east of Lovina, the Lambert's built their villa near an old monastery which housed blind orphans. The French–English family moved to Singaraja five years ago, and their decision to relocate remained somewhat of an enigma. Mrs. Lambert, often described as something of a floating spirit, had since she had taken it upon herself to educate her son Leo and daughter Celine.

“We are fortunate enough to be impractical” she'd often say jestingly, in an attempt to justify her digressions when teaching. It therefore came as no surprise that her first born Leo, sharp as he was, seemed to lack basic algebraic skills, though at the age of twenty-one he'd mastered the art of antique restoration and ceramics. He soon developed an unmatched passion for mythology, and I arrived to find him persuading his mother to invest in a library, arguing it would benefit the community.

“There's no need for persuasion Leo,” Celine calmly interrupted. “I'm sure mother wouldn't refuse to turn one of the rooms into a library. We have plenty of space, besides, I'm not sure you'd be too happy sharing your books with the community.” She stealthily entered the living room serving tea from a sharp edged timber tray. She never failed to enter or leave unnoticed, while ensuring her speech as well as her presence remained limited to its utility. I would soon discover that these were among the many qualities Leo admired in his little sister. She alone understood the fragility of his pride and in this way they maintained a harmony unusual between siblings.

“Oh Nina! You've arrived,” Mrs. Lambert said, smiling as she introduced me to her children. Even from behind Leo was hard to miss. He sat poised on the sofa beside Mrs. Lambert, his shoulders broad, skin fair and his hair unusually dark. But he soon turned towards me, greeting me with a well rehearsed smile and steady eyes. He spoke flirtatiously, fiddling with his words as if to test my wit or disarm me with his charm. And had I not had a need, a weakness for seeking others approval I might not have noticed Celine, pretty as she was in her white silk dress laced at the corners of her shoulders. She hardly greeted me before inquiring, “Mom, I didn't know we were expecting a visitor?”

“Yes, I wanted to surprise you! You two remember Nina, right? You were inseparable as children.”

“Of course!” Leo replied laughing. “I must say it's nice to see you in a dress for a change. Come...I'll show you to your room.” As he continued, assisting me with my luggage, I thought: perhaps over the years Leo had grown accustomed to compensating for his sister's obnoxiousness.

Celine still had that strange ability to sum up a person in a matter of seconds, deciding whether or not they were worth her efforts. This was enough to make anyone want to know her, but next to Leo she seemed only a shadow of his brightness, and she gladly let him shine.

The guest room, decorated with rare ornaments and hard covered books, overlooked the ocean which turned grey at sunset. In that moment I set about overstaying my welcome: “I hope I didn't do anything to offend your sister,” I said nervously, but Leo just chuckled. “Ignore her,” he said, “she's just a little concerned”

“Concerned? What about?"

“Well...” he winked.

“What! That's ridiculous, I'm sure she knows we are just friends.”

“Yeah? For exactly how long this time, Nina...?”

He spoke with such certainty. Unfazed by the effect he may or may not have had, he simply skimmed through the hard covered books lined up on the shelves, grabbing an old encyclopaedia before leaving. Ever since we were young, Leo never cared much for my manners. He thought it cowardice to be kind and preferred not to entertain my poorly masked intentions.

But once he'd left, I saw Celine, sitting in her room across the hall from mine and I thought I might try to win her over. She sat quite comfortably with a large black spider on her arm before I interrupted:

“Hi Celine, I–I hope we didn't get off to the wrong start, I'm not sure if you remember me, you were quite young then...I must say, you grew up to be more serious than I expected. Is that a tarantula I see on your arm?!”

“It's a Euryplema spinicrus,” she replied quietly. “He's among the larger groups of spiders but...relatively small next to us.”

Strange, I thought, what a strange and serious girl. “You look startled,” she noticed. “I'll put him away. I’d appreciate it if you knocked next time.” She stood up and placed the spider in a large transparent container. And I couldn't help but notice the light in her room which entered undisturbed by her minimalism. She had no objects on display, no books on the shelves or shelves at all for that matter. The room was clean, crisp, and plain; each item with its own function. Her exotic spider seemed terribly exposed, though she didn't seem to mind. Nor was she bothered by the sudden silence which got me chattering anxiously, “The light is good in your room. I imagine Leo's is dark and cluttered,” I chuckled. “Is he still obsesed with old books and dusty furniture?”

“Well, Leo has the luxury for such indulgences, his mind is as clear as my room. I have a bad habit of thinking more often than necessary. It's an extravagance of mine I prefer not to entertain. Leo can switch his thoughts on and off just as he does his conscience. He's best left to his literature.”

She started pacing the room as if in search of something, opening all her drawers with a look of defeat. “You wouldn't happen to have seen an orange pair of scissors?” she asked nervously.

“No, I haven't. Are you okay? If you like I could go ask Leo.”

Hearing this she paused almost frightened and told me not to worry, “It's not important really," and for a moment she so distinctly resembled her father, well known for his brilliance but passed on before she could remember. I thought I might ask about him, but the sun was dimming in its remarkable way compelling us to take a walk.

3

The sea with its peculiar scent graced the shoreline and our feet and for a brief moment Celine had a change of heart. She walked me to the ruins of the old monastery where Leo held pottery classes for the orphans without sight. Here the local men ate dark mushrooms as the woman sat isolated under a tree collecting black stones gathered from the coast. The sun was still good, and Celine, mellowed with nostalgia, calmed my nerves with a story:

“Leo looks forward to these classes,” she began. “Most of the ceramics in the guest room are his. But there is one which stands out in its distortions and unusual beauty. It's shaped like a vase but not at all practical, with several open spaces and a tip too slender for a stem. At times, I use it as a candle holder. It illuminates the walls with elegant patterns. When mother first saw it she was convinced my brother had outdone himself, but Leo didn't make it. There was a young boy at the orphanage who was among Leo's best students. His name Noman and for a long time he and Leo were inseparable. They both had a certain wisdom about them. Noman gave the odd vase to Leo as a gift (a token of his appreciation) and ever since Leo has never found the heart to give light to Noman's craftsmanship. See his pride is like porcelain, and since Noman was born without possessions or sight he simply delighted in moulding the clay without a longing for praise.

"I've never met a boy with such grace. I thought perhaps my brother had found his match. They

were not at all alike but stood apart as equals. You see, Leo has always been bright and charming, he stands out like the sun. But Noman was like soil or grass, earthbound and subtle. He was among the few quiet enough to feel me come and go. We sat most afternoons near the ruins of the monastery weaving small grass baskets which the villagers filled with garden flowers, and at times I'd scratch his back and he'd place his head on my lap, where each day, I thought, Noman grew more beautiful – His skin brown and warm, his hair dark and wavy with tanned lips and well-crafted hands...his eyes caught the light like crystals and danced like Phaeceans under the mild sun. And, though I'm not one for words, they seemed a fair exchange for such a sight. So when he asked that I tell him the color of sunset or the fickle hours of mild heat and temperate winds, I said it was the orange time of day. Then gently he found my hand clenched moist in nervousness and squeezed his finger through to my palm, his face filled with mirth...and before the sun set, he placed his lips on the corner of my head ‘with a measured restraint’, but it was enough to change the weight of my thoughts, at least for the time being.

"Only I soon saw Leo, steadily fixing his eyes on me as if to say I’d betrayed him. I think Leo has always been unusually possessive for someone so easy to love. He's never understood that to me Noman simply had all the subtleties of artist. But Leo, he is like art itself. A silly thing to compare, really.”

“We'd better start walking back now,” she said stiffly, as if harshly shaken from deep sleep. "At this time of year the sunset is usually followed by rain.”

4

I arrived at the Villa to find Mrs. Lambert in the kitchen trying to ground water in the cup of her hand. It was an exercise I’d seen her do quite often when Celine was a child. “She’ll never get it right!” the child observed. “She clasps her hands too tightly.” Then quickly, quietly, before I could reply, she’d gone back to her room, perhaps so her mother would not see her, for once Mrs. Lambert caught sight of me, she asked that I help her glaze Leo's pottery. The glaze already prepared left me with the small task of dipping each pot into the mixture. Leo would later apply metallic salts to make his pots look golden. “They are a tribute to Benvenuto Cellini,” Mrs. Lambert said boastfully.

“The Gold Smith?” I inquired.

“Yes! but it's no surprise, really. Leo has always had a strange fascination with the man. A curious choice of an Idol, wouldn't you agree? Even with all his genius, Cellini was quite cruel. Evil, some might go so far as to say. Perhaps you could call it yin and yang. The same man that formed that statue of Perseus with the head of Medusa, fled seven cities charged with rape, murder and other kinds of absurdities...Yet he lived a long and glorious life, favored by the nobles, charged but never severely punished. And the cardinals, kings, ands popes only ever granted further commissions. Because in the end, Nina, the people simply want to be amused.” Mrs. Lambert always spoke in code, in warning, it unsetlled me in a manor I couldnt explain. “Now his statue hangs in the center of Florence,” she continued, “in commemoration of his greatness! And my son has just crafted seven clay pots in his honour. You know sometimes I underestimate Leo's insight, he is much like his father. I recently discovered that the postman is quite passionate about photography. It began when Leo gave him an old camera sold reasonably at a vintage market. And not to mention, Leo holds pottery classes for the orphans at the monastery, and now he wishes to invest in a library which he claims will ‘benefit the community’. It's a kind gesture I suppose or a lesson well rehearsed...I think Leo understands the value of entertainment, and it'll make his life a lot easier.”

I don't know why, but once Mrs. Lambert had spoken I felt unusually tired with an odd desire to speak to Leo. I'd now seen him in every light except my own, and I was beginning to feel I had the ill fortune of being present at every moment that matters. As I glazed the last of Leo's pots, much to my own relief Ms. Lambert smiled considerately and insisted I get rest.

5

The trouble with being a guest is the pleasant aura one must maintain at every given moment. I've never been easy to like. I find that people can be quite exhausting, and lately listening seems just as strenuous as speaking. But Celine never demanded much of me, or anyone. She decided I was no one the moment I arrived. A surprising relief, which left me feeling weightless and gentle.

She took to my presence like a tree to the wind, as if certain I was only passing by. I walked into my dimly lit room, where Leo stood quiet in the twilight by the open window facing the sea and I had never been more pleased to see anyone. He looked poised in the half light with the acute beauty of a carnivorous flower, then turned toward me crying, with a broken vase in his hands and a pair of orange scissors covered in clay. “I don't know how he did it, Nina, I tried...I don't know how he did it,” he said weeping, falling to his knees, cutting his foot on the scattered pieces of a broken vase. I last saw him this way the day he heard his father died and I gave him the only comfort I thought sincere. Because if my body were a temple, it would be the kind where tired men rest or gathered their strength, and so we performed our basic art, our artless art, and once we lay exhausted from our exercise our eyes grew heavy with a sleep as deep as sorrow but as long and willing as content.

The next morning I woke up to find Leo sweeping the broken fragments from the floor, then placing the orange scissors in a drawer. I watched him for some time and thought I'd speak, but it was nice to watch men move uninhibited. It didn't take long before he realized I was awake. He offered me tea and served it dark in a handleless mug and we spoke like old friends.

Leo soon insisted I get dressed. He wanted to take me to the ceremony of the dead, where villagers sat chanting in the shade, lighting small candles and incense placed on grass weaved baskets.

“I think this is a rather gracious way to mourn of the dead,” I thought aloud.

“Sure,” he answered, “but death is still harsh.”

I suppose we do what we can to make it beautiful.

Leo spoke with a finality which pierced my nerves, but I was calmed by his sudden embrace. “There was a body found at shore today,” he whispered. “They suspect it's one of the orphans. This ceremony is for him. It should last most of the day, but it’s got me feeling unusually heavy... I get an odd feeling you might leave again. Early this morning I spoke to Celine and I asked why she recieved you so acrimoniously. She told me she was not concerned with your intentions, Nina, but rather that you had none. It got me thinking of the first time I really saw you, seated on that tall rock at Umhlanga when I’d finally found courage to touch you. You were darker than ever in the height of Durban's summer, with your hair braided down to your breast. You never told me why you were crying. You just sat pensively there in your red satin shirt towering the spirals of waves. And I thought you were perfect, even in your nervousness. Do you remember how the sun played at that time of day? You muttered–seli bantu bahle. It is the time of day, you explained, when our people are beautiful.”

“But I wasn’t nervous that day...” I interrupted.

“I know! Just a little unsettled, I guess. Remember when we lay unclothed on the sand, and you wondered when the sun lends its shine to the moon. I laughed! My father and I made jokes of all the number of ways you expressed your impatience. I could have lay there all day, I thanked the day for it’s delay. But when it got cold and you rose to find your clothes I noticed tattooed on your back: 

“In love with the Lake
the swan longs to stay longer
but the ice covers the lake
and the swan flies with no regret”

Tsangyang Gyat, Sixth Dalai Lama

In that moment I knew better than to call you mine, and since I'm not one to change the nature of things I simply loved you without cause, nothing more.”

And I stopped to wonder whether Leo loved causelessly or without hope. Whether I knew or ought to have known the etymology of cause. Why couldn’t I shake the image of Ms. Lambert’s gold and glaze? Was I the water in her palm...Does he cup me gently?

“Agh, Leo,” I said lightly. It felt important to speak lightly. “You overestimate me. You’re the one who’s loved by everyone you meet. You’re like a fair opponent to the sun, and no man can own the sun, nor does it give itself to anyone. I suppose I've never been one to change the nature of things either”. I felt a sense of equality once I'd spoken as we laughed quietly in the ceremony of the dead.

6

The time came for Leo to return to the monastery to hold his classes. He left a little more at ease, and as I strolled along the concrete streets, past local homes with tiny temples and the bright green fields of rice, I thought I could die here much to my own content. I arrived at the villa and lost my manners with the small meal Mrs. Lambert had prepared. I ate quickly, thanked her and then left. I was behaving more and more like Leo. I even attempted to read one the many tomes he had staked in the guest room. But I recalled the orange pair of scissors Celine had been looking for earlier, and I vaguely remembered where Leo had placed them.

It felt intrusive, scouting the bedroom in search the object Leo had tried to hide, but I still wanted Celine to like me, a terrible weakness of mine or unguarded intuition.

I found the scissors in the drawer, then walked across the hall to find Celine, laying on her bed with a blank expression on her face. Her skin seemed drained of colour, her lips almost white. “Is this what you were looking for?” I said with caution as I walked toward her, handing over the scissors. She rose slowly from her bed with a curious expression on her face, and as I placed the blades in her hand, her eyes watered.

“Where did you find it?" Celine inquired.

“They were hidden in one of the drawers in the guest room. Look, Celine, I don't mean to pry, but I last saw Leo in tears with these scissors in his hand. I didn't ask what was wrong, but I can't help but wonder if there is any reason Leo would hide these scissors from you .”

Celine, hesitant to speak, must have known that I’d betrayed Leo, though not merely to please her but because it has always been my belief that the nature of my curiousity is that which irresistably draws me to the truth. “I have no malice,” I confessed, but there was no need to persuade her. I had stolen Leo’s secret and given it to her.

“They are the closest thing to a photograph I have of Noman,” she said trembling. “ He had a unique way of shaping clay with scissors. These were his lucky pair and he made some of his most outstanding pieces with it, while Leo always insisted on doctrine. One must know the rules in order to break them, he'd often say with spite. Because although Leo can inspire an extraordinary work of art, he can't see past his own light. He doesn't create honestly, his head so cluttered with notions that he is almost incapable of sincere thought. I'm not saying my brother is a bad person or dim in any fashion, only that he's grown too accustomed to praise.

"The day Noman completed Leo's vase, his scissors went missing. An odd coincidence since Noman believed his gifts came from gods in a pair of orange scissors; scissors like the sun, he'd called them, and all the boys laughed at his small-mindedness. But he'd say: I do what I can to secure my modesty, words I thought wise because if ever there was a way to measure pride against creation, I'm convinced even a grain of salt could upset the balance of that scale. So for a while Noman refused to do pottery, and I've looked for those scissors ever since. I couldn't fool him with a new pair, he knew the weight and form of his own with all the hidden areas smeared with clay.

"Nevertheless, he would sit in the classroom an hour before lessons began and fiddle with clay. I would join him every now and then. He had somehow found a friend in me, and I soon suggested he make a pot using my hands. I'd be his pair of scissors, I said. He was taken by the idea and so during the many afternoons that followed he would place my hands on wet clay and move them as he pleased. At times I'd wish I were a woman capable of expressing my passion with less restraint, but we still laughed loud and abundantly.

"One afternoon, Leo arrived an hour early to find Noman and I covered in clay at the height of our amusement. At first he seemed pleasantly surprised, but he soon began setting up his apparatus with a seriousness which only added to our laughter. He began working quite intensely on a vase similar to Noman's, only with less distortion and better suited for practical use.

"I then saw him pull out an orange pair scissors to sharpen the rim of his vase. I didn't say anything, I figured I'd just take them back quietly once Leo was done with them. He continued his labor with impunity when Noman, disturbed by the cold silence which seemed to lack reason, walked toward Leo initiating a conversation. But startled by the sudden rush of orphans ushered in by the postman, he stumbled over a chair and broke his fall over Leo's half made vase.

"An accident which deformed its shape and enraged my poor brother. Leo pushed Noman with all the might his wrath could amass, and the blind boy flew back displaced from a thrust so brutal he snapped his neck on the hacked wooden table in the corner of the workshop.

"Without compunction, Leo fixed his eyes on his crooked vase. The postman panicked and guided the scared children out the classroom and, after a long deafining silence, I just stood there, petrified as they carried out his body and left it at sea.”

Celine wept endlessly as she closed her story, and I was simply mortified.

“Celine! Surely the kids, the postman, or you thought to report this? You loved him!” I said screaming thoughtlessly, insensitively, but she just turned away from me, wiping the last of her tears, then replied with no remorse, “Would you report it?”

“ I...no,” I thought. Realizing, “I couldn't.”

“Why?” she asked calmly, though she already knew.

“Because I ...” Still to this day couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“Well so does everybody else,” she deduced. “The kids can't lose their teacher, and I can't lose my brother. And then there is love, as you say, which has its own set of rules. My mother always said: 'The sun dried the desert, but who could hate the sun?’ Perhaps it would be the same with Leo.”

And soon the sun set, with our hearts heavy of feelings only suited to the night, and outside the old men chanted the ceremony of the dead. I left early the following morning, before the day could claim its throne. And I would never see Leo again, but I would love many more like him.

Lethokuhle Msimang is a South African poet and writer, born in Durban KwaZulu-Natal. Graduated with a B.A. in Literary Studies and Creative Arts at the American University of Paris, her poems have appeared in New Coin Poetry (Rhodes University, SA), Hanging Loose and The Paris/Atlantic. She is the founder of the South African Oral History Project, presently focused on the documentation of the Delville Wood Memorial and the role of South African Native Labour Corps. She is currently completing a book of linked short stories Tales of the Orange Time of Day.

Alligators at Night

"The best stories you usually hear are stories
that people feel some type of urgency about."
–ETGAR KERET

You remember when you lived in Florida briefly, walking to the store with your husband in the middle of the night. You remember the sound of alligators crooning like deranged, nocturnal cows, all the way to the Seven-Eleven, from each side of the highway. You remember thinking that they must regularly sing to people on their way to the Seven-Eleven, mostly a welcome sound, because there is a three-hour walk there, and a three-hour walk home, and the night sky is so velvety in the summer, and the singing alligators are like jazz. It’s like you’re in a jazz club, but walking outside.

Walking to the Seven-Eleven, what you sometimes want is to never actually get there. Because you are holding hands, feeling his warm, fine skin. He has not yet had his dose of whiskey and his breath has not yet become thick as a mushroom cloud. You have not yet said you have a migraine, and that you don’t really feel like snuggling because your body is so sweaty after the six-hour walk. You have not yet cried or threatened to leave and you have not yet been quieted by your husband with his body half asleep and given up the fight.

You remember that your walk to the Seven-Eleven is glorious, you are both present but so quiet, the two of you loving the sound of strange overgrown creatures who are so close to you, but attached to their watery homes. Sometimes you can imagine these animals are chasing you and your husband all the way to the Seven-Eleven, but mostly you just think of them there in the dark, without alcohol and probably without love.

First published in Atticus Review.
 

Meg Pokrass is the author of four collections and one award winning book of prose poetry. Her books include Damn Sure Right (Press 53, 2011) My Very End of the Universe— Five Mini-Novellas-in-Flash and a Study of the Form (Rose Metal Press, 2014), Bird Envy (2014), Cellulose Pajamas (Blue Light Book Award winner,  2016)) and The Dog Looks Happy Upside Down (Etruscan Press, 2016).  Her stories and poems have appeared and are forthcoming in over 250 literary magazines including Five Points, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Gigantic, Great Jones Street, Matchbook, Newfound, New World Writing, Bayou, Rattle, 100-Word Story, Wigleaf, Green Mountains Review, Smokelong Quarterly, Talking Writing, Every Writer’s Resource, The Rumpus, Failbetter, storySouth, decomP,  Flash Magazine, and two Norton anthologies:  New Microfiction (W.W. Norton, 2018) and Flash Fiction International (W.W. Norton, 2015). Showcased by Adweek and Galleycat/Media Bistro as “Digital Author to Watch”, sheis considered an innovator in the use of Facebook, Twitter, and other social media platforms for writers. Meg serves as an international writing competition judge, Fiction Curator for the innovative Great Jones Street App, and Festival Curator for the new The Bath Flash Fiction Festival.

Les Figures du rêve dans The Sandman de Neil Gaiman

"Les Figures du rêve dans The Sandman de Neil Gaiman" is Isabelle L. Guillaume's Master's thesis. It was defended in 2012 in the Ecole Normale Supérieure de Lyon. The full text (187 pages, with footnotes) can be found on Academia.edu

Excerpt from conclusion, translated into English (for original French version, see below)

Throughout this study, I have focused on the notion of dreams in Sandman, in order to understand how such a central theme fits with the other topics tackled by Gaiman. I have shown that Gaiman subtly alters the meaning of the word, leading the reader to understand that literary creation and oneiric vision are roughly synonymous, or at least share the same place of origin – that is, the realm of the Dreaming. Significantly, the spaces that Gaiman depicts as forming part of the Dreaming are sometimes “real” dream places (eg. the individual dreams that Morpheus moves through, or visits), sometimes mythical or legendary lands (eg. Fiddler's Green, the heaven of sailors lost at sea), sometimes an elaborate landscape taken from a fictional narrative (eg. The Land in A Game of You)

The point is that Gaiman does not draw a clear-cut limit between the various products of human imagination. At the heart of The Dreaming is a library of books which Gaiman calls “dream” books, but which are in fact a product of imagination, or daydreaming. Likewise, dreams are a vast concept within which various levels of fiction and metaphor coexist. With this unifying gesture, Gaiman sets up a narative which aims at blurring the frontier between reality and fiction, for the reader as well as for the characters which are part of the narrative. Indeed, their awareness of their own fictionality distinguishes Gaiman's characters from other figures which are traditionally associated with fairytale or myth:

BARBIE : Is this real ? Or is it just my imagination ?

CUCKOO : If you tell me what the difference is, I might be able to tell you. (Game Of You p. 126)

In fact, Gaiman insists on questioning the limits which mankind takes for granted in daily life, and which allow all of us to maintain some stability. Through a play on words, Gaiman calls into question the concept of the frontier, and the necessity to go beyond the line it draws: in “August”, Dream offers advice to the Emperor on the request of “Terminus. He who walks boundaries.” He is, of course, referring to the Roman god Terminus. But later, when Dream takes a train back to his kingdom, a narrative box informs us that “the castle of dreams shivers and re-forms as the train approaches. What was a fortress is now a terminus”. A “terminus” is an ending (for Morpheus who is about to die) but it also contains the possibility of moving beyond them, as the god Terminus does.

This use of polysemy suggests the impossibility of using a monological approach, and reminds us that a frontier is an end that mankind creates for itself. Between fiction and reality, truth and lies, object and subject, internal and external, daily life expects us to walk the tight rope that separates a notion from its opposite. Without that exercise, no efficient way of seeing the world would be possible. Yet it is our imagination which allows us to move beyond the limits of utilitarism. Significantly, in Sandman, each Endless also delineates its opposite notion: Destruction brings creation, Death brings life, etc. This might be Gaiman's way of saying that aesthetic sensitivity, exists for its own sake; it claims to embrace everything within a single textual unity. Sandman therefore reaches the ultimate stage of fiction, where nothing is true except the text's fictionality.

This paradox should remind us of the peculiar logic underpinning dreams: seen from within, the only possible truth is that of the dream, which appropriates the memories coming from waking hours. Dreams, because of their very nature, stand as an emblem for fiction. Gaiman steps away from an interpretive approach of dreams, and prefers to assert their essential polysemy. The point is not to refuse the possibility of deciphering dreams as messages fro the unconscious, but to assert that this is an artistic rather than a scientific act.

Interpreting is an individual act which cannot be reduced to normative discourse. This discourse needs to become poetry, the reader needs to see it as a mental game in order to explore imagination itself. Dreams, narratives and myths are related in Sandman because they all offer, through different means, to recenter the subject's vision on a fictitious object which can be utterly believed in, although it contradicts daily reality and depends on the person experiencing it : it is true, truer that the real, for as long as the subject accepts it as such.

The nature of dreams in Sandman inform us as to Gaiman's poetical programme: he aims at creating for his readers a form of total fiction which perpetually claims its own fictionality, allowing them to draw their own conclusions as to the nature of imagination. The openness of the graphic text fit Gaiman's ambitions, for it is indeed possible to re-read Sandman, each time with increased pleasure.

Isabelle L. Guillaume specializes in Anglophone cultural studies; she is currently writing a PhD on the influence of British scriptwriters within the American comics industry between 1983 and 2013. She edited an anthology on the body and its representations in comics (Les Langages du Corps, l'Harmattan, 2015). Her other fields of interest include gender studies and translation theory. She also translated Craig Thompson's latest graphic novel, Space Dumplins, into French.

–

Extraits de l'introduction:

En 1988, lorsque paraît aux Etats-Unis le premier numéro de The Sandman, la série est avant tout destinée a faire connaître au public le nom d'un certain Neil Gaiman. A vingt-huit ans, celui-ci a déjà travaillé sur plusieurs séries, en plus de son activité de journaliste et d'écrivain ; avec Dave McKean, qui restera l'illustrateur de toutes les couvertures de Sandman et une influence artistique majeure au cours de la série, il vient d'achever la minisérie intitulée Black Orchid, d'apres un personnage mineur de l'univers DC.

Or, DC doute de la viabilité économique de la publication de Black Orchid, qui devra afficher un prix élevé du fait de la qualité des illustrations (entièrement peintes) et dont l'héroïne méconnue pourrait rebuter les fans, car on est encore a l'époque ou les personnages féminins, à tort ou à raison, sont perçus comme se vendant mal. Pour ne rien arranger, le scénariste autant que l'illustrateur sont deux Anglais inconnus, récemment repérés par Karen Berger, "DC’s British liaison", lors d'une expédition outre-Atlantique à la recherche de nouveaux talents devant alimenter la “British Invasion of Comics” débutée en 1984. Devant ces difficultés, Berger résout de réserver la publication de Black Orchid a une date ultérieure. En attendant, Gaiman sera chargé de collaborer avec Sam Kieth (au dessin) et Mike Dringenberg (a l'encrage) sur une série mensuelle visant a remettre au goût du jour un autre personnage issu de la tradition DC, The Sandman.

Ce "marchand de sable" est à l'origine un personnage créé en 1939 par Gardner Fox et Bert Christman, répondant au nom de Wesley Dodds, et dont le trait distinctif est un masque a gaz lui permettant de se protéger des effets du gaz hypnotique qu'il utilise contre ses ennemis. En 1942, le personnage sera modifié dans une direction plus nettement superhéroïque par Joe Simon et Jack Kirby. Ces derniers décident en 1974 de reprendre le concept sous un autre angle, et créént un nouveau Sandman, Garrett Sanford, superhéros beaucoup plus convenu et doté de la panoplie complète du justicier, cape comprise. Enfin, en 1988, DC propose a Gaiman de créér sa propre version du personnage.

Gaiman débute donc l'écriture de sa première BD mensuelle, au sujet d'un Sandman qui n'était guère que son choix par défaut ; il s'attend à ce que la série soit au mieux un succès critique mineur, et expire discrètement apres une année de publication, faute de lecteurs :

“I figured we’d do eight issues, and after the eighth issue, someone at DC would ring me up and say, ‘it’s a minor critical hit, but it’s selling twenty thousand a month. We’ll give you until the end of the year; go to issue twelve and we’ll cancel it after issue twelve'.”

Pourtant, dès le premier numero, les ventes sont excellentes ("Sandman #1 did about 89,000, which for the time was incredibly good"), et la tendance s’accentue progressivement jusqu’a ce que, dans les dernieres annèes, la serie finisse par dépasser Batman et Superman en termes de tirage. Le travail de Gaiman est salué presque unanimement par le public, mais aussi par toute la profession, comme peut en attester l’impressionante liste de prix et recompenses amassés en sept ans, notamment quatre Eisner for Best Writer de 1991 a 1994, et deux Harvey for Best Writer, en 1990 et 1991.

Le scénario du premier pan de l'intrigue, publié ultérieurement en volume relié sous le titre Preludes And Nocturnes (episodes 1 à 8) et rédigé presque d'une traite, prend la forme d'une quête d'objets magiques à la trame plutot convenue mettant en scène un personnage surnaturel nommé Dream, incarnation immortelle du principe du rêve. Pour résumer de facon sommaire, le lecteur fait la rencontre de Dream lors de son emprisonnement par un groupe d'occultistes en 1916, qui le garderont captif durant une période de 72 ans, jusqu'a ce qu'il parvienne enfin à s'extraire de sa prison en brisant le sceau qui l'entoure. Libre mais considérablement affaibli, Dream doit encore se lancer a la recherche des trois attributs de pouvoir qui lui ont été dérobés, à savoir sa bourse de sable (une reference au conte du marchand de sable), son casque (dont l'aspect est un clin d'oeil au masque a gaz de Dodds), et son rubis, un artefact contenant une grande partie de sa puissance en tant que Maître des Rêves.

Les trois éléments sont récupérés l'un apres l'autre, conférant au personnage principal une puissance grandissante, selon une structure relativement commune qui rappelle autant le conte de fées ou le récit d'initiation que le jeu vidéo – un roi déchu part combattre ceux qui se sont arrogé les possessions qui lui reviennent de droit, et reçoit pour cela l’assistance de divers adjuvants. Le roi va voyager et affronter une succession d'épreuves jusqu'a recouvrer son statut légitime par le biais d'objets et d'actions symboliques.

Au-delà de cette structure conventionnelle, ce qui transparait de ce coup d'essai c'est avant tout la dimension expérimentale de la narration, qui se traduit aussi de facon visuelle. Sam Kieth systématise des effets tels que l’encadrement, l’illustration de l’arrière-plan, ou encore la suppression des espaces intericoniques, afin de créér une impression de saturation sémantique. Les cases se tordent, debordent ou se brisent, comme pour insister sur la malléabilité du materiau qu’emploie l’artiste, et sur l’instabilité du domaine du rêve. Ainsi que l’explique Gaiman, les premiers episodes sont une série d'histoires ‘à la manière de’, où le ton d'ouvrage ésotérique le dispute au policier et au roman d'horreur, en attendant que Gaiman trouve peu à peu la voix qui lui est propre. Tout donne à penser que le processus créatif est initialement une affaire de relectures, de réutilisation d'éléments disparates inclus dans un macro-récit totalisant.

Au niveau visuel, de nombreux personnages empruntés a l'univers de DC font leur apparition, à tel point que le lecteur peu familier de l'immense fresque formée par l'intersection de ses différentes séries ne sait plus très bien qui est une création originale de Gaiman, et qui doit par son nom et son apparence graphique inviter au saut intertextuel. Pourtant, toutes ces créatures de papier se côtoient au sein d'une page unique, créant ainsi une image unifiée. L'espace qui s'offre à l'oeil du lecteur est bien une totalité organique, qui n’apparaît pas comme un collage, à moins que le lecteur ne construise autour du texte un réseau de références, conditionné par sa connaissance des autres séries DC et de la littérature en général.

Contextuellement, Sandman s'inscrit dans le sillage de plusieurs ouvrages essentiels ; Maus, d’Art Spiegelman, qui permet de faire connaître au grand public le potentiel narratif de la bande dessinée mais aussi Watchmen, d’Alan Moore et Dave Gibbons, et The Dark Knight Returns, de Frank Miller. Chacun à leur façon, ces derniers proposent une révision du paradigme le plus représentatif de la bande dessinée américaine, celui du héros éternellement jeune, fort et vertueux. Miller prend pour base les aventures de Batman et nous donne à voir ce qui arriverait au personnage s’il atteignait la quarantaine sans pour autant renoncer à son désir de justice. Moore, pour sa part, crée un groupe de justiciers masques aux motivations diverses, dont chacun possède une personnalité forte, et observe leurs interactions avec la societe dans laquelle ils vivent ; de fait, "none of the characters live up to a standard heroic ideal". Dans les deux cas, il s’agit de mettre en question la moralité des actions d’un héros qui se situe au-dessus de l’humain, tout en prétendant pourtant le defendre. Ces titres propulsent donc la bande dessinée dans la catégorie des lectures considérées comme “sérieuses”.

Et si Alan Moore, Frank Miller et Art Spiegelman restent selon de nombreux critiques les trois figures ayant contribué a l'émergence du comics comme medium voué a l'art et non plus seulement au divertissement, Neil Gaiman se pose en légataire et admirateur. Il ne manque d'ailleurs pas de rappeler que c'est Alan Moore qui lui a "appris" à écrire des comics, lui transmettant au passage son goût du scénario bavard - Moore est connu pour rédiger en moyenne 80 pages de script pour un episode standard de 24 pages dessinées ; Gaiman tient la seconde place avec 48 pages. Moore précise :

When Neil asked me 'How does one write a comic script?', I showed him how I write a comic strip. And that’s what’s doomed Neil, and everybody who works with him, to these huge, mammoth wedges of paper for every story he does.

Contrairement à Moore, qui quitte rapidement le milieu du comics mainstream, Gaiman parvient à développer avec le geant DC un modus vivendi certes parfois fragile, mais qui lui permet du moins de faire entendre sa voix, d'une part en ce qui concerne sa propre liberté de création sur la série, et d'autre part son statut en tant que créateur. Il est apparemment l’un des premiers a être parvenu a faire modifier les termes de son contrat apres la parution des 12 premiers épisodes. Il explique :

DC gave me more Sandman than I had in the beginning, […] giving me a creator’s share in Sandman of the characters that I genuinely did not have in my original contract which was completely « work-for-hire, we own the whole shebang ».20

La série pose aussi un certain nombre de jalons qui sont de petites victoires sur le fort contrôle éditorial exercé par la maison-mère (censure verbale et graphique), mais qui contribuent à tracer une voie nouvelle pour les comics mainstream, où l'autocensure diminue au profit d'une plus grande liberté d'expression et de la reconnaissance du caractère pleinement ‘adulte’ du medium. De fait, Sandman est l'un des titres phares de la collection Vertigo créée en 1993, rassemblant les differents livres etiquetés " for mature readers ".

Il s’agit de parvenir à faire voir la bande dessinée comme un medium dont les possibilités sont indépendantes du contenu effectivement presenté jusqu’alors – comme le rappelle Scott McCloud, " The artform – the medium – known as comics is a vessel which can hold any number of ideas and images […] the trick is to never mistake the message for the messenger ". La bande dessinée a longtemps eu mauvaise presse dans la société américaine ; d’abord considérée comme une forme intrinsèquement violente et choquante, voire accusée de pervertir les jeunes esprits, elle a été, sous l’action du Comics Code de 1954, purgée de tout référence moralement douteuse.

Dans la période qui suit, il faut choisir entre les grandes maisons telles que DC et Marvel, qui, comme le prévoit le Code, s’engagent a produire des bandes dessinées soigneusement balisées s’adressant presque exclusivement aux enfants, et la bande dessinée indépendante et provocatrice de l’underground. Sandman est issu de la premiere catégorie de publications ; et bien qu’en 1988 les choses aient déjà considérablement evolué en direction d’une liberté plus grande, l'oeuvre de Gaiman a permis de modifier d’une part les préjugés du public, d’autre part les exigences commerciales des éditeurs. La série est volontiers decrite comme un " comic book for intellectuals ", démontrant ainsi au public que l’on peut lire de la BD apres la majorité sans que cela ne doive paraître régressif.

Ceci dit, la série est aussi le résultat de deux paramètres peu habituels dans la personnalité de Gaiman, qui contribuent grandement à sa spécificité ; d'abord, un point de vue extérieur au circuit fermé de la BD américaine, puisque Gaiman est anglais et pas nécessairement le plus fervent des lecteurs de comics, ensuite, une tendance très nette à la littérarisation dans l'approche du medium BD. Il s’agit pour Gaiman de mettre a profit une vaste connaissance de la narration romanesque afin de nourrir sa pratique de la bande dessinée, domaine dans lequel il a finalement peu d’expérience. Néanmoins, il n’est pas question de réduire le medium du comic book a un genre, et encore moins à un genre littéraire tel que le roman, meme si ce dernier est perçu comme plus légitime car plus ancré dans la culture savante. Si Gaiman émaille son recit de références littéraires, ce n'est pas pour promouvoir l'accession soudaine de la bande dessinée au statut de production artistique par le biais d'une filiation légitimante, mais pour prouver qu'il peut y avoir dialogue entre ces deux formes d'expression qui restent, en un sens, des modalités jumelles du livre.

Sandman reste néanmoins issu de l'industrie du divertissement de masse, ce qui détermine en grande partie sa forme de publication en episodes de longueur égale, avec une rotation relativement rapide des illustrateurs (" En comptant Dave McKean, il y a eu 36 dessinateurs pour 75 episodes de Sandman. "38) et une équipe de production à forte division du travail, où dessin, encrage, couleur et lettrage sont realisés a plusieurs mains. En ce sens, c'est cette fois la permanence de Neil Gaiman en tant qu'unique scénariste qui peut paraitre exceptionnelle pour une série aussi longue que Sandman. Malgre les différentes ambiances visuelles du comic, la voix narrative de Gaiman oeuvre en faveur d'une approche globale de la série. Lui-meme renvoie d’ailleurs l’image d’un auteur presque tout-puissant ( " I always felt that as a writer, you get to be God ") exercant sur son objet une maitrise parfaite, mais egalement dévoué entièrement a son oeuvre. Il affirme par exemple :

There were periods near the end of the series where Sandman seemed larger, deeper, more important than my whole life was […] I remembered all of it, at all times – panel for panel, line for line, word for word.

En ce sens, la position de Gaiman suppose donc une perception proprement littéraire du rôle de l'auteur en tant que figure centrale de la création, et c'est cette ambivalence constante entre la tradition populaire de la bande dessinée et les connotations héritées de la “grande” littérature.

Le projet de Gaiman repose en effet sur la multiplicité des influences ; les lecteurs parcourent les époques, les continents et les plans de réalité, parfois en l'absence totale du personnage-titre (et ce n'est pas le moindre exploit de Gaiman et McKean que d'être parvenus a convaincre DC Comics de les autoriser à ne pas representer Dream sur chaque couverture, afin de privilégier la variété et la créativité des illustrations). La série dépasse de tres loin l'histoire du seul personnage principal, lequel est d'ailleurs remarquablement different d'un héros de comic book standard. le “sandman”, qui donne son nom a la série et dont on attendrait qu'il occupe le devant de la scène, connaît finalement un effacement progressif, jusqu'à ce qu'il soit possible de provoquer sa disparition sans que la narration s'effondre (de fait, plusieurs episodes se déroulent encore alors que Morpheus est mort et que le nouveau Dream est entré en fonction). Selon la même logique, Gaiman montre que les humains continuent a rêver meme lorsque le Roi des rêves est incapable d'assumer son rôle. Symboliquement, c'est donc le lecteur qui peut persévérer dans son état malgre la perte du héros de l'histoire. On assiste là à une altération progressive du pacte de lecture habituel aux comic books.

Il faut donc chercher ailleurs que dans la figure du héros le facteur unifiant permettant de maintenir la cohésion de la serie. En un sens, Morpheus tient dans la diégèse un rôle analogue à celui de Gaiman dans la genèse du livre. Figure indéniablement marquante, il s'efface cependant devant l'élaboration de la narration elle-même ; c'est en fait la nécessité de raconter une histoire qui domine, attirant a soi tous les artistes prenant part au projet. De même, tous les personnages de la série suivent une trajectoire que guide d'abord la thématique centrale de la narration comme acte, de l'histoire comme motif récurrent. Rien de très novateur a cela, puisque Gaiman, en plus de multiplier les situations de narration dans le recit, donne lui-meme la clef de lecture ; " The Ten Volumes of Sandman […] comprise a story about stories. " En d’autres termes, Sandman est “a narrative whose central character is narrative”.

Si Gaiman crée un cadre narratif lâche, c'est donc avant tout pour construire une structure qui puisse accueillir en elle les mille et une histoires qui demandaient à etre racontées. Et c'est à dessin que l'on emploie l’expression française ‘raconter des histoires’ , qui signifie aussi ‘mentir’ : Gaiman se plaît en effet à rappeler que le rôle d'un écrivain est d'abord de raconter des histoires (make stuff up).

Extraits:

Portraits du Lecteur en rêveur

Le pacte de lecture implicite auquel doit adhérer le lecteur au seuil de toute oeuvre de fiction repose sur la suspension consentie de l’incrédulité (suspension of disbelief, theorisée par Coleridge). Ceci revêt une importance toute particulière dans le domaine de la fantasy, auquel se rattache l’oeuvre de Gaiman. Au cours de cette étude, on conservera le terme fantasy en anglais, afin d’éviter les confusions qui resulteraient d’une assimilation au genre fantastique. Dans l'usage français, le fantastique se distingue du conte à proprement parler, dans lequel la question de la réalite est perçue comme non problématique (on se situe ‘il était une fois’, dans un ailleurs temporel et spatial). Le travail de Gaiman se rattache d'ailleurs plutôt à la logique du conte, car il n’entretient pas activement le doute concernant la véracité des événements décrits. Au contraire,

Le fantastique est fondé sur une hésitation du lecteur – un lecteur qui s’identifie au personnage principal – quant à la nature d’un événement étrange. Cette hésitation peut se résoudre soit pour ce qu’on admet que l’événement appartient à la réalité ; soit pour ce qu’on décide qu’il est le fruit de l’imagination ou le résultat d’une illusion ; autrement dit, on peut décider que l’événement est ou n’est pas.

Bien que le rêve soit un procédé typique du genre fantastique, ce qui importe ici est que, dans Sandman, réel et surnaturel ne sont pas distincts. Les événements problématiques ne se limitent pas aux moments de rêve, a moins de considerer que tout est rêve dans Sandman, ce qui revient a annuler le concept de réalité vigile. L’intervention du surnaturel ne doit donc pas a priori être perçue comme susceptible de briser la suspension d’incredulité. On voit bien qu’en un sens, ce consentement n’est rien moins que la reproduction a l’etat de veille de ce qui s’opère en nous lorsque nous rêvons : la non-discrimination entre deux réalités dont seule l’une des deux sera toujours considerée comme telle a posteriori, tandis que l’autre sera rétrospectivement qualifiée de fiction.

Le rêve comme récit

Dans Sandman, le rêveur peut non seulement s’extraire de son rêve grace a un effort de volonté, mais il semble aussi bénéficier d’une lucidité bien supérieure à celle dont il fait preuve dans le monde réel. Le rêveur est conscient qu’il rêve, et sait à tout instant que tout n’est qu’illusion. Il est vrai que les derniers épisodes de la série, particulièrement l’arc narratif The Wake, insiste encore et encore sur la présence du rêve, sur sa qualité particulière, sur l’état de conscience qu’il suppose. Néanmoins, cette préoccupation traverse l’oeuvre tout entière. De facon générale, la présence de Morpheus semble déclencher une prise de conscience de la condition du rêveur ; Hob Gadling, lui aussi, sait qu’il est en train de rêver lorsqu’il declare : “Well, it was lovely seeing you. Even if it is only a dream.”

S’agit-il d’une pure fantaisie de la part de Gaiman, visant comme tant d’autres a créer une complicité entre le lecteur et le personnage, et qui nous montrerait le rêveur conscient de son statut, à l’instar d’un personnage de bande dessinée qui brise le quatrième mur ? C’est probable, bien qu’il soit difficile d’établir une norme du phénomène onirique, quand chacun en a une expérience singulière qu’il ne peut entièrement faire partager a autrui. Si, de fait, il arrive régulièrement a l’auteur de ces lignes de penser pendant le sommeil que ‘tout cela n’est qu’un rêve’, la difficulté de la délimitation du rêve (au moment ou je suis conscient de rêver, ai-je déjà quitté mon rêve ? ) et la nécessaire incertitude du souvenir posent immédiatement problème. A ce sujet, toujours dans ‘Soft Places’, on trouve la conversation suivante :

RUSTICHELLO : I’ll wake up, and you’ll be gone where dreams go.

MARCO POLO : I’m not a dream.

RUSTICHELLO : Oh, you’re a dream all right. Only question is whose. I think you’re mine. But maybe I’m wrong. Hey, boy. Who’s dreaming you?

Gaiman fait ici référence, de façon à peine deguisée, à l’un des passages les plus celèbres de Through the Looking-Glass, connu justement pour le paradoxe qu’il expose au sujet du rêve. Un extrait en est d’ailleurs repris textuellement dans Preludes & Nocturnes (p. 45). Alice, en compagnie de Tweedledee et Tweedledum, vient de rencontrer le Roi Rouge, qui somnole au pied d’un arbre.

‘He’s dreaming now,’ said Tweedledee: ‘and what do you think he’s dreaming about ?’

Alice said ‘Nobody can guess that.’

‘Why, about you !’ Tweedledee exclaimed […]. ‘You’re just a sort of thing in his dream!’

‘If that there king was to wake’, added Tweedledum, ‘you’d bo out – bang! – just like a candle!’

Tout le problème est ici de savoir qui est le rêveur veritable. Or, comme on l’a dit, le phénomene du rêve suppose nécessairement que l’individu soit à la fois objet et observateur ; en tant que tel, il n’a pas plus de réalité que les autres éléments du rêve. En poussant jusqu’au bout le raisonnement, on peut supposer que le rêveur dans le rêve perd tout lien avec le réel ; de fait, l’Alice ou le Marco Polo du rêve ne persisteront ensuite que sous forme d’un souvenir, facilement oublié. Il y a donc fictionnalisation du rêveur dans le reêve, dedoublement qui lui permet d’être a la fois soi-même et un autre, avec toutes les conséquences angoissantes que cela implique concernant la solidite réelle de l’existence, et la puissance que cela confère a l’acte d’imagination, qu'il soit inconscient (comme dans les rêves) ou volontaire (comme dans la fiction). En meême temps, Gaiman entretient une relation d’égalité entre fiction et réalité, suggérant, en un sens, que la vie n’est qu’un songe (“we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep”, rappelle Shakespeare dans The Tempest), rendant par là-même le passage entre rêve et récit plus aisé, en appelant “rêve” toute fiction.

Que retenir de tout cela ? D’abord, que Gaiman ne cherche pas a rationaliser entièrement le phénomène du rêve, et qu’il lui ménage au contraire des lacunes devant préserver tout son mystère. Ensuite, que les actes de lire et de rêver sont vus comme analogues, en raison de leurs nombreux points communs et surtout du rapport particulier (mais en aucun cas exclusif) qu’ils entretiennent avec l’image. Le lecteur, dont on ne sait plus bien s’il n’est pas d’abord spectateur, accède par la vue a un différent type de realité.

Conclusion

Nous avons tâché au cours de cette étude de définir le rêve dans Sandman, afin de comprendre comment cet élément thématique central s’articule avec les autres préoccupations de l’oeuvre. Il fallait notamment chercher la raison du glissement subtilement opéré par Gaiman et qui amène le lecteur à considérer la création littéraire comme une notion à peu près synonyme de la vision onirique, ou du moins procédant des mêmes sources – en l’occurence, le royaume de Dream. On remarque que, de façon significative, les espaces que donne à voir Gaiman à l’intérieur de The Dreaming sont soit de 'véritables' lieux oniriques (les rêves individuels que Morpheus traverse ou visite au besoin), soit des endroits mythiques ou légendaires (Fiddler’s Green, le paradis des marins perdus en mer), soit encore les décors d’un récit fictionnel bien plus élaboré qu’un rêve (The Land dans A Game of You).

C’est que Gaiman n’établit pas de frontière nette entre les différents produits de l’imagination humaine. Au coeur de The Dreaming se cache une bibliothèque de textes que Gaiman appelle ‘rêvés’, mais qui sont bien plutot imaginés, issus d’une rêverie ; de la même manière, le rêve est un concept global au sein duquel cohabitent divers degrés de fictionnalisation, de métaphorisation du réel. C’est par ce geste unifiant que Gaiman parvient a mettre en place un recit destiné a brouiller les frontières entre réalité et fiction, a la fois pour le lecteur et pour les personnages impliqués dans le récit. C’est d’ailleurs la conscience permanente de leur propre etrangeté qui distingue les personnages de Sandman des figures traditionnellement associées au conte ou au mythe :

BARBIE : Is this real ? Or is it just my imagination ?

CUCKOO : If you tell me what the difference is, I might be able to tell you. (GOY 126)

De fait, Gaiman s’attache a mettre en question les lignes de démarcation que l’être humain a tendance à tenir pour acquises dans sa vie quotidienne afin de maintenir une certaine stabilité. Une fois encore, Gaiman rappelle, à travers un jeu de mots, l’importance du concept de frontière, et la nécessité d’aller au-delà des limites qu’elle trace : dans ‘August’, Dream offre son conseil a l’empereur sur la demande de “Terminus. He who walks boundaries” : il est ici question du dieu romain Terminus. Plus tard, Dream regagne son royaume en train, et un récitatif nous informe cette fois que “the castle of dreams shivers and re-forms as the train approaches. What was a fortress is now a terminus”. Un “terminus” est une fin de parcours (pour Morpheus, qui est sur le point de mourir) mais le terme contient également en lui la possibilité de dépasser cette frontière, comme le fait le dieu Terminus.

Le jeu sur la polysémie suggère l’insuffisance d’une approche monologique en nous rappelant qu’une frontière est une fin que l’homme s’impose a lui-même. Entre fiction et réalité, vérité et mensonge, objet et sujet, interne et externe, il faut dans la vie courante marcher sur la corde raide qui separe une notion de son contraire, sans quoi toute conception efficace du monde est vouée a l’échec. Or, c’est la faculté d’imagination qui permet de se projeter au-delà des limites d’une vision proprement utilitaire. D'ailleurs, dans Sandman chaque membre des Endless définit une notion,mais aussi son opposé : Destruction implique une forme de création, Death est présente à la naissance, etc. C'est peut-être la façon choisie par Gaiman pour signifier que la sensibilite esthétique de l’être, existe pour elle-même, et non dans un état de division conceptuelle ; elle prétend tout englober au sein d’une unite textuelle unique. Sandman atteint donc le stade ultime de la fiction, celui ou rien n’est vrai excepte la fictionnalité du texte. Ce paradoxe rappelle la logique particulière qui régit l’extension du phénomène onirique ; si l’on se

place à l’intérieur du rêve, alors la seule réalité envisageable est la réalité onirique, qui récupère à son propre compte les souvenirs rapportés de l’état vigile. Le rêve, de par sa nature, est érigé en emblème de la fiction. Gaiman se détourne de la vision interprétative du rêve, pour en affirmer plutôt l’essentielle polysémie. Il ne s’agit pas de refuser l’idée que les visions oniriques puissent être décryptées comme des messages provenant d’un domaine inconscient, mais d’affirmer le caractère artistique et non scientifique de cette démarche.

L’interprétation est un acte individuel que l’on ne peut réduire à un discours normé. Il faut que le discours se fasse poésie, que le lecteur l’aborde comme un jeu de l’esprit, afin de permettre l’exploration des processus imaginatifs. Rêve, récit et mythe se ressemblent chez Gaiman car tous trois proposent, par des moyens différents, de recentrer la vision du sujet sur un objet fictif pouvant faire l’objet d’une croyance absolue, qui contredit la réalité quotidienne et dépend de la personne qui en fait l’expérience (ils sont vrais, plus vrais que le domaine réel, aussi longtemps que le sujet accepte cet état de fait).

De la nature du rêve dans Sandman, on peut donc déduire le programme poétique de Gaiman ; créer pour le lecteur une fiction totale qui se denoncerait à tout instant comme telle, en lui laissant le soin de tirer ses propres conclusions quant a la nature de l’imagination. L'ouverture du texte est à la hauteur des ambitions de Gaiman quand il affirme que Sandman doit pouvoir être relu plusieurs fois, avec un plaisir chaque fois augmenté. 

–

Isabelle L. Guillaume specializes in Anglophone cultural studies; she is currently writing a PhD on the influence of British scriptwriters within the American comics industry between 1983 and 2013. She edited an anthology on the body and its representations in comics (Les Langages du Corps, l'Harmattan, 2015). Her other fields of interest include gender studies and translation theory. She also translated Craig Thompson's latest graphic novel, Space Dumplins, into French.

Silkworms, Swathes and the Dead

'Epigraph'

So…

It feels, again, like being a silkworm

Cocooned in a shell built upon its own saliva,

Reflecting the memory-aches,

With one thread hanging out of the shell

Living beyond time and space,

Which might be inferred as a calculation inside the cocoon.

The illusion, that it isn’t dark, inside, could be smudged easily

For darkness always stays in each corner

Wherever there is the name of a god.

(1)

The ‘Roza’ felt betrayed for the first time, in the naïve summer,

When the caramel of your lips was offered, a perquisite.

The religion had died many years ago, in my dry womb,

Before it could see the light of day as an infant,

And, before it could suckle the usual fluid

Of naivety from the nipples of slumber.

In retrospect… I feel, I can do the same again

For that ride to the wonderland. For one kiss.

Feet intersecting, mine placed upon yours,

Souls worshiping the void while standing

In the middle of another void,

With number seventeen at the end of its name.

(2)

The smell of the neon light grows stronger,

More and more intense as time transforms…

I could feel the gangrene

Growing in your stomach

Gesticulating omnipotent.

(3)

The blues stay with us

In the saliva of that one kiss

Which remains our first and last

Ride to the wonderland.

Ramsha Ashraf is a Pakistani poet who tries not to let any tradition confine her individuality. She is the author of the poetry collection Enmeshed (Sanjh Publications, 2015).

MY CREATIVE PROCESS
What drew you to this subject matter?
I think the silkworm could be considered, or at least it appears to me, the most potent metaphor for creativity. It provides you a cage of paradox to live in; a sense of liberation yet a Promethean chain keeps you tied to an unknown responsibility. I write without knowing any legitimate reason to why I write... But, I guess, this is why art and literature is considered an apt barometer of mirroring and measuring what is called, and known in a much simpler context as, life.

Can you tell us a little about the origins of "Silkworms, Swathes and the Dead " and why you wrote it?
Well, the Muslim month of Ramadan has been observed all over the world. So, it brings a few sweet-bitter memories spent in the arms of a not-so-religious yet pious lover.

Why do you write?
I guess, I write because I just cannot accept the fact that time is going to erase my voice from the surface. Although, I am fully aware of the futility of my act.