JULIEN GRACQ: LE RIVAGE DES
SYRTES (THE OPPOSING SHORE)
The German writer Ernst Jünger (*1895-†1998) received the Goethe Prize in 1982. In his acceptance-speech, still a relevant diagnosis of modern literature, and of the future of poetry in a media-saturated world, he stated:
If there is one book (novel) upon which I can apply Jünger’s dictum, fully and without the slightest hesitation, vis-à-vis this humble scribbler, it is Le Rivage des Syrtes of the French writer Julien Gracq (*1910‒†2007), first published in 1951 by the Librairie José Corti, à Paris. Our connaissance took the slow path of a platonic get-to-know, accompanied by a large volume of the dictionary Le Petit Robert, as Gracq’s prose would force even the most enlightened of French citizens to uncorrupted concentration and the need for swift verification of the meaning of some words. Yet there is another reason for “slowness” (appreciated and perhaps demanded by the writer, as if catering professionally a high-quality wine). Until not long ago, the writings by Gracq were issued (always by Corti and family) in the format of a livre non coupé, that is, one has to use a knife or a scissor to dislodge the uncut pages.
I myself felt sort of irritated, at the beginning, by this constant need
to, very carefully, reshape the pages into a readable format. It took me not a
long time to discover the wisdom behind a livre noun coupe: pauses are
introduced, to let the reader (and the text) breath, curiosity as to what comes
next is enhanced, one tends to memorize phrases at ease, to retain the ambiance
of a given scene much longer, the perfume emanated from seas, mountains,
plateaus and woods settles down within oneself unobtrusively. And remains
there. [1]
“Slowness” as a way
of making the joy last longer
“Slowness” is to be understood in
the context of Gracq’s prose as a sine qua non condition to savour, as
stated by others, the foie gras level of French literary expression, the
highest possible aesthetic (and ethical) enjoyment coming from a novel. It is unusual to encounter such an intensity
of substance and form, as well as metaphoric fireworks. It is not a pretentious
one, rather an orfèvrerie which floats around, as if uncalled, yet very much welcome, shaping the
reconstruction through words of landscapes, both outside and inside the
characters wandering through his writings. It equals a dégustation of a decades old, highly rewarded Grand Cru, which one
consumes drop by drop, hoping that the bottle may never be emptied.
Such a richness, accompanied by a
French style that offers no concessions, might not only be very difficult to
translate, but it might as well appear, once translated in some languages, as
too embroidered, lacking “pace” and the outlines of a clear-cut story splashed
out in the first pages. Albeit this novel has been rendered into more than
twenty languages, the first English edition appeared in 1986, thirty-five years
after the publication in French (the print in French appeared)[2]. May our Anglo-Saxon cousins
be pitied.
My initial relationship with Gracq
was hit by a sudden irruption from the ugliness of the real world. I can only
reproduce the inscription I pencilled into the title-page of the second copy I
bought in Paris:
“Bought in 1996 in Paris, read and
annotated, stolen by…, and sold, in 1997, bought again in September 2006, Paris.”
I am now around
the fifth complete reading; quite often I jump again into the text, choosing
the pages by chance, to continue the exploration.
“Politics is not a
serious exercise for the esprit.”
Julien Gracq is the pen-name of
Louis Poirier, born in Saint-Florent-le-Vieil, on the shore of the river
Loire. After gaining his baccalaureate in the renown Licée Henry IV in
Paris, he was admitted to the École Normale Supérieur, where he studied
geography, which was to become his professional field of action as a lecturer. In 1931 he made his first voyage to Venice, obtaining the Agrégation d’histoire et géographie in 1934.
He became a member of the French
Communist Party in 1936, an active one, particularly in the trade-unions,
studying Russian as well‒until August
1939. Soon after the “German-Soviet Pact” is made public, he resigned from the
party and will maintain, ever since, a solid distance, if not misapprehension,
of any type of political activity, a certain dégoût:
“Depuis, je n’ai jamais pu ni mêler
quelque croyance que ce soit à la politique, ni même la considérer comme un
exercice sérieux pour l’esprit. « [3]
Such a personal line of conduct will
remain unassailable, despite the efforts of some of the most renown names of
French politics, including presidents and prime-ministers, to enrol him, if
only as a distanced yet de facto poet laureate. Hence hoping to
capitalize politically on his artistic aura, which grew stronger, and brighter,
to the point, as the German magazine Der Spiegel once wrote, of being
considered the “Demi-God” of French literature.[4]
The rejection of open political
activism went together with his decision to refuse any type of literary
honours, be it awards or memberships of distinguished institutions. He kept a close relationship with his fellow-student Georges Pompidou, (*1911-†1974), Prime-Minister between 1962-68, President of France between 1969-74, whose
abode in Paris was always open to the writer[5], visiting him also at Matignon and l‘Élysée, but refused his offer of la Légion d‘honneur[6]
In January 1939 his first novel, Au
Chateau d’Argol, was published by José Corti, “at the author expenses”, after having been
refused by Gallimard. 150 copies were sold in a year, yet the book did
attract the attention of some critics, and the eulogy of
Andre Breton (*1896-1966).
He was enlisted by the French army in 1939, as a lieutenant, operating in
the north of France, and the south of Holland, until made prisoner by the
Germans on the 2nd of June 1940, thereafter interned in a camp in
Germany until February 1941. Post-mortem, both a diary and the drafts of
a novel based on those months of the drôle de guerre were to be
published, a blatant, relevant account of the in-built disaster poisoning at a
furious pace the French army. Back
in France, he returns to teaching geography and history.
“Dreaming while
walking ahead, upright...”
Le Rivage des Syrtes, one of the finest and most relevant
novels produced by the French literature in the 20th century, is
published in September 1951, and will be honoured with the Prix Goncourt,
which is refused by Gracq, as he anticipated before, to underline his rejection of a mercantile, show-business oriented
literature, detailed in his splendid
essay La littérature à l’estomac
(1950).
Le Rivage des Syrtes, crystallised as “un rêve éveillé » by the
author himself, is a first-person narrative constructed upon Aldo, a young man
belonging to one of most ancient families of the Seigneurie d’Orsenna:
“La Seigneurie d’Orsenna vit comme à
l’ombre d’une gloire que lui ont acquise aux siècles passés le succès de ses
armes contre les Infidèles et les bénéfices fabuleux de son commerce avec
l’Orient : elle est semblable à une personne très vieille et très noble
qui s’est retiré du monde et que, malgré la perte de son crédit et la ruine de
son fortune, son prestige assure encore contre les affrontes de
créanciers... »[7]
An ancient republic whose
description in the first pages of the novel brings a foggy yet unmistakable
echo of La Serenissima Repubblica di San Marco, custody of Venice and
its possessions in the Mediterranean, and beyond as well. Aldo, in the
threshold of his young life as a graduate of the “Diplomatic School” is sent as
an „observer“(l’Observateur) to the Admiralty (Amirauté),
commanded by captain Marino, on the shore of Syrtes (the name comes from
Libya):
« la province des Syrtes, perdue aux
confins du sud...”[8]
Far away, on the other side of the
sea, lies Farghestan, the old enemy.
Between the “opposing” shores two views of the world, perhaps even two different
philosophical stands (two different religions?), coexist across miles and miles
of invisible water frontiers: a “non-declared
truce” and a “for-the-moment-postponed-war”. A fragile balance, or rather a frozen set of
many imbalances, which remained there, generating a somewhat sedentary attitude
of “waiting”, l’attente, accepted (or perhaps not rejected) in silence
as a modus vivendi.
Gazing from the high of a tower in
the military base of Syrtes, Aldo
cannot but be struck by:
“l’image d’une irrémédiable décadence[9]
prompting the question of whether it
is a “gentle decline” or the acceptance of an ”imposed decline”.
It is also there, on the shores of Syrtes, that Aldo receives the visit of the handsome and vibrant Vanessa
Aldobrandi, whom he encountered in Orsenna
by chance, in one of those semi-abandoned gardens („les jardins Selvaggi “, the name transpiring “jungle”) Aldo
used to seek refuge and solace:
„ma conviction se renforçait que la
reine du jardin venait de prendre possession de son domaine solitaire...“[10]
Vanessa comes from an equally
ancient noble family of Orsenna, yet one of her ancestors seemed to have
played double-game in connivance with the leaders of Farghestan,
“long-ago”. Her sudden apparitions, and
her way of wandering around, while emanating sensuality and desire, carries
also an enigma, fuelled by other events, mysterious figures arriving
at night on boats, sermons in the churches announcing dark clouds throughout the counties of Syrtes. A premonition (as from the middle of
the novel) of the arrival of a terrible enemy: treason.
As Gracq himself stated, the geographical and temporal
dimensions of the opus are “insituable”. The time-span in the novel remains
indeed ambiguous, though it must be at least the first decades of the 20th
century, as motor-driven cars are used as means of transportation, and there are
steam-ships. Yet that and other technical details fail to extinguish the
impression, given by the way Aldo inhales the rural and urban landscapes, that
all might as well be taking place at some point in the 19th or even
the 18th century, as the sense of “speed”, or rather, the “absence
of it”, does not correspond to the dynamics of “modern times”, i.e., 20th
century.
The imaginary topos
delineated in the novel is ambivalent. On the one hand, it seems to give enough
concrete clues to the reader to allow a personal, subjective reconstruction,
linking Venice, the Mediterranean, the North of Africa (Libya). Yet it remains
elusive, vaporous enough to include other possibilities. It could be Sicily, or
the island of Crete during the time of the Venetian occupation, facing the
threats from the Ottoman Empire, plus dark and potentially cyclonic winds
coming from central Asia, Afghanistan.
There is, en passant, an echo of “Al-Andalus”, the Arab territory
of Spain up to 1492, as an “almost forgotten heritage” on the sands and the sea
of Syrtes”.
It is in fact such a successful
invention of an “imaginary world” which transmits the
impression of the paysage (and the people in it) being “suspended in time”. At least some clocks stopped ticking, “l’attente” takes the upper hand, a premonition of dark clouds
arriving, announcing an unpredictable epoch of new and old earthquakes. Gracq
himself confirmed that such a feeling overwhelmed him, during the years
1933-40, which were to lead to “the great catastrophe...”, and was encapsulated
in the novel. In particular, the “drôle
de guerre”, the
time-period between September 1939 and May 1940.
“Something must happen”, yet the
doubt is whether to wait for the “things, themselves” to catalyse the
atmosphere, or whether someone–thither or hither‒should throw the first stone.
Until, one day … A normal
exploratory patrouille led by Aldo and Fabrizzio in the war-ship “Le
Redoutable” becomes, almost as if out of negligence, an unauthorised, novel
voyage towards the shore of Farghestan. Both men decide to ignore “la
ligne des patrouilles”, the upper limit established to the navigation of
ships of the Seigneurie, lying to each other that their purpose is “just
to see the volcano, “Le Tängri “, on the hinterland of Rhages, which we assume to be the main port
and perhaps capital of Farghestan. The decision to cross the
red line imposed by the
command of the Admiralty as the limit for the maritime patrols is not “taken”,
they would reason amidst febrile anticipation: “it is simply there,
unavoidable”, it has fallen from somewhere. And it should not lead to a major
confrontation, as they thought that they could approach the coast of Farghestan
at night, and go back to Syrtes without being noticed.
They marvelled at the sight of the
volcano in full activity, flooding the night with colours ablaze, when:
“Suddenly (…) we heard the
repercussions of three cannon shots.”
“Soudain, à notre droite, du coté de
Rhages, le rivage vibra du cillement précipité de plusieurs éclairs de chaleur.
Un froissement lourd et musical déchira l’air au-dessus du navire, et,
réveillant le tonnerre caverneux des vallées de montagnes, on entendit se
répercuter trois coups de canon. »[11]
« Le Tängri “in full activity,
Farghestan. The ship led by Aldo and Fabrizio is detected by the artillery positions near
Rhages”. Aquarelle by Johann Sanssouci, Berlin, 2020.©2020
“alea iacta est“, „the die has been cast“, Aldo, the „young would-be Julius Caesar“ has forced the provocation, even without firing a single shot as a response
to the three cannon shorts coming from the, till then, noctambulous enemy.
" A Wagnerian
prelude for an unplayed opera?"
A relevant approach comes from a
French perspective:
“the novel has been described as
a "Wagnerian prelude for an unplayed opera" as it doesn't focus on
telling a story but is first and foremost concerned with creating a mysterious,
out-of-time atmosphere”[12]
Gracq was indeed a “Wagnerian”,
perhaps rather a “Persifalian” and/or a “Lohengrinian”, yet although the
above-mentioned strikes a valid chord, I would suggest that it does rather
equal a “Vorabend”, the “evening before”, perhaps the most relevant one being
the first part of the Richard Wagner’s tetralogy, The Ring of the Nibelung,
“Das Rheingold”, (The Gold of the Rhine), where the “setting” and
the “main characters” are presented, who in the next three (days), operas, are
going to set the whole world (and themselves) alight.
Echoing Wagner’s colossal influence
upon artists and non-artists ever since, one is reminded by Julien Gracq that
one should never underestimate the power of poetry
(or, as John Maynard Keynes stated, jamais mépriser the influence of some forgotten and maladroit economist upon
politicians...). Georges Pompidou, who, as mentioned before, was a close,
intimate friend of Gracq, confessed to him, after having arranged the
“Grenelles-Agreement”, which put an end to the convulsions and chaos which
erupted in May 1968, “all this has to do with Breton...”.[13] The unexpected (or should
have been expected?) heritage of the “Surrealist” movement, which by the
mid-1960s was supposed to have faded away almost entirely.
Perhaps one explanation why some
many high-ranked politicians tried to enrol Gracq, if only as an incognito
whisperer (souffleur) at a well-hidden rendezvous, somewhere in Bretagne or near the Lac Chamonix. Francois Mitterrand (*1916-†1996), President of France between 1981-1995)
tried at least three times, receiving in each occasion a polite refusal[14]. Let alone la crème de la crème of
French journalism, visual or not, which used every means available, including
bribing close friends, to have Gracq accept an interview with a camera in it. To no avail: “l’œuvre est là, le poète
s’en va ailleurs...”
“Occident versus
Orient, island sea-power versus continental land-power...”
Not only in Le Rivage des Syrtes,
but above all in that “dream while walking upright and ahead”, there is a
reverberating substratum of all the currents and undercurrents of the last
centuries, in particular around the Mediterranean. At times, one leitmotiv
gains the upper hand, (Occident versus Orient), at times another, “Decadence of
old reigns, vitality of new nations, new empires”. Upon those huge frescoes, other brush-strokes
delineate further dichotomies: the urge to act prontissimo of the young
people, eager to “do history” against the mistrust and lentissimo of the
elderly sages running the Seigneurie, island sea-power versus continental
land-power.
This magma–as symbolised by the
volcano Tängri in the novel–could emerge without
warning, but it could also just keep invading virgin plateaus, unnoticed. Not
few statesmen (a species becoming increasingly rare...) saw themselves in a mirror
while reading this novel. I am sure that now there are still many who swim
across those pages, ears and eyes on maximum alert, trying to tune into the
waves, offering secret codes, which only intuition could, perhaps, decipher.
What “changes” can we hereby ascribe
to the solid acquaintance with Le Rivage des Syrtes? They took place
rather slowly, and very gently. A full realisation of “not being the same
person” occurred in 1999, while living and working in Morocco. “The eyes had
changed...”, every tiny stream of water became the possibility of a huge sea,
every stone semi-precious or not, found on my wanderings, promised secrets yet
to be unveiled, looking at the mountains I kept searching for any sign of a
volcano, gazing at the Sahara Desert, I wondered where Farghestan was
not “on the other side, still invisible...” Perhaps the greatest cadeau from such a novel: one can invent,
create and re-create one’s own geography. And sometimes, perhaps, one ought
to...
Not to be forgotten, as Gracq insisted:
this novel is a “dream”.
Not a few students of mine, in one
or the other country, consulted me as to the wisdom, or need, to learn French,
on top of the lingua franca of our times. “Yes...”, I answered. “Why?”.
“So that you can read Julien Gracq in the original language...”
The news of the death of Julien
Gracq, on the 22nd of December 2007, arrived while I was in Paris, a
shock felt by many, vaguely softened by the huge eulogies and homages, in all
types of media. Walking through the 5th Arrondissement just
one day after, I discovered that in an unpretentious corner of the Rue de
Cluny, below an advertising panel, and near paper and carton detritus,
someone had left a message on the wall. I asked a passer-by to take some
pictures, using a mobile phone with a modest camera:
“JULIEN GRACQ EST MORT : QUI PRENDRA
SOIN DU GRAIL?
©2007, JCHK.
Inscription on a wall in the Rue de Cluny, Paris, 27th
December 2007. “JULIEN
GRACQ EST MORT. QUI PRENDRA SOIN DU GRAIL?, (Julien Gracq is dead. Who will take care of the Grail?”. [15]
©2007, JCHK,
Let us re-translate that bare question-mark, followed by an emotional and honest prayer, perhaps even a
supplication (on nous abandonne, au secours!), written on the wall of a building in the Rue
de Cluny:
“Would the French language ever breed again a writer of the stature and the
quality of Julien Gracq? “
The question is on the table. The
answer might take a while to arrive. If it does.
[1]The two volumes
printed by La Pléiade, Gallimard, published while Gracq was still
alive, a rare honour, do not follow the format of a livre non coupé, as well as latest issues by other publishers.
[2]“The Opposing Shore”, original title Le
Rivage des Syrtes Translator Richard
Howard Country France Language French Publisher José Corti Publication date 1951 Published in English 1986 Pages 353 .
[3]Entretiens avec Julien Gracq, Julien Gracq, Entretiens, José
Corti, Paris, 2002, p. 118.
[4]Ansturm aufs Abendland, Romain Leick,
07.7.2017, Der Spiegel.
[5]Alain Pompidou ressuscite Georges, Paris Match, 11.12.2012, interview
by Caroline Pigozzi.
[6]Les trésors de la correspondance de Julien
Gracq, Judith
Benhamou-Huet, Les Ecos, 7.11.2008.
[7]Le Rivage des Syrtes, Librairie José Corti, 1951, (2004), p. 7.
[8]P. 10.
[9]P. 24.
[10]P. 51.
[11]P. 217. The underlining of the last words is ours.
[12]Wikipedia, “The Opposing Shore”, referring to
an interpretation by Lagarde et Michard
(1973). XXème Siècle 1st Edition. Bordas. p. 647. ISBN 2-04-729822-9.
[13]Criticism & c., February 19, 2012.
[14]Julien Gracq, un homme à distance, Joseph Raguin, Le Monde,
23.12.2007.
[15]For a better understanding, see “Parsifal” of
Richard Wagner.
