The Correspondence Between Paul Claudel and André Gide

(1899-1926)

I went to this book driven by my attraction toward, and interest in, the French intellectual life of the end of the 19^th, and first half of the 20^th century. Yes, this is an intellectual milieu (era and location) that I find very appealing  - thus what I was looking for in this book was to encounter a slice (a living, pulsating slice) of this life, and thus to engage in a vicarious partaking in “the life of the artist”. And I did find this, or a good measure of it; however, what this Claudel-Gide correspondence is (ultimately) about is something else – namely, a spiritual struggle, whose protagonists are the Catholic convert (and artist) Paul Claudel, and the struggling and prideful (intellectual) André Gide; and this is a struggle about Gide’s soul.

I used the word “prideful”, about Gide, and yet by that I do not mean “pridefulness” in his relationship with Claudel; if anything, Gide seemed to generally humble himself, in his relationship with Claudel - humility rooted in his genuine admiration for Claudel the artist, but also in the fact that Claudel played a role of spiritual reference point for Gide (in his searching, in his struggles). “Prideful,” however, does refer to a core part of Gide’s personality – of his spiritual, moral and intellectual being - and this side of Gide will eventually play its part in the undoing of their friendship - of their relationship.

Because their relationship was one of friendship – which might seem surprising, at first, based on the retrospective image that we have of the two; as said, one being the epitomic Catholic convert (prominent socially, artistically, even politically, in early twentieth century France), the other (retrospectively) a flag-bearer of unbelief, and (even) of an inimical relationship to the faith - or at least to the Church.

Inimical, yes, but not to every kind of faith - as Gide will later (famously) become a fellow traveler of the totalitarian Soviet regime...; yes, that ersatz religion of ideology, to which so many subscribed, in the West, under the pale cover of good, progressive, even humanistic intentions.

So I did not find exactly what I went looking for, in this volume of correspondence, but what I did find, and what I did learn, from reading it, did in fact clarify some aspects of what I went looking for (and I will explain what I mean by this in a moment). Yes, there is a lot, in this correspondence, about the daily work in the artist’s workshop; minutia about typesetting, editing, about struggling with publishing houses; about launching (and about failing) publications; about contributing to this or to that magazine; and so on. Yes, I did enjoy this part, just as I enjoyed the behind the scenes information about Claudel’s efforts to balance his diplomatic career (endeavored mostly in far-off China, but also in Poland) with his artistic work (which was more important, of course; but one does need to earn, as well, to support one’s family). There were also interesting bits about their relationship to Pascal, and (partially) Jansenism; it seems to me that Pascal has faded, to a large degree, from our interests, which is why it is striking to discover how important he (and Port-Royal, the center of Jansenism) was for these two protagonists. Some of this minutia also has the inevitable drabness of the daily grind of the working artist (yet not in an unpleasant, but rather in an instructive way, I find); and sometimes the discussion of other artists veers close, perhaps, to gossip, or at least to “politicking” (which does not interest me, but which is informative as a sort of anthropology of the artistic milieu).

And their discussions about other cultural figures of the day, with whom they had personal and intellectual entanglements, were also most welcome, because for me one of the great gains of reading, say, intellectual autobiographies, monographies about a specific era, or collections of correspondence such as this one, is the opportunity to discover new figures, artists and thinkers, with whom I am less, or not at all, familiar. Since often these (new) figures are (intellectually or personally) close and akin to the author whose memoirs I have chosen to read, there is a good chance that they might appeal to me, as well; in any case, this is a good way for them to enter my own intellectual purview (to be looked at, and to be engaged, later); to obtain further “road markers” for one’s own intellectual journey. And the same thing happened here – names I jotted down, people and works that I need to look into.

*

Paul Claudel

But I mentioned that, although I did not find exactly what I started after, I did however find aspects that helped me in that regard, as well. What do I mean by this? Well, the very fact that the “on art and artists” dimension of this correspondence is soon enough taken over, even overwhelmed, by a different theme, namely of the spiritual struggle, reveals certain useful things about the relationship of art to spirituality, for Claudel. What do I mean by this?

Well, not long after reading this volume, I picked up and read Second Thoughts, which is a book of essays (on art and life) by François Mauriac. And what a soothing and liberating encounter that was – in comparison! – for me... And what I mean by this is that I found Mauriac’s approach to the relationship between life and art – and, inevitably, and centrally, faith – much more akin, or suitable, to me, than Claudel’s. Paul Claudel, of whom I am, and have always been, quite fond; but whom I have always found just a bit “heavy,” a tad cumbersome, maybe... in ways that are not easy to explain. And I am not necessarily referring here to his art – although it is reflected in that, as well; but more, I don’t know, in terms of his personality (maybe spirituality). I am talking here about a certain “angularity,” rigidity even; about an embodiment - of an otherwise honest, genuine, deeply devout soul - that I find a tad bit heavier, more burdensome, than I would prefer. To put it differently, it seems to me that Claudel’s artistic “flight” is much more burdened by... well, by other considerations; while, in comparison, Mauriac appears to see and approach everything through art, which in turn endows it (his art) with a kind of inner freedom (which I much prefer). There is, then, a certain "weightiness" to Claudel - which (for lack of a better way of expressing it) is related to how his (genuine, clear) soul manifests itself outwardly - toward others, and in art.  

Let me try to explain this a bit further. Well, it seems to me (but I might be wrong) that Mauriac lives faith through and by being an artist, through art, with an artist’s soul; on the other hand, in Claudel’s case, while his exquisite artistry is very much rooted in and expressive of his faith, the two seem to follow different paths, and to ultimately part ways, overall. To put it differently – art can be seen as the very way of living faith (Mauriac) - or, instead, as a craft, that is put in the service of, that expresses, yet also remains somewhat externally related to, faith (Claudel). Or so it seems to me. But let us not push these distinctions too far, because I also do not think that one can draw too thick of a line of separation, as the artist’s engagement with his artistry fluctuates and takes different shapes, at different times. But there is a difference between the two, I dare say, in this regard; and I do find Mauriac’s way more akin, and more attractive, to me.

But let me also add here, before anyone gets the wrong idea, that I was always, and remain, quite fond of Claudel; and that he is one of the greatest playwrights of the last century, and also one of its major poets. So what I am discussing here is not about the quality of his artistry, but about a specific existential approach, a specific take on the condition of the artist, and on the relationship between art and faith.

*

However, this essay is not intended to be a comparison between Claudel and Mauriac – nor would it be able to endeavor such a thing, based solely on these two books. So, going back to our Claudel-Gide subject, let us pick up the thread of the conversation by continuing our discussion of (what I called) Claudel’s “angularity,” that "heaviness". Well, what do we learn from this book - did Gide also notice this (or does it only exist in my own reading, in my fantasy)? He did, and in this sense I recall a fragment from a Gide journal (which is included in the book) in which he describes (and this is toward the end of their friendship) the aesthetic and psychological impact that Claudel’s physical presence made on him, in one occasion - referring to (and I paraphrase) Claudel’s stoutness, rockiness, to his straight-lined solidity (as he was sitting there, in his armchair). And these remarks are not, in fact, about Claudel’s physicality, are they? No, they seem to be expressions of the way in which the overly-sensitive Gide perceived, then, Claudel’s being.

And my concern is, of course, not with physical angularity, heaviness - but with interior angularity or rigidity. An example of this "rigidity" in action might be the somewhat abrupt way in which Claudel (eventually) handled Gide’s spiritual (and especially moral) struggles. Yes, Claudel was right, in his positions – but his imperative tone, his norms-based suggestions, instructions even, struck me as counterproductive – especially given Gide’s over-sensitive nature. But Claudel did have, I think, a harsh(er), perhaps more volcanic (although I think also a bit melancholic) temperament; and temperament is not something that we can choose, no more than we can skip over our own shadow. (In addition, we always live in a state of “inherent ignorance”, represented by the limits of our understanding or wisdom at the given moment; limits which, by their very nature, are invisible to us, at that moment; and which we sometimes discover later, retrospectively, realizing “how stupid I was!”, or, “how blind we were!”) Thus I am not emitting a judgment on Claudel – of whom I've always been quite fond. To the contrary, it is because I admire Claudel, that I am interested in understanding him better (as an artist, as a man of faith, and as a human being).

So, that Gidean spiritual struggle – what was it about? Why was there a “struggle”? And why was that a theme, a central theme, of their correspondence? Well - God, the faith, and religion being at the center of Claudel’s life (and how could they not be, as what else is there, in ultimate terms?), they naturally became central topics of conversation with Gide, as well. And not because Claudel "pushed" them. No, Gide himself (like many other figures of that time and of that place) was deeply preoccupied with the ideas of faith, God, the Church; he was, as it were, searching, or seeking, struggling - with all this. Furthermore, as mentioned before, Claudel represented for Gide both an admired (genius) artist, and also a spiritual partner of conversation, point of reference, even tentative guide (recall here again Claudel’s very prominent position, in France, at that time, as the emblematic Catholic artist).

So what was Gide's struggle about? Well, I would classify these inner conflicts into two categories: on the one hand, there seemed to be the specifically modern conflict between a “Cartesian” approach to reality (in which something is, only inasmuch as I can demonstrate its being; I think, therefore I am - instead of I am, which then allows me to think) - and (the nature and condition of) faith. And, if this was Gide's spiritual-intellectual struggle, there was also another one, of a moral nature, which was related to Gide’s sensuality (which included his homosexuality, and, some say, his ephebo-, even pedo-philia) – all in all, what I would more broadly call his sensuality, or the role and burden of the sensuous within one's self. So, on the one hand, the intellectual-spiritual conflict involving modern rationality and faith; and, on the other, the moral struggle with one’s overbearing sensual drives.

Sadly, both of these will bring their contributions to the radical break which will intervene after decades of intellectual and personal friendship between the two; as on both accounts Gide will take (as said) a proud and stubborn path of radical defiance - and even, at times, of enmity - toward faith (or at least the Church) and (from Claudel’s and from our perspective) toward the truth. And I do not know (nor do I recall if this is ever made clear) which came first: Gide’s turn (away), or Claudel break with him. Overall, I think that these happened more or less at the same time, in parallel - one action responding to and reinforcing the other. One key moment that I do seem to recall is Gide asking to use a Claudel quote as a motto or epigraph for one of his books, which Claudel agreed to, only to be horrified to discover the use (or, rather, misuse) to which that quote was put - the book reflecting the very opposite of what that quote (and Claudel) intended, and stood for. But, all in all, it seems that Gide was already going (down) on a certain route, notwithstanding his conversations with Claudel.

And I mentioned heaviness, and rigidity – and here’s again why; because I do think that, notwithstanding Gide’s doings, even the more egregious ones, Claudel could have remained at least at an arm’s length, or somewhere, removed, but still within Gide’s line of sight - as a possible (because, who knows what can happen?) life line, a secours in a time of desperate need. But take this with a grain of salt - as I am equally quick to note here that some of the things that Gide did (read: wrote) became so egregious (for Claudel), that they became simply unacceptable, and unassumable (for Claudel). And I understand that – just as I understand that expecting from Claudel to be someone else, of a different temperament, personality, personal history - would be nonsensical, an impossibility.

And perhaps their paths were destined to break off from each other, to split... After all, weren’t they just too different? Weren’t they not set on completely different paths? And Gide, after all, made his own decisions - notwithstanding everything, notwithstanding their conversations.

*

But let’s get back to the aforementioned two aspects of the struggle. Regarding the first aspect, Gide seems to have been stuck, indeed, in that Cartesian position that leads to an inability to even understand what faith might be, i.e. to understand faith as a “different” kind of knowing. And, indeed, it is very, very difficult, to even come to grasp the distinctiveness of faith, if one’s criterion of truth, i.e. of accepting what there is, is one’s own powers and ability to demonstrate it. (And isn’t this a very familiar position? – so familiar, that it seems to be the only possible position, the only possible approach to the idea of knowledge, today?)

The Cartesian position – by which I mean, rooted not necessarily in what Descartes thought (who was a believer), but in the ulterior implications of his “cogito ergo sum”.

But, but... am I really the measure of what there is – or, as classical philosophy has affirmed, am I only a guest in a cosmos that is not of my doing and making, an invitee, whose purpose and mission is to acquire, recognize, and pursue the truth that is out there? Am I the truth, and thus its measure - or is reality, what there is, out there, the (measure of) truth? And yes, today many, millions of people encounter these same questions, and find themselves stuck in this struggle, simply by virtue of the fact that in our intellectual and cultural context (which was shaped, to a good degree, by the Enlightenment – by its deep errors as much as by its relative gains) we just do not know of any other means of pursuing the truth... And yet, if this limited I is the criterion of truth – instead of being the pursuer thereof... If we measure a grander reality with a limited instrument, will not the result be a limited (image of) reality? The measure used does determine the results obtained.

But what is the solution? I mentioned the word "pride" – and the word has its due place here. The limiting and centering of our pursuit of the truth in the I carries with it an inherent pridefulness (even if the pursuer does not intend it that way) and stubbornness. What is then the alternative? The alternative is a position of inherent humility - of the pursuit of truth that starts from wonder, from an acknowledgment of one’s inherent ignorance; from knowing that one is not the truth, nor its measure; that Truth is out there, and one is only its pursuer; and thus from the desire to shape oneself according to this Truth - and not vice versa. And this humility also understands – it is forced to – that natural reason has its inherent limits; that just because our intellective powers are finite, it does not mean that the truth is equally finite; thus opening us to other ways of knowing – namely faith, which is not in contradiction, but in continuation of, and in complementarity with, natural reason; rational faith, and faithful reason. (But to have access to this kind of knowledge one needs the humility to at least be open to the fact that, after a certain point, our understanding fails; and to be open to the gift of understanding that one receives, beyond and above the limits of one's own intellective powers; to grace, therefore.)¹

*

The other dimension or kind of struggle, as said, related to Gide’s sexuality; or, more broadly understood, to the tremendous pull and weight and burden of the sensuous within the person. And, in Gide’s case (as evidenced by his life, up to its end), this was not something that he was able or willing to part with, or to fight against – to not allow for it to become the determinant force in his life. (A heavy burden, indeed - and is this struggle any easier today, in this age of mass addiction to, and boundless consumption of, pornography? Another issue, then, from this correspondence – and from his struggles – that is very much of current relevance.)  And in this aspect Gide was equally indecisive, and coy - perpetually oscillating, perpetually pulled in various directions – yet gradually and consistently pursuing, in fact, a chosen path - the path away from Claudel and from what Claudel stood for. (Oh, yes, not all major decisions are taken in one clear moment, through one definite act; many, perhaps most choices, are gradual, incremental - often being a sliding down that is not noticeable in the moment, but whose accumulated effects will become clear in time...)

*

This, then, is the story that emerges from this volume: of two writers of whom we usually think as representing radically different positions on the spiritual-literary spectrum, but who, for many years, were in close intellectual and personal contact, even friendship. And, yes, I did not find exactly what I went looking for, in this book – not entirely. I did learn, however, things about Claudel (some of which I had perceived before, to a degree); things that, together with what I learned later from Mauriac, further clarified certain important aspects about art, faith, and the condition of the artist.

Finally, this volume of correspondence also illuminated some of the dramas which remain also core dramas of our age, of our own existence: one, the difficulty that we face in even beginning to approach faith, let alone comprehend it as a distinct way of knowledge, because of our embeddedness in a Cartesian understanding of the very nature of knowing; and, two, the heavy burden of the sensuous, which is very much a contemporary challenge, as well, and which is related to said Cartesian limitations on our understanding (after all, isn’t “follow your desires” one of the dominant ways of defining living truthfully and meaningfully, today? following your desires, appetites, isn't this proposed today as a "recipe for happiness"? while Plato characterized the same appetites as the unruly, wild horses which, uncontrolled, will devastate the soul?)²

A very instructive reading, then – both for reasons of personal ruminations on art, faith, and the artist – and for additional illuminations on some of our peculiarly modern dilemmas.

***

FOOTNOTES

1. And, to continue this discussion – there is also an opposite type of error, which comes however from the same separation of reason and faith; in this, one "take the side" of a faith that is understood in opposition to reason - a-rational, even ir-rational. And this position has of course its roots (to a good degree) in Luther - and in his distrust, even dismissal, of reason. This approach to faith as the irrational goes counter, however, to the millennium and a half old Tradition that preceded Luther (Tradition that continued after him, as well); a Tradition in which reason and faith are seen as two different (and complementary) forms of human understanding, i.e. of the human pursuit of the same Truth. 

And, lo and behold, Gide was indeed raised as a Huguenot, as a Calvinist (i.e. at this other end of the spectrum) - which might have contributed to his struggle with integrating faith and reason, in the sense of swinging from one end (dismissal of reason, following irrational faith) to the other (dismissal of faith, as irrational, and only trusting what empirical reason can certify). Indeed, the position of equilibrium, the balanced integration of faith and reason, as the "two wings on which the human spirit rises to the contemplation of truth", while harmonious, may be the hardest to hold, especially if one does not have a tradition or an authority to reinforce this position.).

2. See Plato’s discussion of the soul which, like a chariot, is aimless and gets ravaged, when pulled hither and thither, back and forth, right and left, by the uncontrolled, unruly, wild horses of the desires, of our appetites. To the contrary, in the ordered, harmonious soul of the wise person, the higher understanding (nous) takes charge and orders these unruly forces of the appetites (knowing their power and dangerousness), directing them according to what it (the higher understanding) knows to be the Truth.

So why or how is this relevant to us? Do we not live in an age in which “science” (which is supposed to be the pinnacle and also the sole path of knowledge) is meant to be the measure and ruler of everything? To be the most powerful force, governing (in a sense) society? But, then, how come that we are still, society-wide, ravaged by these unruly desires and appetites; how come that, simultaneously with the apparent worship of science, we are also told that the goal of life is to “follow your desires”, that “fulfilling one’s appetites” is so essential that it becomes a "basic right" of the human being? And, implicitly, that chasing one’s appetites is the path to happiness, to truth? So, how can we reconcile these two, apparently opposite things – praising a form of rationality (science), but ultimately being driven by one’s appetites?

Our classical friends can come to our aid here, as well. Yes, we do seem to (at least apparently, or formally) worship (or at least pretend to respect) reason; yes, but this is not the type of reason (or understanding) that, in Plato, leads to the knowledge of the Truth; instead, it is a lower kind of rationality, that Aristotle refers to as techne: instrumental, technical knowledge, which helps us to explain and to manipulate how things work – but which is not able to tell us anything about the why, about meaning and purpose. 

Techne, in other words, does not and can not talk about the Truth; and yet, only the kind of knowledge that can talk about it, that can attain to the Truth (or the Good) can give the human being – the self – a direction. Still, even bringing up the need for this kind of knowledge, the need for asking these questions, about Truth, about the Good, is no longer socially acceptable, kosher, "in polite society", today. So we renounce asking these questions (the most important questions) - and pursuing the (only) answers (that can give direction to our lives). And, then, what remains? 

Well, our selves (just like a chariot) never remain driverless. Just because we fail to, or give up on, putting a driver on the chariot  (a driver that can take us home), it does not mean that the chariot will not be driven (pulled). But, driverless, it will be be pulled - hither and thither - by the unleashed, unruly, wild and self-seeking horses  - namely, our powerful appetites, the desires - pulling the entire chariot (our self) to its destruction.

Three Scripts by Ingmar Bergman

Through a Glass Darkly; Winter Light; The Silence

The book was translated into English by
Bergman's brother in law, Paul Britten Austin. 

While reading these scripts, one is involuntarily - and voluntarily – thinking about, and making comparisons with, the movies themselves. I saw Through a Glass Darkly a few years ago, thus before reading the script; Winter Light I saw many, many years ago, so I re-watched it after reading the script; and The Silence I have never seen before, so I watched it only after reading the script. I chose to read these scripts (this book) for several reasons: out of curiosity; because I like Bergman (and was in the mood for it); because I find reading scripts interesting and useful; and because I have read a Bergman novel (!) years ago, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. So, a combination of these – this much for the reasons. But I kind of forgot all these initial impulses, once I started reading the book itself.

As said, I have read a Bergman novel many years ago, and I remember liking his writing style very much, and finding it very cinematic, and also curt, summary, brisk (bringing to mind Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald – that interwar style of modern American literature – a style that I am very fond of). Browsing through the book (while deciding whether to pick it up and read it) I noticed that these scripts are formatted not quite like the usual scripts, but in a more easy-to-read, almost novel-like format (or like a play, but more fluid than that). Not like the usual movie scripts – as regular scripts follow very hard, formal rules, which makes them a bit awkward to read (as texts). For example, in these Bergman scripts one can find fairly lengthy descriptions of what characters are thinking or feeling, or of actions, which one would not find in a usual film script. So, I guess the genre employed in this book is something in-between a novel and a script (or viceversa) - and all that makes for an even more pleasurable reading experience. By the way, the script for The Silence has the most and the longest of such descriptions (or indications) – and rightly so, because a significant part of that movie’s “message” is conveyed through the presence of silence (and of related states) - expressed through sounds, through images, and through actions. Since dialogue can not “depict” those states and perceptions, one needs to add lengthier descriptions.

This is also why I found the script itself (for The Silence) the least satisfactory and engaging (as a text) - because it works much better as a movie, with images and sounds. Conversely, Through a Glass Darkly worked better for me as a text, not because the movie would be poor in any way, but because reading the script clarified certain things and in fact made the film more intelligible. And, since I am in the process of classifying (or so it seems), I should add that the script for, and the actual movie, Winter Light, were equally satisfactory - that "it" works equally well, in both mediums.

But what does it mean, that "it" - "works well?” Well, I find that a “characteristic” of Bergman’s movies is that they tend to start slow and somewhat underwhelming – and then, as soon as you are into them, that they grip you powerfully; and I found that this characteristic, which I have discovered while watching his movies, is also present and “palpable” and “working” in the texts, as well. Take Through a Glass Darkly, for example; it starts with a fairly inconspicuous scene of four people (two men, a woman, and a teenager) coming out of the sea, somewhere along the gray coasts of Sweden. (The color palette does not help in these three Bergman movies, as they are all variations of an overcast or closed - or wintry – sky, and of a fairly desolate land; or so one perceives them – remember, the movies are black and white; and Through a Glass Darkly actually takes place in the summer!). So, they might start a bit un-engaging - because what would one have in common with a mid-twentieth century middle-class Swedish family, spending time in these fairly desolate seaside environs? But, very soon, you enter into the meat and guts of the dissection of the human soul – and you are gripped; because Bergman’s movies are about that, about relationships and about our tempestuous and passion-filled inner lives.

And this is the thing at which Bergman is indeed best, masterful even – depicting relationships and inner happenings – the truth of existence in that sense – something one can not help but find gripping, and be gripped by. I have never encountered - not yet – any other director who does this as well as Bergman does (although I also have movies within his oeuvre that I do not like - like Fanny and Alexander, or like Saraband; the latter being especially disappointing, since it is supposed to be a sort of a sequel to Scenes from a Marriage, which is a perfect exemplar of Bergman at his best, and which might well be my favorite Bergman film). So it was surprising to see how this characteristics of Bergman’s films – and this foremost Bergmanian skill – of dissecting and presenting human relationships, and the inner happenings of the human soul, are also present and “working” in the scripts, as texts – just as much as on the screen, in the images-cum-audio medium.

But why is this? Why is the same thing effective both in the movie (the image-and-sound medium) and in the text (a different medium) - in Bergman's films? To understand why we should even ask this question, let’s take another example – say, Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev; now, I have not read the script for that movie, nor am I interested in reading it – or, rather, I would be interested, but only on a technical level, of how does one write a script for such a movie (that is, if he actually did use a traditional script). In other words, how could a text, a script, “describe” the poetic sweep of what is presented in Tarkovsky’s movies only through images, movement, camera, sound? The specificity of the medium of cinema is that its main tool of expression is the moving images – to which one ads sound, color etc.; that is what sets it apart, that is what gives it its specificity, that is its language (with its specific powers and limitations).

So what is the specific position (or status) of the word, and of dialogue, in a movie? It is but one component of it - sometimes necessary, but not always; a film is a film because of the moving pictures (with sound); and there have been some exquisite movies that have only used that, the moving images with sound (for example, Into Great Silence). Yes, words are necessary in a specific kind of movies - well, in most types, nowadays; but not in all. So what is then the status of “the word” in Bergman’s movies? Well, if Tarkovsky’s principal mean of expression is the poetic image (images, movement, faces and actions, sounds), in Bergman dialogue (expressing relationships and inner states) is essential (even if as a monologue). And this is not because Bergman would be wordy, or because his films would be “filmed theater plays” (although he also wrote plays), but because his films’ essence is the dissection and unveiling of the deeper realms of the human interiors (heart, soul, mind) - and of the human relationships. And while this can be done – and is done, The Silence comes to mind – through wordless acting, through faces - words, especially by expressing and revealing relationships, are central to what these movies are and do. But, of course, this does not mean, ever, verbosity or cheap loquaciousness; his style is restrained, like his characters (very often) are. (Bergman is no Woody Allen.) But because of the role that dialogue and words play in his movies, both the scripts and the movies work similarly, and in parallel, and we perceive things around similar points in the narrative - both while watching the movie, and while reading the texts (the exception, as said, is The Silence, which works much better as “moving images with sound,” than as text - because we need to perceive “the silence,” whether it is manifested as a street’s cacophonous noise, or as the alien and slightly threatening presence of an unknown building; but all these, we need to see and to hear, and a script can not do justice to these forms of perception).

I mentioned that I really like Bergman’s writing, qua writing (his style). Although these are scripts (or a variety of that genre), the same briskness that I saw used in his novels – get to the point! do not explain too extensively! let actions speak for themselves! let the reader fill out the rest (emotions and images) within himself! – is also a trait of these scripts. But I am repeating myself.

What I did not like, or what I liked less, in these scripts (and movies) were those moments or dialogues (not many, though) which came across as slightly artificial – words that were probably meant to underline something that Bergman wanted us to know, and that were forced in incongruously with the previously built characters and actions. I am referring to moments or words that did not seem to be rooted in, and to follow naturally from, where the given persons were and what they were, and what had gone on before. I include here the concluding words spoken by the boy in Through a Glass Darkly, or the lengthy self-exhibiting diatribe directed by Tomas, the pastor, to Jonas, the farmer, in Winter Light. The latter, for example, would be uncharacteristic for the reserved Pastor Tomas, especially versus a fairly anonymous (in terms of the existing relationship between the two) parishioner. And, in Through a Glass Darkly, those concluding words from Minus... - who talks like that? I guess that my concern is with the groundedness of these episodes in the actual reality of the people, contexts, and actions, as we have come to know them from the film itself - and from our own general understanding of human behavior and of everyday existence (and this groundedness is what I refer to as “realism”).

My answer to this problem is that I think that we should trust the reader (spectator), and his understanding – we do not have to tell him what to understand, but the skill is to shape the action and the characters so that what is to be understood will emerge and will be felt “naturally,” through (and along) the unraveling of the events.

Another technical detail – and related half-question that I would have – regards the fact that the movies themselves (as filmed) follow these scripts very closely (except for very few, very minor deviations); so, I am wondering whether these scripts were (re)written, for publication, after making the movies - or whether Bergman’s movies, as a rule, had to follow their scripts with utmost faithfulness, even strictness. (In other words, this is a question about his directorial style and approach, and about his relationship with the actors.) In any case, I found that the actors followed the attitudes and feelings depicted on paper very faithfully; or, of course, vice versa.

Reading, then, these scripts – or these stories, or these “novelettes” – one finds them gripping and fascinating, mostly for the same reasons that Ingmar Bergman’s movies are thus. A very rewarding reading, therefore.

***

Finally, let me add here a formal or ‘quasi-official’ clarification, namely that these three movies are part of Bergman’s “faith” or “God” trilogy – which one might describe more accurately as stories about the search for, or the lack of, God – or, about spiritual life as experienced in (a fairly desolate) mid-twentieth century Scandinavian country.

The Theban Plays, by Sophocles

Antigone; Oedipus Tyrannos; Oedipus at Colonus

It is interesting to note that, while the chronological order of the events (if we take these three plays as part of one overarching story, of the Theban royal family - of Oedipus and of his daughter Antigone) would be Oedipus Tyrannos, Oedipus at Colonus, and then Antigone, the order in which these different moments or themes were treated by Sophocles during his lifetime was, in fact, Antigone first, then sometime later Oedipus Tyrannos, and (I think toward the end of his life) Oedipus at Colonus.

Amazon  - I like this translation

And now to the plays. Why is one still surprised to “discover” how “contemporary” any true artist (of any age or period) is and “sounds" to our "modern" experience? It is indeed somewhat frustrating to still catch oneself being (if ever so slightly) “surprised” by such a "discovery." As if the human experience would not be the same, both in its highest and in its lowest aspects, throughout human time! And as if those who came before us would have been in any ways more “naive” or "innocently ignorant" (now these are some infuriating prejudices)! 

At such moments of apparent “discovery" and "surprise” about the "modernity" of an author I like to remind my students - for example - of the sheer, bone-on-bone brutality of the hand-to-hand combat that was typical of most wars, throughout history, before modernity; and also how in the “ancient times” the outcome of a conquest was usually the general massacre of all adult males, and the enslavement of all women and children – and the complete burning down of the given city. I remind them of these when we discuss Socrates, for example, informing them also that Socrates was a recognized and honored veteran of such wars, and thus that “philosopher” did not mean (and does not mean, or should not mean) some ivory-tower, impractical, aloof, removed from reality fuddy-duddy; if anyone knew brute reality, and human nature at its worse, then it was Socrates. 

Well, all this is to say that one should not be surprised to find hints and indications about some of the most perverse aspects of human nature, in Sophocles - aspects that we might feel are only transparent to a specifically modern awareness; and one should not be "surprised" to find in Sophocles expressions of emotions and dilemmas that are all too familiar to us “moderns." But perhaps one of the explanations for such modern biases (notice also that the adjective “modern” is implicitly understood as having a positive connotation... oh, my!) is that in terms of style art was indeed more bound to certain restraints (regarding expression) and to stricter coordinates of form, before contemporaneity. This formality of style, then, and this restraint of vocabulary, for example, did not mean however - in the case of the true artists - that their vision was dimmer, that they did not see, know, and express (through their specific means) the worse, most monstrous, and best, of the human condition. Furthermore, now that we have loosened or got rid of most or all formal bounds and expressive restraints, does that mean that we have "better" (or even more truthful) art? Well, it is enough to look around, to realize that that is not the case.

The Theban plays, then, deal (among others things) with some eternal conundrums which, being unchanging, i.e. belonging to the human condition qua human condition, are also "modern" ones. One such persistent dilemma of the human condition also determines the main conflict in Antigone, and it is the clash between one's duty to the “invisible” (or, let’s say, transcendent) norms or truth, and the interests and norms of the visible (surrounding) society. In a satisfactory fashion, Antigone ends with the transcendent (eternal) truth being justified – not before and not without wreaking havoc on all those involved - on all sides.

Wreaking havoc - indeed, another thing that stands out from these plays is the intensity of the passions, of the action, of the conflicts described. We need to remind ourselves that these are indeed “plays,” that they were written to be performed, and not as literary works designed for private, silent reading. Writing for public performance, the dramatist needs to know how to grab the attention, and how to stir the emotions, of the audience – and Sophocles knows indeed how to do all this, and does it very, very effectively; no wonder that he won so many theatrical competitions. The other aspect to be noted is how fast and intense is the action in these plays: it keeps moving, it keeps going; well, as said, the playwright does need to take and to keep hold of the audience’s attention and involvement. Oedipus at Colonus might be slightly “slower,” in this sense – but it is by no means "slow," and the action really picks up once Creon makes his appearance. (At the same time, I found the same play, Oedipus at Colonus, to be among the most rewarding  of the three, due to the richness of its dialogue.)

However, due to its powerful theme (the aforementioned clash between the order of Truth, and the “civic” or political order) and also to its strong central character, Antigone might be my overall favorite, among the three plays. Also in Antigone one can find a wonderful little dialogue between Creon and his son, Haemon - which moves from a somewhat formal exchange, exhibiting all the necessary codes of filial respect, to a conversation laced with irony, a biting and furious exchange that, again, sounds so truthful and (that dreaded word!) “modern” in the way it depicts the frustration of the young with what appear to be the slow, old (and, in this case, wrong) ways of the parent. An exchange that could be part, in its gist, of Death of a Salesman.

Oedipus Tyrannos is for me the play that seems “most remote,” specifically because of the “fated mechanisms” at play: the way in which the wheels of the gods, impersonal, it seems, shape the overall action. On the other hand, this play is maybe the most action-packed of all; the conflict starts right away, and it really helps that Oedipus is such a strong and violent (in his passions) character – he does drive the conflict.

In fact, each of these plays has a central protagonist whose character is defined by violence (of emotions, passions), rashness (of decisions, impulses), and arrogance (haughtiness). In this sense it is interesting that, if Creon comes across as the voice of balanced reason in Oedipus Tyrannos (as opposed to the rash and haughty Oedipus), in Oedipus at Colonus the relationship will be reversed (at least to a degree), Creon being the violent one, while Oedipus less so; meanwhile, in Antigone Creon is simply the "bad guy," with all the corresponding negative traits. Yet one could not say that Oedipus is entirely changed, even in Oedipus at Colonus; his volcanic temperament subsists, underneath, and it manifests itself at occasions, in small fits and starts, but it is much tempered and slowed down by Oedipus's blindness, old age, and (presumably) the sufferings and humiliations he'd endured.

As a general note, perhaps the main reason why these plays leave one with the impression of having encountered outstanding, memorable works of art is their inner unity and balance. This has to do, among others, with the author’s economy of means – by which I am referring to how the length and pacing of the action fits the story to be told (don’t say more, and don’t say less, than what the story absolutely needs!). This briskness, which does not fall into heedless rushing along because it fits the inner logic of the action of the story – and, in fact and overall, the harmony between the form and the content  - is indeed why you leave the texts knowing that these are full, well-rounded, complete works of art. (Compare this with Aristophanes’ “all over the place” style, at least in The Clouds - which reminds me of what happens in some of Adam Sandler’s movies.)        

Speaking of briskness, amusingly enough there are several instances in which characters either announce that “I will have to be short in my speech, for once,” or ask their interlocutor “to be short in what they have to say, this time;” for me, it is as if Sophocles is giving himself leeway, allowing himself the “foreshortening” of the speeches; because, indeed, some of the speeches do have a tendency to be a bit too baroque, too rich and lengthy (mostly, perhaps, in Oedipus at Colonus).

But the intensity of the passions driving the protagonists; the strong characters; the fierceness of the conflicts; the implicit (but also explicit) violence (although most of the physical violence happens off-stage); Sophocles’ undoubtable technical skills as a playwright; and, overall and foremostly, the aforementioned harmony of form and content - all these contribute to making these plays memorable and thoroughly engaging - and to making us desire to see them staged as well. 

Indeed, reading these plays one itches to go to an amphitheater and to see them being brought to life – but in their original form and intent. Or, one would also be interested in seeing them in a contemporary staging – but hopefully not in a needlessly “modernized” one.

"Persepolis," by Marjane Satrapi

I am not familiar with the world (or the genre) of graphic novels. Furthermore, I might have a slight bias against them, due to their (but is there a “their”? is there an all-encompassing group sharing the same "nature"?) association, in my mind, with the “comic books” genre (which, for me, is somewhat synonymous with superficiality and childishness – surely enjoyable during one's childhood, but unsatisfactory for the adult).

[Amazon]

So I discovered this “graphic novel” almost accidentally; one day I was at the library and, to fill my time with some lighter reading, and because I have heard of it previously (and of the movie made by its author, based on it), I picked up this graphic novel, Persepolis – and it ”caught”. I returned later, during the following days, to continue the reading, and to finish it - which proved to be a very rewarding experience.

The (drawing) style employed in this graphic novel is very simple, simplistic even – but it is not artless, by any means. In fact, it has a specific artistry by virtue of this approach. It is in black and white, which I think fits its content – it somehow fits the early 70s period it describes, it certainly fits the period of the Islamic Republic, and it fits, why not, the disheartening adventures of Marjane in the West (in Austria), during her teen years.

But what is this book about? As the name might imply, it is about Iran, more precisely about a young woman in the Iran (Persia, by its ancient name) of the Shah (before the Islamic Revolution), then during the Revolution and the ensuing Shi’a Islamist regime (in 1979 and in the 80s), and then about her time in the West (more specifically, Austria - in the 80s).

[source]

Why did I like this novel? Why did it resonate? And how did it resonate? Well, the sections of the book dealing with her life in Iran (which do form most of the book) are the most appealing and the most relatable, for me. This has to do with the historical and cultural period that they describe (the 70s and the 80s), to which I can certainly relate – and also with her and her extended family’s (and her friends’) life of muted dissidence versus both regimes - the authoritarian one of the Shah, and the totalitarian one of the Islamic Republic. I can relate to that, as well, because there are similarities between that and my own experience under a totalitarian regime, in Central Europe - also during the 80s. So I find that her experience of 80s rebellious teenage culture – manifested, for example, through the adoption of elements of Western pop culture, like music and dress items (e.g. jeans) – against (and in a minor key undermining) the existing authoritarian or totalitarian regime, is indeed similar in many ways with my experiences of the 80s anti-regime teenage culture. And not just the “teenage culture” – her middle, or middle-upper class family, of secular intellectuals, resonates with many similar families I have known, who faced and opposed, in their own small and imperfect ways, an oppressive regime.  

But this is not to say that this novel is about “regimes,” or about politics. To the contrary: its charm and attractiveness lie in the fact that this is a personal story, and that it is her voice, talking about her life, that we hear throughout.

I mentioned the fact that the part of the book dealing with her years in a Western European society, in the 80s, were, how to put it, disheartening; and that is true, and how strange that it is so! But let's try to explain what this means. To start with - as mentioned, her family was Iranian middle-upper class, belonging to what we could call the "technical intelligentsia” (her father was – what? – an architect, if I recall correctly; and I think that her mother was a teacher; so they might also be classified as part of the Bildungsbürgertum, the "educated bourgeoisie"). I know this type of family very well.

[source]

And here a parenthesis is due, to explain the Iranian cultural context. Contrary to uninformed clichés, which might come from associating the Iranian society with its current regime, and from assuming that if a regime (the ruling institutions and leadership) is of a certain kind, then the people are of the same kind – the society and culture of Iran is not the same as the regime currently in power there; instead, the society and its culture is very much modern, developed, and secularized (especially its middle classes). To express it more synthetically, the society of Iran during the Shah’s regime (i.e. before the Islamic Revolution), and especially the middle and upper classes thereof, was the same or very similar as most Western societies (e.g. France in the 50s and 60s). Furthermore, the Iranian (Persian) culture is, in itself, very, very old. First of all, it is not an Islamic culture. Persia, as we know, was an ancient empire, and one of the most ancient cultures, which left us some of mankind’s major cultural artefacts, products of a rich and developed civilization. In fact, when Islam arrived there, in the 7th century AD (or thereabouts), it actually had to contend with and to solve significant tensions arising from its inadequacy with the existing, and already millennia-old, Persian culture (poetry, art etc.). Of course, the Persians are not Arabs, either, which also added cultural and linguistic obstacles.

Anyway - and to return to our topic – uninformed Western eyes often tend to confuse a political regime (which might have been instated through violence) with the actual reality of the underlying society. And this is another reason why I found the portions of the book dealing with the clash between this established middle class culture, and the authoritarian / totalitarian regime (of the Shah or of the Ayatollah), relatable and partially familiar – as Central and Eastern Europe experienced a similar (albeit not identical) thing, in which an (in this case) culturally alien regime was imposed by force, and in which the bourgeois culture, which had its own norms of civilized life, clashed with this “primitive” political regime. And this is also where the issue of the emptiness of the time Marjane spent in the West, compared with her time in her Iranian middle class environment, comes up. Because it is strange, isn’t it, that the ”emptiest time" (in terms of human and civilizational values), among the periods covered in the novel, was the one spent in early 80s Austria? Wouldn’t it be expected, and couldn’t we expect, that the time spent in the West would be the most flourishing among the ones described in the book? And yet it is in fact the opposite. Mind you, she does not express this, as such, directly; and I am not sure that she fully acknowledged it to herself, in the end; but for us readers it is apparent - and somewhere underneath she must, she surely knows this; after all, she “escaped” the Austrian existential disarray by returning to Iran – yes, the Iran of the totalitarian regime of the Ayatollah. And yet, this does not mean that that regime was better than the liberal democracy and the capitalism of Austria – to the contrary, obviously. But what she returned to was not the “regime,” but the slightly and slyly dissident, oppositional culture of her middle class family and of her environment – who head to sneak around to avoid the all-powerful and all-controlling tentacles of the regime, just to have a dance party, or to have some drinks. And this is where it’s at – that what gives that time meaning, the time she spent in the Iranian environment, is perhaps exactly the fact that one of the effects of oppressive regimes, especially on those who oppose them (perhaps simply by keeping to their own cultural and social “marching orders”) is to “purify” their lifestyle and norms, to force them to cling to (and to redefine and reassume, over and over again) a set of norms and guidelines about how one should live “normally," "in the right way," comme il faut – so as not to be swallowed by said regime. Thus there is a lot of talk in Marjane's family about what one should or should not do, what one does and what one can not do; by contrast, the period she spends in Austria is defined, if by anything, then by a dissolution of norms and guidelines – and, in fact, by a dissolution of all meaning, by a drifting around and a sliding downwards, all of which she does not take well, eventually (although I think that she will keep a part of what she has “learned” there, with her) - and from which she will seek refuge, as said, by going back to her family in Iran (even if she hated, as they all did, the regime there). But, as said, it is not to the regime to which she goes back, but to a life of bounds and direction (and purpose, inherent) – compared with the meaninglessness and the adriftness of her life in Austria. (Certainly the fact that she was a teenager, while she was in Austria - i.e. at a time when one is at a loss, anyhow, to a degree - might have contributed also to the scatteredness and purposelessness of her life there.)

[source]

In any case, talking about these issues is not in fact the main purpose of the book - it is not her purpose, when narrating the story. No; as said, this is her story; that is, it is a personal narrative, or the story of a person – and that is what makes it so charming and engaging, The things discussed above are the impressions of the reader - of a reader who enjoyed this book, especially in those sections and aspects where he found familiar or similar experiences, and which gave insight into a specific society, a social class, and the culture of (modern) Iran.

(For similar experiences, for similar encounters with all the facets of Iran - of this modern Iran, and in order not to confuse Iran proper with the idiotic regime ruling it - I heartily recommend Iranian cinema, which is one of the great cinema traditions of the world. And, as said, Marjane Satrapi also made a movie out of this graphic novel – an animated movie, with similar aesthetics as the graphic novel; an award-winning movie, by the way, but which I have not had the chance to see as yet.)

Speaking of aesthetics, and as it was mentioned in the beginning, the black-and-white palette seems very suited to her narrative style and to the periods that she covers. Also as said, this style has a simplicity, well almost a childish simplicity to it – the way the people are drawn, and even in its choice of a black-and-white palette. All this gives her narrative a kind of directness - just like a story told by a child might be simpler and more straightforward; and yet what she talks about are at times grave and weighty matters. Nevertheless, this simplicity of style should not be mistaken for artlessness; no, it is a style, a style developed into a specific language. This is most evident if and when one pays attention to the framing, to the mis en scène used in various panels; or to the ways in which she uses this very basic color scheme to create symbolic communication (expressing a lot with a scarcity of means; yes, symbols are more expressive, and expressive of a richer content, than a straightforward description; also, sometimes the complexity and impact of reality, and one’s experiences and feelings about it, can be best described through symbolic means.)

All in all, then, this was a delightful find. One also got to know, through this, a very likable person – likable not because of certain traits, or not just because of those (her overall sensitivity and her artistic bent, for example) - but lovable simply by being a human being; namely, as any or most human beings would be, if one would get to know their story directly, in all its genuineness. Because this is what strikes us most, or remains with us most, I think, from this novel – its genuine, simple, direct storytelling; its personal tone and narrative; it being, in a way, “the story of a soul.” Needless to say, a person and a story with lights and with shades, with good and with bad, with things that we agree with and with things that we disagree with – with all that, this is an occasion to encounter a person directly, and to make a friend, as it were; and that is (perhaps) what draws us into and to this novel, and what remains with us thereafter: a genuine encounter with a real human being. (And so we leave off the novel worrying and thinking about what happened to her next – after she went to Paris etc.)

“Maltaverne,” by François Mauriac

I was surprised to discover, upon reading this book, how much it affected me, or how much it spoke to me; I mean, in comparison with previous books I’ve read from Mauriac. It also was not what I expected it to be – it was not a dark and brooding, as if "framed" portrait of a mid-nineteenth to early-twentieth century bourgeois household. I am making reference here to the vague memories I have of Thérèse Desqueyroux or The Knot of Vipers. Then again, each book might have a corresponding “age” or state, when we connect the best, or the most, with it, and when it makes most sense to us. Which does not exclude perennial “matches” between book and reader – in terms of subject, theme, tone etc. In any case, this book came seemingly at a good time, and it also exhibited an overall tone that - as said - was a bit unexpected.

[Amazon]

Perhaps the part of the novel that spoke to me the most was the beginning, with its description of the hopeful and clear-eyed adolescent, Alain (who is the main character of the novel, and in whose voice we hear the narration, retrospectively) - namely, of a certain character and age which I can identify all too well, and which also hearkens to other favorite readings of mine. Alain is the young intellectual and person of faith, who thinks and who sees the world perhaps more wisely than the adults (and, partially, that is true; and, partially, life will teach him later how much he does not know, in fact). And this is also the young man who sees the whole world, and his future, through those intellectual-spiritual prisms, with much hope, and with many plans (which will also change, partially - but not essentially, as he himself  - and we ourselves - can not change, essentially). 

After this initial stage, the novel moves on to a darker territory, more familiar to readers of Mauriac. Let’s not forget, Mauriac’s vocation as a writer was (as he seemingly acknowledged) to examine and to reveal the truth of the darker recesses of the human heart, and of the human existence. The world of sin – but not the glittery, commercially-sold sin, the glamorized one – but of everyday sin, of our daily failings - and also of the much, much darker undergrounds of what at the surface is common existence – in brief, of the human being’s capacity for evil. In many ways, what he talks about in his works is the “bourgeois sin" – which is no less dark, no less terrible, than the most glamorous and public ones, as no economic or social class is excepted and excluded from carrying both the darkest and the brightest dimensions of the spiritual condition of man. Envy, lack of love, misunderstanding – these are the true dark elements of our daily lives, these are the areas of shade in our everyday existence - and not the strident and glittery “bad things,” “bad words” and “bad thoughts” bandied about in the public discourse, or in the noise of the media, social or otherwise.

Because the initial part of the novel reached me on a personal level, I was already invested personally in the main character, Alain, by the time we moved on to the next stage of the story. This is why I found it somewhat irritating and unpleasant to have to bear the weight of the Mother figure throughout most of the book – as I could not relate to it (unlike with the initial part of the book), and as I found it suffocating.

The final turn(s) of events of the novel, however, changed yet again the tone and meaning of the events and of the book, and changed the impact and meaning of the Mother figure as well – for the better. It also clarified and, perhaps, humanized the figures populating the book, and the dynamic between her and Alain. The events affecting Jeanette Séris (the “Louse”) added yet another layer of meaning that, yes, further humanized the characters (including that of the Louse) - while also fleshing out the interstices of human existence in a very realistic and truthful way.

And this, this truthfulness, the accuracy with which life is reflected and described, might be one of the strengths of the novel, and why it stayed with me – because Mauriac is a real writer, a writer pur sang, who can but write, and whose writing is in the service of presenting the truth of life, in all its ugliness, and also with its shining edges. This everydayness of existence that actually constitutes our existence, but which – surprisingly – is scarcely talked about, at least in the public discourse, or in the cultural products consumed and distributed en masse - or, why not, in what passes for our everyday conversations.

The writer as a worker in the service of the real, of existence as it presents itself, morning, noon, and later toward the end of the day.

But it is hard to write this way, because we are so quick (and keen) to slide into commonplaces, clichés, into superficial exaggerations and haughty shortcuts, into “ideas” and “principles” - instead of “life as it is.” Because it is easier that way.

Since the writer, while writing, is churning out in fact his own existence and being, real writing, Mauriac’s sort of writing, is a painful process - of facing one’s own mortality and frailty and cowardice and dark shades, and all that one and one's existence actually is. 

(Yet this, this is the reality that is, or is not redeemed. More often than not, and perhaps even most of the time, we try to redeem reality by covering it with a sheen or veil of interpretations, phantasms, omissions, forgetting, or wishful thinking. But it is the everyday that is redeemed, and it is there that we need to seek and to find the redemption, and the Redemptor – there, or nowhere.)

Because there is redemption in this novel, and at the end of the story – and there is also hope, and there are also plans for a future. Which might be another reason why it appealed to me.

"The End of the Affair," by Graham Greene

[audiobook, narrated by Colin Firth]

I found this version of the (audio)book while searching on YouTube for free audiobooks, and stumbling upon audiobook “trailers” (a new genre of videos, for me) to an “award-winning” narration of Graham Greene’s book, The End of the Affair, featuring British actor Colin Firth. I have read the book before, certainly, but this perked up my attention. I was not disappointed; Firth’s reading has depth - his words and the world that he portrays have depth, they “have been lived in”. I would also say that Firth is now at just the right age to read aloud such a text that expresses a certain tiredness with existence, of having hurt and having been hurt – which is what the main character of the book exhibits and does.

It also helps that I have not read the book in a good while, and that I’ve also seen the not-so-good movie adaptation (featuring Ralph Fiennes and Julianne Moore); all of this contributed to blurring out the details of the plot, and to making me forget the tone of the book. Although I wonder if I’ve really perceived this tone before, when I read the book before - or if I did so fully. If not, that might have to do both with age – my age when I read the book vs. my age now, and also with how this tone is conveyed by Colin Firth’s reading.

And it is this specific tone that most stands out from (listening to) this book. Firth conveys it masterfully: it is weary, most of all; cynical (but not in a cheap way); spiritually bitter and angry; somewhere deep down, at the deepest levels of the self, perhaps almost crying. Of course, this is all “underneath” the text; what we hear and understand at the beginning is only (or mostly) the world-weariness, and the expressed anger of the main character and narrator of the story, Bendrix (what a good choice for his name!). After finishing the story, however, we understand what's been underneath all along, from the beginning; as the story is told in retrospective, by the person who actually lived through it, already in the tone of the beginning of the narration there are the echoes of the end - “of the affair.”

So listening to this narration brought it (the story, the book) to life in a way that I sincerely did not expect. I have been using audiobooks, for the past few years, to fill some of my long drives, and especially when coming back from hiking; yet most of the audiobooks that I have thus consumed have been on the lighter side, because I did not want to “waste” a good (or “real”) book, by listening to it (which I found, and in a way still find, to be a more superficial engagement with the text), before I actually read the text. However, listening to a book that you’ve already read works, works very well. I am referring here, of course, to real books, to real literature; e.g. one should actually "read" Dostoevsky, before “listening” to a rendition of it. (There is something about the encounter with the text, versus that with the sound of it. There are some exceptions, which I will talk about later.) Having thus listened to mostly easier fare, beforehand, (of the John Grisham kind, let’s say), the juxtaposition of that kind of writing with - well, real writing - was, although by no means surprising, still quite revelatory and informative. Yet again, it illustrated the difference between real literature (and superior actor’s craft), on the one hand – and, broadly speaking, tosh or commercial fare, on the other. The difference? - one could call it of existential depth, namely of how close the thing is to life – as lived, in its polysemantic complexity, depth and breadth, and eventual inexpressibility. 

And, speaking of “tone,” I remember that I was somewhat surprised by the tone and “position“ on which the book actually ended; I did not remember him choosing, so to speak, the bleak nothingness, the dull non-committal, the temporal limbo... at the end.

Here is a montage with short interviews and excerpts from reading sessions - to Colin Firth’s audiobook of Graham Greene's The End of the Affair: