 |
| THE BOGIES |
BOOKS AND BOOKMEN, FROM 1892 EXAMINES "SOME JAPANESE BOGIE-BOOKS, IN CASE YOU DIDN'T KNOW WHAT THEY WERE!
THERE'S SOMETHING SPECIAL ABOUT THE CONTENT OF GOOD OLD BOOKS, AND THE STRANGE OPINIONS OF SOME AUTHORS
To begin this blog today, I want to share an experience I've never had before, up close and personal, that is. I was working in the rear studio-shop of our business, yesterday afternoon, a few moments before closing time. I'd been working at this laptop for most of the day, with a few breaks, and it does get hard on the eyes. I usually just nod off when my eyes start to get heavy. I have pretty good vision but staring at this blue screen for hours on end, can cause eye strain. So I do take frequent breaks. I was getting ready to shut it down, as my proofreading was finished. I began to get a fluttering shadow in my right eye, and I knew it was a case I'd been working too long for my own good. I finally looked after a few moments, because the wavering shadow also had an attached sound, that didn't seem to mesh with strained eyes. I looked up, and by golly, there was a huge bat flying in circles a few inches over my head. I thought it was a small bird more than a bat, but it kept buzzing the top of my head, and it wouldn't even let me get up, the sortees were so close to my ball cap. I called for Suzanne to help me distract the beast, long enough for me to get off the couch, and arm myself with some type of device to bring it down to earth. For a half an hour, that bat dive-bombed us, and eventually got out into the long hall, where it just went up and down, able to dodge its pursuers, with brooms and a box we had to rid the building of our unwelcome guest. It was right out of America's Funniest Home Videos. There were a lot of misses associated with this mission. This little sucker didn't want to give up, and I was getting to the point, of believing it best to just leave him in a safe roost for the night, to resume the debacle again, the next morning. Finally, the little fellow found a piece of blanket, blocking the opening at the bottom of a door, to a storage locker, as a place for a little respite. Got him. Tucked him in a box, let him get his wits together, before taking him to a safe site outdoors, to figure out a better place to make home. Thank goodness there weren't any customers or guitar students at the time of the bombing runs. The bat wasn't hurt by the way, and he got out of the box eventually, and didn't freeze to death, or at least, that we know about. But it was one of those hilarious moments in shop history that transcends everything else we do here. And that keeps status quo from getting too thick and unmovable for our own good.
Historically speaking, there are many reasons for consulting an antiquated text, where the author casts opinions about world events, for example, based of course on the values of the period, and in some cases, prejudices associated with the ignorances of the day. I like books, such as the one I recently reviewed, from the 1850's, that discussed the potential of life on other planets. Not alien life, as we understand it today, but planets civilized by God, just as he established on earth. These overviews and opinions, about everything from medicine, healing, all matters of science, astronomy, and even the paranormal, are quite fascinating for the modernist. When someone, who doesn't really care for old books, asks me why I like to bury myself in the words of yesteryear, I immediately draw them back to the issue of "discovery," and continuous learning. Looking back at the theories of our forefathers and mothers, gives us an opportunity to appreciate just how much bridging in knowledge and discovery, has occurred, since, for example, the early 1800's. I don't think young people realize just how far knowledge has been advanced in the past century and a half, from improvements in the early dynamics of the industrial revolution, to advances in the way medicine has climbed from the dark ages, and the use of leeches, as the cure illnesses of the blood and circulation system of the human body. Unless we know the huge leap mankind has taken in the past five decades, especially the exponential advancements of technology to better serve humankind, it's almost impossible, for students today, to appreciate what civilization was lacking in 1750, 1850, 1950, as compared to the rapid rate of modernization today, when technology is being improved upon many times in any given year, even daily, that will affect the way we proceed in the future; which for some of the older generation, seems to be the actuality of science fiction, without the "fiction." When I find a particularly old book, that has interesting revelations within, and some overviews that are extreme and prejudiced to the time period, I do like to share it with readers of my blogs. This is very much the case today, with the book I've been working from, by Andrew Lang, entitled "Books and Bookmen," published in small format, in hardcover, back in the late Victorian era. I am absolutely fascinated when books deal with matters of the paranormal, as overviews are usually, and often profoundly influenced, as might be obvious, by the social / cultural / political / religious impositions of the era. There were imposed restrictions, and moral considerations to take into account, before presenting a book to the public, which may have possessed something controversial for the time period. Authors did break trail in this regard, but it should also be known, they suffered for their craft, when there was governmental and public outcry about the subject matter. I enjoy reading these ground breaking essays, that gave the public an exciting new perspective on old and tired philosophies, and beliefs, that couldn't be supported beyond being imposed by authority, as the correct way the citizenry should act, and believe in the power of God. Andrew Lang's overview of Japanese and Chinese "Bogies" is quite interesting, but may have taken some liberties with the cultural history of both countries; but acceptable in the Victorian era, when there was a growing and morbid interest in the study of death and the paranormal. This story may reflect on some of these fascinations, from another culture and religion.
"There is, or used to be, a poem for infant minds, of a rather Pharisaical character, which was popular in the nursery when I was a youngster. It ran something like this: 'I thank my stars that I was born, a little British child.' Perhaps these were not the very words, but that was decidedly the sentiment. Look at the Japanese infants from the pencil of the famous Hokusai. Though they are not British, were there ever two jollier, happier small creatures? (See pictures re-published above). Did Leech, or Mr. Du Maurier, or Andrea della Robbia, ever present a more delightful view of innocent, well-pleased childhood? Well, these Japanese children, if they are in the least inclined to be timid or nervous, must have an awful time of it at night in the dark, and when they make that eerie 'northwest passage,' bedwards, through the darking house of which Mr. Stevenson sings the perils and the emotions. All of us who did not suffer under parents brought up on the views of Mr. Herbert Spencer, have endured in childhood, a good deal from ghosts. But it is nothing to what Japanese children bear; for our ghosts are to the spectres of Japan, as moonlight is to sunlight, or as water unto whisky." The passage above was written by Andrew Lang, in his 1892 test, "Books and Bookmen," published by Longmans, Green & Company. The good Mr. Lang provides an interesting profile of what constitutes "Japanese Bogie-Books," from this Victorian era perspective.
"Personally I may say that few people have been plagued by the terror that walketh the darkness more than myself. At an early age of ten, I had the tales of the ingenious Mr. Edgar Poe and of Charlotte Bronte 'put into my hands' by a cousin who had served as a Bashi Bazouk, and knew not the meaning of fear. But I did, and perhaps even (Admiral) Nelson would have found out 'what fear was,' or the boy in the German tale would have 'learned to shiver,' if he had been left alone to peruse 'Jane Eyre,' and the 'Black Cat,' and the 'Fall of the House of Usher,' as I was. Every night I expected to wake up in my coffin, having been prematurely buried; or to hear sighs in the area, followed by light, unsteady footsteps on the stairs, and then to see a lady all in a white shroud, stained with blood and clay, stagger into my room, the victim of too rapid interment. As to the notion that my respected kinsman had a mad wife concealed on the premises, and that a lunatic aunt, black in the face with suppressed mania, would burst into my chamber, it was comparatively a harmless fancy, and not particularly disturbing. Between these and the 'Yellow Dwarf,' who (though only the invention of the Countess D'Aulnoy) I might frighted a nervous infant into hysterics, I personally had as bad a time of it in the night watches as any happy British child has survived. But our ogres are nothing to the bogies which make not only night but day terrible to the studious infants of Japan and China." Keep in mind that this was written and published in the early 1890's, from researched commenced much earlier, so it can be expected some of the material may appear politically incorrect, and even potentially racist as some passages might be interpreted, by some readers.
Andrew Lang continues, noting, "Chinese ghosts are probably much the same as Japanese ghosts. The Japanese have borrowed most things, including apparitions and awesome sprites and grisly fiends, from the Chinese, and then have improved on the original model. Now we have a very full, complete, and horror striking account of Chinese haruts (at the country people in Tennessee call them) from Mr. Herbert Giles, who has translated scores of Chinese ghost stories in his 'Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio,' (De la Rue, 1880). Mr. Gile's volumes prove that China is the place for learned and active secretaries of the Psychical Society. Ghosts do not live in a hole-and-corner life in China, but boldly come out and take their part in the pleasures and business of life. It has always been a question with me whether ghosts, in a haunted house, appear when there is no audience. What does the spectre in the tapestried chamber do when the house is not full, and not guest is put in the room to bury strangers in, the haunted room? Does the ghost sulk and complain that there is 'no house,' and refuse to rehearse this little performance, in a conscientious and disinterestingly artistic spirit, when deprived of the artist's true pleasure, the awakening of sympathetic emotion in the mind of the spectator? We give too little thought and sympathy to ghosts who in our old castles and country houses often find no one to appear to from year's end to year's end. Only now and then is a guest placed in the 'haunted room.' Then I like to fancy the glee of the lady in green, or the radiant boy, or the headless man, or the old gentleman in snuff-colored clothes, as he, or she, recognizes the presence of a spectator, and prepares to give his or her best effects in familiar style.
"Now in China and Japan certainly, a ghost does not wait till people enter the haunted room; a ghost, like a person of fashion, 'goes everywhere.' Moreover, he has this artistic excellence that very often you don't know him from an embodied person. He counterfets mortality so cleverly that he (the ghost) has been known to personate a candidate for honours, and pass an examination for him. A pleasing example of this kind, illustrating the limitations of ghosts, is told by Mr. Giles's book. A gentleman of Huai Shang, named Chou-t'ien-i, had arrived at the age of fifty, but his family consisted of but one son, a fine boy, 'strangely averse from study,' as if there were anything strange in that. One day the son disappeared mysteriously, as people do from West Ham. In a year he came back, said he had been detained in a Taoist monastery, and, to all men's amazement, took to his books. Next year he obtained his Bachelor of Arts degree, a first class. All the neighborhood was overjoyed, for Huai Shang was like Pembroke College (Oxford) where, according to the poet,' first class men are few and far between.' It was who should have the honour of giving his daughter as bride to this intellectual marvel. A very nice girl was selected, but most unexpectedly the B.A. would not marry. This nearly broke his father's heart. The old gentleman knew, according to Chinese belief, that if he had no grandchild there would be no one in the next generation to feed his own ghost, and pay it all the little needful attentions. 'Picture, then, the father naming and insisting on the day (marriage);' till K'o-ch-ang, B.A. got up and ran away. His mother tried to detain him, when his clothes 'came off in her hand,' and the bachelor vanished. Next day appeared the real flesh and blood son, who had been kidnapped and enslaved. The genuine K'o-ch-ang was overjoyed to hear of his approaching nuptials. The rites were duly celebrated, and in no less than a year, the old gentleman welcomed his much-longed-for grandchild. But, oddly enough, K'o-ch-ang, though very jolly, and universally beloved, was as stupid as ever, and read nothing but the sporting intelligence in the newspapers. It was now universally admitted that the learned K'o-ch'ang had been an impostor, a clever ghost. It follows that ghosts can take a very good degree; but ladies need not be afraid of marrying ghosts, owing to the inveterate shyness of these learned spectres."
Mr. Lang goes on to note, "The Chinese ghost is by no means always a malevolent person, as, indeed, has already been made clear from the affecting narrative of the ghost who passed an examination. Even the spectre which answers in China to the statue in 'Don Juan,' the statue which accepts invitations to dinner, is anything but a malevolent guest. So much may be gathered from the story of Chu and Lu. Chu was an undergraduate of great courage and bodily vigour, but dull of wit. He was a married man, and his children (as in the old Oxford legend) often rushed into their mother's presence shouting 'Mamma, mamma, papa's been plucked again!' Once it chanced that Chu was at a wine party, and the negus (a favorite beverage of the Celestials) had done its work. His young friends bet Chu a bird's nest dinner, that he would not go to the nearest temple, enter the room devoted to coloured sculptures representing the torments of Purgatory, and carry off the image of the Chinese judge of the dead, their Osiris, of Rhadamanthus. Off went old Chu, and soon returned with the august effigy (which wore a green face, a red beard, and a hideous expression) in his arms. The other men were frightened, and begged Chu to restore his worship to his place on the infernal bench. Before carrying back the worthy magistrate, Chu poured a libation on the ground and said, 'Whenever you excellency feels so disposed, I shall be glad to take a cup of wine with you in a friendly way.' That very night, as Chu was taking a stirrup cup before going to bed, the ghost of the awful judge came to the door and entered. Chu promptly put the kettle on, mixed the negus, and made a night of it with the festive fiend. Their friendship was never interrupted from that moment. The judge even gave Chu a new heart (literally) whereby he was enabled to pass examinations; for the heart, in China, is the seat of all the intellectual faculties. For Mrs. Chu, a plain woman, with a fine figure, the ghost provided a new head, of a handsome girl recently slain by a robber. Even after Chu's death the genial spectre did not neglect him, but obtained for him an appointment as registrar in the next world, with a certain rank attached.
"The next world, among the Chinese, seems to be a paradise of bureaucracy, patent places, jobs, mandarins' buttons and tails, and, in short, the heaven of officialdom. All civilized readers are acquainted with Mr. Stockton's humorous story of 'The Transferred Ghost.' In Mr. Stockton's view, a man does not always get his own ghostship; there is a vigorous competition among spirits for good ghostships, and a great deal of intrigue and party feeling. It may be long before a disembodied spectre gets any ghostship at all, and then, if he has little influence, he may be glad to take a chance of haunting the Board of Trade, or the Post Office, instead of 'walking' in the Foreign Office. One spirit may win a post as White Lady in the imperial palace, while another is put off with a position in an old college library, or perhaps has to follow the fortunes of some seedy 'medium' through boarding houses and third-rate hotels. Now this is precisely the Chinese view of the fates and fortunes of ghosts."
The author reports that "In China, to be brief, and to quote a ghost (who ought to know what he was speaking about) 'supernaturals are to be found everywhere.' This is the fact that makes life so puzzling and terrible to a child of a believing and trustful character. These Oriental bogies do not appear in the dark alone, or only in haunted houses, or at cross-roads, or in gloomy woods. They are everywhere: every man has his own ghost, every place has its peculiar haunting fiend, every natural phenomenon has its informing spirit; every quality, as hunger, greed, envy, malice, has an embodied visible shape prowling about seeking what it may devour. Where our science, for example, sees (or rather smells) sewer gas, the Japanese behold a slimy, meagre, insatiate wrath, crawling to devour the lives of men. Where we see a storm of snow, their livelier fancy beholds a comic snow-ghost, a queer, grinning old man under a vast umbrella. The illustrations in this paper (book) are only a few specimens chosen out of many volumes of Japanese bogies. We have not ventured to copy the very most awful spectres, nor dared to be as horrid as we can. These native drawings, too, are generally coloured regardless of expense, and the colouring is often horribly lurid and satisfactory. This embellishment, fortunately perhaps, we cannot reproduce. Meanwhile, if any child looks into this essay, let him (or her) not be alarmed by the pictures he beholds. Japanese ghosts do not live in this country; there are none of them even at the Japanese Legation. Just as bears, lions, and rattlesnakes, are not to be seriously dreaded in our woods and commons, so the Japanese ghost cannot breathe (any more than a slave can) in the air of England and America. We do not yet even keep any ghostly zoological garden in which the bogies of Japanese, Australians, Red Indians, and other distant peoples may be accommodated. Such an establishment is perhaps to be desired in the interests of psychial research, but that form of research has not yet been endowed by a cultivated and progressive government."
Can you believe this? A ghostly zoological garden for captured and transplanted bogies to be housed and exhibited! Gads! The Victorians had high expectations for things like this. Please join me for part two of this story in tomorrow's blog.
THE OLD BOOKSHOP AS A MEETING PLACE OF AUTHORS, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIANS, POETS AND PHILOSOPHERS
THE REAL HAUNTED BOOK SHOP, AND PLEASANTLY SO……
AS A MATTER OF CURIOSITY, AS IT DOES RELATE SOMEWHAT TO THIS BLOG, AN ARTICLE PUBLISHED IN THE TORONTO STAR TODAY, JANUARY 31ST, ENTITLED "FINNEGANS WAKE SELLS OUT IN CHINA," SEEMED WORTH INCLUDING, IF JUST A MENTION. IT SEEMS IRISH WRITER JAMES JOYCE, IS STILL POPULAR AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, ESPECIALLY SO IN CHINA. IT WAS THE FIRST CHINESE TRANSLATION, AND 8,000 COPIES WERE SOLD. ISN'T IT GREAT TO KNOW THAT WE STILL HAVE RESPECT FOR BOOKS AND GREAT AUTHORS…..DESPITE THE FACT, A STORY IN THE STAR EARLIER IN THE WEEK, WAS DEALING WITH BOOKS AS "DECORATOR ITEMS," IN THIS MODERN ERA OF ELECTRONIC READERS…..BUT BIG INTEREST IN MAKING THE DIGS LOOK GREAT. SO READING THIS STORY ABOUT JOYCE TODAY, WARMS A BIBLIOPHILE'S HEART. EVEN THOUGH I'M NOT MUCH FOR FICTION, I STILL HAVE A SOFT SPOT FOR THE CLASSICS, AND THE MOST REVERED AUTHORS IN HISTORY, OF WHICH JOYCE IS WELL UP THERE. THE BLOG TODAY WILL PUT JAMES JOYCE, BACK QUITE A FEW DECADES, AT TWO VERY IMPORTANT BOOKSHOPS IN PARIS, FRANCE……ONE OF THE TWO SHOPS, WHICH ACTUALLY FINANCED PRINTING COSTS OF "ULLYSES," ANOTHER OF JOYCE'S WORKS
MY HARDCOVER COPY OF "THE VERY RICH HOURS OF ADRIENNE MONNIER," THE TRANSLATED ENGLISH COPY (ORIGINAL IN FRENCH) BY RICHARD MCDOUGALL, IS PRETTY BEAT-UP AND THE DUSTJACKET IS TORN TO SHREDS, BUT IT IS ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT REFERENCE BOOKS I OWN. IT IS THE BOOK, PUBLISHED IN 1976, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, NEW YORK, THAT I ROUTINELY CALL UPON WHEN I START QUESTIONING MY RELATIONSHIP WITH OLD BOOKS AND WELL, THE OLD WAYS OF PACKAGED PRINT. THE BOOK JACKET, SHOWING A CASUAL ADRIENE MONNIER, AT HER DINING TABLE, IS, AS IT CLAIMS, A BIOGRAPHY OFFERING "AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF THE LITERARY AND ARTISTIC LIFE IN PARIS BETWEEN THE WARS."
IT IS ANOTHER BIOGRAPHY EVERY BOOKSELLER SHOULD OWN, AND HOLD CLOSE, AS IT OFFERS SO MUCH INSPIRATION, WHETHER YOU ARE A MAJOR SELLER, OR JUST A HOBBYIST WITH A BOOTH IN AN ANTIQUE MALL. IT'S THE PROFESSION THAT IS SO WONDERFULLY ADDRESSED IN THIS BIOGRAPHY. IT'S THE COMPANY THAT MISS MONNIER KEPT, THAT IS WHAT COMPELS ME TO COME BACK TO THE BOOK, TIME AND AGAIN; AND WHAT INSPIRES ME TO NEVER TAKE A DAY FOR GRANTED IN THE ANTIQUE BUSINESS. I LOOK UP EAGERLY, FROM BEHIND OUR SHOP COUNTER, WHENEVER THE DOOR OPENS, AND ANOTHER INTERESTING SOUL WANDERS INTO OUR COLLECTION OF BOOKS, AND EVERYTHING ELSE THAT KEEPS AN ANTIQUE DEALER IN BUSINESS. WHILE I'M A MILLION MILES FROM THE CALIBRE OF THE PARIS BOOKSELLERs, AND MY GUESTS HAVEN'T BEEN INTERNATIONALLY ACCLAIMED AUTHORS, OR SO I SUSPECT, I HAVE NONE THE LESS, MET SOME FABULOUSLY INTERESTING FOLKS…..AND THE BOOK BUSINESS IN PARTICULAR, IS FAMOUS FOR THIS. BUT IF I COULD TIME TRAVEL, FOLKS, I'D WANT TO BE IN EITHER OF THESE HISTORIC BOOK SHOPS, WITH MY HAND OUTSTRETCHED, AS A VOLUNTEER GREETER, BECAUSE THEY HAD SUCH A FABULOUS ALLURE EVEN THEN…..FOR SOME OF THE GREATEST WRITERS IN HISTORY. SO LET'S NOT BEAT ABOUT THE BUSH ANY LONGER. WE'LL CATCH A TIME WARP FOR A LITTLE VISIT OF OUR OWN…..TO PARIS, FRANCE AT AROUND 1915.
"ADRIENNE MONNIER WAS THE OWNER OF THE BOOKSHOP, LA MAISON DES AMIS LIVRES, IN PARIS, A CENTER FOR THE BEST CONTEMPORARY FRENCH WRITING AND FOR ITS AUTHORS; ANDREW BRETON, GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE, JULES ROMAINS, ADRE GIDE. THROUGH HER FRIEND SYLVIA BEACH, WHOSE SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY WAS JUST ACROSS THE STREET, SHE BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH HEMINGWAY, FITZGERALD AND OTHER AMERICANS IN PARIS. ABOUT THE WORK AND LIVES OF THE WRITERS OF THE PAST AS WELL, SHE WROTE WITH GRACE AND THE INSIGHT OF ONE WHO WAS PERFECTLY AT HOME IN LITERATURE. THE THEATRE HAD FOR HER AN ALMOST MAGIC CHARM (SHE REMEMBERS MAETERLINCK, DE MAX, AND BERNHARDT), AS DID THE CIRCUS, THE FOLIES-BERGERE, AND ALL THE SPECTACLES OF PARIS. SHE PUBLISHED PAUL VALERY, SPONSORED JAMES JOYCE IN FRANCE, AND PAID T.S. ELIOT A RETURN VISIT TO LONDON, SHE REMAINED VERY MUCH A COUNTRY PERSON, SURE OF HER ROOTS IN SAVOY WHERE EVERY SUMMER WITH SYLVIA BEACH, SHE RETURNED. HER CHRONICLE FAITHFULLY ILLUMINATES AN ERA."
IN THE INTRODUCTION, AS WRITTEN BY RICHARD MCDOUGALL, HE WRITES, "BUT WE ARE CONCERNED WITH A MUCH LATER ERA, ONE THAT BEGAN IN THE SECOND YEAR OF WORLD WAR I, IN NOVEMBER, 1915, WHEN AS A YOUNG WOMAN OF TWENTY-THREE, ADRIENNE MONNIER, THE FOUNDER AND CHRONICLER OF ODEONIA, THE NAME IS HER OWN INVENTION, OPENED HER BOOKSHOP, LATER TO BE CALLED LA MAISON DES AMIS DES LIVRES, AT NUMBER 7 RUE DE L'ODIEN, ON THE LEFT SIDE OF THE STREET GOING UP TOWARD THE PLACE DE L'ODEON. 'BUILT IN A TIME OF DESTRUCTION,' AS SHE SAYS IN HER ARTICLE THAT TAKES ITS NAME, THE BOOKSHOP, THROUGH WHAT COULD ONLY HAVE BEEN THE SHEER COURAGE AND INTELLIGENCE OF ITS OWNER, ENDURED THROUGH THE WAR AS ONE OF THE FEW INTELLECTUAL CENTERS OF THE BESIEGED CITY, A PLACE WHERE WRITERS, SOME OF THEM, LIKE ANDRE BRETON AND GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE, IN UNIFORM - COULD GATHER AND, AT MEETINGS, ARRANGED BY ADRIENNE MONNIER, READ FROM THEIR OWN WORKS. AND IT WAS HERE ONE DAY TOWARD THE END OF THE WAR, THAT SHE WAS PROVIDENTIALLY VISITED BY THE AMERICAN, SYLVIA BEACH, WHO WITH MONNIER'S ENCOURAGEMENT FOUNDED HER ENGLISH-LANGUAGE BOOKSHOP, SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY IN 1919 - ANOTHER SIGNIFICANT DATE IN THE HISTORY OF ODEONIA - AT 8 RUE DUPUYTREN, JUST AROUND THE CORNER FROM ADRIENNE MONNIER.
"IN THE SUMMER OF 1921, WHEN THE TWO WOMEN WERE ALREADY CLOSE FRIENDS, WHEN SYLVIA BEACH HAD ALREADY UNDERTAKEN THE PUBLISHING OF JAMES JOYCE'S ULYSSES, THE PROUDEST ADVENTURE OF HER CAREER, SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY MOVED TO NUMBER 12 RUE DE L'ODEON, ACROSS THE STREET FROM LA MAISON DES AMIS DES LIVRES. THE MOVE WAS AS SYMBOLIC AS IT WAS PRACTICAL, FOR THE CLOSENESS OF THE TWO SHOPS WAS TO STAND FOR AS WELL, AS TO FURTHER CONTACTS BETWEEN THE FRENCH WRITERS WHO FREQUENTED ADRIENNE MONNIER AND THE ENGLISH SPEAKING PATRONS OF SYLVIA BEACH; IT REPRESENTED AS WELL THE ENDURING FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN THE TWO WOMEN AND CONSOLIDATED THE PHYSICAL REGION OF THAT COUNTRY OF THE SPIRIT."
AN OVERVIEW OF RUE DE L'ODEON THROUGH THE EYES OF JUSTIN O'BRIEN
THE BOOK CONTAINS AN OVERVIEW SECTION, WRITTEN BY JUSTIN O'BRIEN, "THE SCHOLAR AND TRANSLATOR OF FRENCH LITERATURE. ALTHOUGH HE WAS RELATIVELY A LATECOMER TO THE STREET, HIS IMPRESSIONS HOLD TRUE FOR THE ENTIRE PERIOD BETWEEN THE TWO WARS," WRITES RICHARD MCDOUGALL. THE ARTICLE BY O'BRIEN WAS PUBLISHED IN JANUARY 1956, IN THE MERCURE DE FRANCE, AND WAS WRITTEN IN HOMAGE TO ADRIENNE MONIER:
"For the young American in the thirties, the Rue de l'Odeon was the intellectual centre of Paris. On the right side going up the street, he stopped first before the narrow shop window of Shakespeare and Company, which was filled with books in his language, but most often in editions that he had not encountered anywhere else. The volumes by T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Virginia Woolf stood near limited Parisian editions and the enormous paperbound 'Ulysses'….Almost opposite Shakespeare and Company, La Maison de Amis des Liveres, perhaps even more attractive for him who had everything to know about the French domain, revealed to him the latest Gide, the latest Valery, the latest Fargue, along with the avant-garde reviews and books thirty, or fifty years old, but for him absolutely new.
"From time to time, entering one or the other of those welcoming houses, he could see up close - what he used to dream about in New York - some of this gods. James Joyce in dark glasses and with a light-colored moustache, Gide arrayed in his flowing cape, Cocteau with his prestidigitator's hands. Even those whom he did not see there were present, thanks to the fascinating pictures hung on the walls."
O'Brien writes, "Le Maison des Amis des Liveres, was well named, for Adrienne Monnier received there with an equal goodwill all those who really loved books. There was only, in the matter of hierarchy, those who knew from farm back, the mistress of that salon covered with books and with who she conversed at length, sitting in front of a big table spread with papers. From the day when she invited the young American to take a place near her, between the table and the stove, her rosy race with its mauve-blue eyes became the symbol of that friendly house. Those conversations by fits and starts, in the course of which Adrienne Monnier informed herself about his readings and suggested others to him with that so communicative enthusiasm, of which she had the secret, were precious initiation for him to all the best that modern literature offers."
In the same issue of the mercer de France, German writer, Siegfried Kracauer, noted of Adrienne Monnier, that " She listened more than she spoke and looked at you often, attentive, before answering or drawing your attention to an idea that had come into her mind while she was listening. Her eyes, were they blue? I know only that her look came from a depth that seemed to me to be not easily accessible. The brightness of her outer aspect, of the room, and even of her voice, was not an ordinary brightness, but the covering of the form of an inner self that was lost in the shadows. Perhaps it was this interference of a foreground and a background, of a luminous exterior and a secret spiritual ground that thus drew me to her.
"I made myself a precise image of her. The character trait to which my veneration and my love went out, it remains forever engraved in my heart - was that mixture of rusticity and aristocracy that Proust never wearied of praising in the old Francoise and the Duchesse de Guermantes. Around these characters there is still the good smell of French soil, and as they personify in their bearing and their language, centuries of ancestral traditions, how would it be possible that they were not of an authentic distinction. It is thus that I see Adrienne Monnier before me."
We will return to Le Maison des Amis des Livres, and both Sylvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier again tomorrow…..two bookshops that extend well beyond the definition of legend. Thanks for joining me today for this little bookshop adventure. Much more to come in future blogs.
No comments:
Post a Comment