WRITER’S
NOSE
by Douglas Messerli
Anne
Gédéon Lafitte, Marqius de Pelleport The
Bohemians, trans. from the French by Vivian Folkenflik, with an Introduction
by Robert Darnton (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010)
In the late
1780s the marquis de Sade sat, before his transfer to the insane asylum at
Charenton, imprisoned in the Bastille, writing his memorable “erotic” fiction, Les 120 Journées de Sodome. What we are
told in this newly rediscovered fiction, Les
Bohémiens, is at the very same moment, another marquis, the Marquis de
Pelleport, was sitting in a nearby cell penning his own erotic and sometimes
slanderous work, as strongly dedicated to open and libertine sexuality and
anti-church sentiment as de Sade’s notorious fiction.
Published by the University of
Pennsylvania Press in English for the first time since its original 1790
publication, The Bohemians was nearly
lost to history. As Robert Darnton, in a substantial introduction writes, “Only
a half-dozen copies are available in libraries throughout the world” of the
work which “opens a window into the world of garret poets, literary
adventurers, down-and-out philosophers, and Grub Street hacks” that might never
again have been available.
Pelleport was himself, as the final
chapters titled “The Pilgrim’s Narrative” reveals, just such a figure. Like
many others of the day, he wrote what might now be compared to the popular
tabloid newspapers, gossip of famous people that was so scandalous that, on
occasion, the wealthy paid to squelch its publication. Moreover, Pelleport got
involved with numerous other scams, including the attempt to transport of wine
for which he had not paid, and other petty criminal acts.
In the fiction’s numerous
digressions—Darnton suggests among the author’s influences are Don Quioxte and Tristam Shandy—many of these autobiographical elements are hidden,
but are unimportant in the flow of the narrative. The author himself mocks his
own digressions, often taking the part of the reader to argue for and against
the loose narrative structure he has chosen. It is apparent, however, that that
structure—despite the editor’s or publisher’s assertion that the work is a
“Novel” on the front cover—are perfectly at home in the picaresque genre which
the work follows, a structure in which the characters are constantly on the
move, awaiting each day for a new adventure.
A great deal of the fun of this writing
issues from the authorial voice questioning, justifying, and simply playing
with the reader’s expectations. For the reader unfriendly with pre- and
post-modern literary techniques, this book will surely appear as a
self-conscious parody of fictional tropes. Chapter Seven, for example, joyfully
begins:
Have you ever been to
Saint-Malo? I know nothing of the
place, to tell the truth, and for once my
ignorance proves
my good faith; for you are not someone I would fib to, like
travelers who lie with more imprudence if they their
listeners have never
been within a hundred leagues of the
place in question. Ah well! Take me as
I am: a man who
has crossed the equator twice.
Similarly, Chapter Thirteen takes on the
possible impatience of the readers for all the narrative intrusions:
You grow impatient, dear reader,
you seem annoyed to see
the heavy curtain of rational discourse
lowered onto the stage.
If I took your word for it, my actors would have
no interval
to catch their breathes. I am thrilled to hear the stamping
of
your feet and your neighbors’ canes in interruption the
orchestra, while provincials in the audience call: “Begin!
Begin!”
The
“put-down” of the reader continues for a few more paragraphs.
Moreover, The Bohemians, like many works of its day, contains no coherent
narrative. A band of would-be philosophers wander about the countryside, all
arguing their ridiculous philosophical positions with one another when they are
not busy stealing livestock and vegetables from nearby peasants or giving
themselves up to the sexual pleasures of the women who accompany them.
If the work of gay-artist David
Wojnarowicz so severely shocks the sensibilities of some American viewers that
the Smithsonian Museum can be made to remove his work, A Fire in My Belly, then the Marquis de Pelleport will thoroughly
offend conservative readers in his hilariously over-the-top depiction of an
orgy held by the Bohemian troupe accompanied by a group of Capuchin monks and
even a donkey. Despite the narrator’s outrageously overblown metaphors of
chivalric love with which he describes all the possible combinations of sexual
acts, de Pelleport allows us to almost smell the sweat of lust and dust which
permeate his tribe of absurd thinkers, leading a convent head later in the book
to insist he can literally smell the Capuchin upon them.
As I have mentioned, the last chapters
concern Pelleport’s life itself, a sad tale of woe he blames on his career as a
writer. His adventures, however, also focus upon a rope bequeathed to him by
monk which, with a quick pull, suddenly enlarges his nose, thereby attracting
all women to him immediately—presumably since the protuberance hints at the
size of his sexual organ. He is, at first, quite delighted, until this writer’s
nose leads him further and further into danger before he becomes so utterly
impoverished and entrapped that he ends up—well, we already know where—in a
cell neighboring the great sexual sado-masochist.
In all, de Pelleport’s tale is a true
treat for the ears. The only problem is that, at times, it is so literate, so
embedded with literary metaphors, classical stories, and references to obscure
texts that the editor and translator found the need to include some 44 pages of
small-print footnotes, explaining their meaning to the modern reader. These are
highly useful; but the flip back and forth between text and its academic
trappings leads to a somewhat arduous and laborious trip through de Pelleport’s
sassy satire.
Los Angeles, December 19, 2010
Reprinted
from Rain Taxi, XVI, No. (Spring
2011).
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