Category Archives: life

She loves the alcohol on my lips

In the history of co-dependent relationships there is Hans and Unica, there is Scott and Zelda.

Zelda Fitzgerald

Of his relationship with Zelda, Scott says:

“Perhaps fifty percent of our friends and relations will tell you in good faith that it was my drinking that drove Zelda mad, and the other half would assure you that it was her madness that drove me to drink. Neither of these judgements means much of anything. These two groups of friends and relations would be unanimous in saying that each of us would have been much better off without the other. The irony is that we have never been more in love with each other in all our lives. She loves the alcohol on my lips. I cherish her most extravagant hallucinations. In the end, nothing really had much importance. We destroyed ourselves. But in all honesty, I never thought we destroyed each other.”

Inspired by the chapter “1874: Three Novellas, or “What Happened?”” in  Gilles Deleuze Félix Guattari‘s A Thousand Plateaus (which begins with an illustration by Outcault). The chapter features the short stories/novellas “In the Cage” by Henry James, “The Crack-up” by F. Scott Fitzgerald and “The Story of the Abyss and the Spyglass” by Pierrette Fleutiaux and begins with an analysis of the difference between the short story (nouvelle in the original French version, rendered as novella in Brian Massumi‘s translation) and the tale:

“It is not very difficult to determine the essence of the [short story] as a literary genre: Everything is organized around the question, “What happened? Whatever could have happened?” The tale is the opposite of the [short story], because it is an altogether different question that the reader asks with bated breath: “What is going to happen?” . . . Something always happens in the novel also, but the novel integrates elements of the [short story] and the tale into the variation of its perpetual living present.”

Cherchez la femme

Correspondance amoureuse avec Antoinette de Watteville (1928-1937) (2001)

Balthus and Gin (a young Belgian diplomat) fight over the love of the lovely but fickle Antoinette de Watteville, who can’t make up her mind. After many adventures, the young Swiss noblewoman settles on the painter. Two hundred and forty letters make up this veritable epistolary novel of passion, fury and tears. But these pages are also a chance to discover Balthus in his own words (during these decisive years, he painted three of his masterpieces; “La Rue”, “La Leçon de guitare” and “La Montagne”). Writing to Antoinette, Balthus defends his choices, his conception of painting, his interest in the erotic… He talks of theatre and literature. He evokes his friends: Antonin Artaud, Pierre-Jean Jouve, Michel Leyris, Rainer Maria Rilke. He gets annoyed with the world, which is slowly tipping into a generalized and murdering madness. He suffers endless money worries, and faced with Antoinette’s hesitations, he attempts to take his own life… This correspondence was prepared by Balthus and Antoinette de Watteville’s children, Thadée and Stanislas. Sketches, photographs, notes, and a foreword written by the couple’s sons complete this edition of this moving correspondence — a darkly romantic love story that publicly bares the extraordinary painter’s heart for the first time.

The painting on the cover is La Toilette de Cathy.

On this day in history

I stopped doing working on my ephemerides (as the French call it) a while because it’s a very time consuming job, that nonetheless needs to be done if I want to finish version 1.0 of artandpop before April 8, 2008. I just finished September 3. Did I forget anyone or anything?

Superfluous man

For reasons I better keep to myself, lest I bore you with my personal life, I feel today like superfluous man. So instead of boring you with stories of myself, I will try not to bore you within The Diary of a Superfluous Man (1850) by Turgenev, the Russian writer better known as the author of Fathers and Sons.

March 23. Winter again. The snow is falling in flakes. Superfluous, superfluous. . . . That’s a capital word I have hit on. The more deeply I probe into myself, the more intently I review all my past life, the more I am convinced of the strict truth of this expression. Superfluous–that’s just it. To other people that term is not applicable, . . . People are bad, or good, clever, stupid, pleasant, and disagreeable; but superfluous . . . no. Understand me, though: the universe could get on without those people too . . . no doubt; but uselessness is not their prime characteristic, their most distinctive attribute, and when you speak of them, the word ‘superfluous’ is not the first to rise to your lips. But I . . . there’s nothing else one can say about me; I’m superfluous and nothing more. A supernumerary, and that’s all. Nature, apparently, did not reckon on my appearance, and consequently treated me as an unexpected and uninvited guest. A facetious gentleman, a great devotee of preference, said very happily about me that I was the forfeit my mother had paid at the game of life. I am speaking about myself calmly now, without any bitterness. . . . It’s all over and done with!