Mathias is having a lot of fun with the magazine crowd because the poets do a lot of public readings with just a microphone or a soundtrack sometimes accompanied by video. Some of them even accompany themselves with a laptop, an electric guitar, or a tub full of dishwater. These presentations have a vocabulary all their own. A simple reading with a mic is called a dry voice, a reading with a soundtrack, a slide show, or video is called a performance, a reading with a computer is called a laptop performance, a reading with an electric guitar is called a Christopher Fiat performance, a reading with a tub full of dishwater is quite simple a catastrophe we could’ve done without tonight. Mathias is having a lot of fun because the participants have a keen sense of research without settling for reviving dying avant-gardes, they often argue energetically about positions that always seem pointless, cryptic, or bordering on anal behavior for the uninitiated but which turn out to be crucial when you look closer and especially because you wouldn’t think so but poets really know how to have fun between two fights over Guyotat and a Deleuzio-Derridian split.
Mathias doesn’t get involved in any off-page activities. He’s confusedly conscious that it’s not really a continuation, an illustration, an extension of the written work, that something else is at play in these so-called performances, even though some nights attendance is sparse. Confusedly conscious because confused consciousness, maybe even atrophied, already atrophied, shriveled in the acid of his battle plan, Mathias is confusedly conscious that something’s going on in his mind-body relationship, his mind-body relationship is in danger, in danger from bodies, but Mathias can’t see and couldn’t see, never ever will see never will understand that he docked Phase 1 in one of those rare centers of resistance, one of these rare centers of struggle, of reflection, of sparring, one of these rare places where people know that language has to be crimped, snared, sharpened, made uncomfortable so they can slice off, slice into, one of the last fertile areas where the unstoppable crabgrass sprouts. Mathias is not conscious of it but his brain is, though it’s already too oxygen deprived to tell him, his brain frightened by the tide of static, his brain minute by minute must unfailingly expel brown swells outrageous lapping, Mathias is not aware that the enemy exists, that the war is real, the opposition here, that if he’s the last one standing they will be the ones, that the merchants can do everything except take language. They use it they think, subjugate it they believe, but no slogan, no commercial narrative, no calming novel, no formulaic fiction, no marketing plans can ever make it their own.
Mathias’s brain says:
And never will sorrow be made from our flowers.
Sylia Aire (a writer) adds:
For example, I’ve just read the first novel written by Mathias Rouault, a very promising young writer.
Mathias’s brain says:
If mud is certain the molasses in my soul cannot drown anything as long as my heart is basalt and my kidneys you know I owe you my spleen Herculaneum.
Étienne Lousteau (freelancer at who-knows-where) adds:
The pretentious outmoded lyricism and the constant metaphors bordering on the ridiculous quickly become tiring. But despite its posing and pathetic title, Adénomes et margaritas is nonetheless a dark novel, punctuated with lightning flashes, to which no reader will remain indifferent.
Mathias’s hand begins to say:
Lunch on Thursday? Thanks again. Best. mr.
Mathias knows there’s a pitfall somewhere. When he talks to Eugène about what he reads and sees his friend always answers but who’s that. Who’s that. Who’s that is the question Eugène uses the most during their very frequent exchanges. When he hears who’s that Mathias knows what to do. He has to answer in a precise order while his brain panics Number 2 we want information. In the space of a year Mathias has learned that the résumé of any writer cited during a conversation with Eugène has to imperatively include the following information, or else the file will be refused for lack of evidence.
Form XK003-87
General Information—Page 1 of 2
First Name, Last Name
(Origin welcome in the case of pseudonyms)
Sex
❏ Male
❏ Female
Age In the case of women under 40 indicate
❏ Still sexy
❏ Doable
❏ Nearing expiration date
❏ Past expiration date
In the case of men under 50 indicate
❏ Still in good shape
❏ Still in good shape but lecherous
❏ Paunchy
❏ Paunchy and lecherous
❏ Paunchy, lecherous, and alcoholic
Marital Status
In a Relationship or a Legal Civil Union with, Married to, Living with
❏ A publisher (male or female)
❏ A journalist (male or female)
❏ A writer (male or female)
❏ An actor/actress
❏ A singer (male or female)
❏ An appropriate person from the Left Bank of Paris (specify who)
❏ Single
Additional biographical information
❏ Family established in publishing or journalism
❏ Ex-spouse established in publishing or journalism
❏ Friends established in publishing or journalism or connected to the pre–April 2004 minister of culture
❏ Useful occasional sex partners
❏ High-pathos trauma(s) (specify)
❏ Membership in a local out-patient hospital
Form XK003-87
General Information—Page 2 of 2
Bibliography
Approximate number of works published: Name of publisher
Means by which the first manuscript arrived at the publisher’s
❏ Another of the publisher’s authors
❏ A friend of the publisher
❏ A friend of the publisher’s family
❏ The author happened to be doing an internship at the publisher’s
❏ Lunch at Café de Flor, an evening at Mathias’s, a night at 2 + 2, chez Castel, or equivalent (circle all that apply)
❏ Persuasive service of the oral, vaginal, anal, or equivalent varieties (circle all appropriate)
❏ Mail (since this box is checked in less than 1% of cases, please attach written proof to confirm this information)
Types of works
❏ Gibberish (experimental, dominated by stylistic affectation, in French in the original)
❏ Gibberish that takes itself too seriously (demanding literature, in French in the original)
❏ Autofiction
❏ Autofictional gibberish
❏ Autofiction that thinks it’s experimental
❏ Parisian autofiction
❏ Parisian gibberish that thinks it’s autofiction
❏ Traditional novel
❏ Traditional novel with a tendency toward gibberish
❏ Traditional novel with a tendency toward mass appeal
❏ Traditional mass-appeal novel
❏ Mass-appeal novel that takes itself too seriously
❏ Mass-appeal novel that imagines it includes gibberish (proper hairstyle required)
❏ Mass-appeal novel with gibberish (flop)
❏ Slightly sensationalist mass-appeal novel (social and/or generational aspect required)
❏ Openly sensationalist mass-appeal novel (cover with panties required)
Personal evaluation and additional notes
______________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________
Mathias knows he’s being torn apart by one obstacle. Though in the village he wishes to rise to the Castle, he’s afraid of being nothing because he knows once the XK003-87 Form has been filled out, Eugène won’t stop there, Eugène never stops there, Eugène will hand him the XK003-88 Form like h
e does every time, that’s how it goes, Eugène will ask who’s that despite the previously provided information, Eugène will ask who’s that just like everyone else who isn’t Eugène though they are his doubles his colleagues, just like everyone else on the outskirts of the village on their way to the Castle or already there, the others everybody, absolutely everybody except the 25 people or 50 maybe a few more, a few more really, Adénomas sold 400 copies, the publisher is happy, it’s a critical success, a symbolic breakthrough, Mathias Rouault isn’t nobody, 400 copies that’s 400 real people, 400 bodies made of bone and guts, Mathias often thinks of the pile of steaming meat that represents, in the eyes of 400 real people Mathias isn’t nobody, if you average anorexic girls stocky students and obese middle-agers that’s about 150 pounds per reader, or about 60,000 pounds, or even 300 quintals, Mathias thinks a lot about these big quintals of readers, he thinks about it so often that his brain overflows 10 pints times 400 that’s exactly 500 gallons of blood, 500 gallons of readers’ blood fill his flooded brain Mathias’s definitively drowned brain, the readers’ blood ebbs from all his orifices it’s unbearable, it flows from his ears streams from his nostrils even the pores of his skin are sweating out
stigmata downpours, nauseated grabbing the XK003-88 Form Mathias tries to explain to Eugène, Eugène who’s not seeing anything, not anything at all, Mathias is soaking an unending menstrual artery a geyser torrent, Mathias whose brain 1,400 grams his brain his cerebellum is even smaller, Mathias whose brain can’t resist can’t fight the 60,000 pounds of throbbing meat tells Eugène his numbers, the 28,000 kilos crushing his brain, Mathias hopes the weight is enough to stop the. But Eugène doesn’t stop, Eugène doesn’t stop there, Eugène never stops.
Eugène hands him the XK003-88 Form. Mathias tells Eugène L’Inceste by Christine Angot was 50,000 copies, do the math. Eugène doesn’t bat an eye. Mathias tells Eugène 50,000 copies is even more readers because books move around, readers lend them to each other. Eugène says to him: keep going. Christine Angot’s L’Inceste is at the very least
7.5 million pounds of living barbecue. Eugène says to him: that makes 3,750 tons but you didn’t count the paperbacks and the translations.
Mathias Rouault is somebody somewhere, but he is nothing everywhere. It’s a siren face of shame. Mathias Rouault knows he’s nothing, and his brain rots more every day, more and more, a liquefying obsession to be nothing everywhere and someone somewhere. Mathias hates Eugène when Eugène says who’s that, especially when he orders him to fill out the damn supplementary form. Supplementary yet crucial, Mathias at night is woken up by his brain groaning under the scourge
of the damn damn XK003-88 Form, head full of caustic soda, not breathing, his brain moans. Mathias is nothing because.
Form XK004-88 1/1
Last name: Rouault
First name: Mathias
Title: Adénomes et margaritas
Publisher: Extraction
Category: Gibberish that takes itself too seriously
Agency: September
Media coverage:
Print
(Number of articles)
Dailies: None
General publications: 1
Specialized publications: 1
Women’s publications: None
Radio
(Station and program names)
France-Culture: Du jour au lendemain
France-Inter: None
Europe 1: None
RTL: None
Television
(Station and program names)
TF1: None
France 2: None
France 3: None
ARTE: None
Canal +: None
Cable stations: None
Mathias is nothing because he is nothing in the media, because when Eugène asks who’s that he can’t say the one that was on the program yesterday, on the cover of, the one on TV who said, the one who has, the one who is, Mathias can’t answer that, Mathias isn’t the one who, not even a month ago or even who knows when. Mathias knows that Form XK004-88 1/1 is the only thing that’ll get him to the Castle, he’s convinced of that. The more time that goes by the more Mathias clogs up his brain with Eugène’s forms and all his principles about living space. Mathias forgets and a squid of amnesia binds his skull. A squid that ably subtracts tentacles number of truths in favor of mirages embalming bandages of mummified Spectacle.
Mathias’s brain says:
Be happy oh my sorrow because it us upon your anvil that I spend each instant vigorously forging the arms of my retreat.
François Hibert (trainer of colts in the literary stable) adds:
Once you’ve gotten rid of that Lautréamont complex, it might be possible for you to do something. Concentrate on the narration, forget the wordy digressions that weigh down the plot and put the reader to sleep. And don’t ever forget that above all the public is looking for an entertaining story that’s well written.
Mathias’s mouth begins to say:
I write to be read.
What’s been captivating Mathias since the beginning of the dinner isn’t directly related to what’s coming out of Clotilde’s lippy circumflex accent. What’s coming out of Clotilde’s lippy circumflex is monotone-made and morality-molded words, which doesn’t surprise him in the least, Clotilde is preceded by her reputation as an anal Right Bank– wrapped neurotic. Clotilde says things like what’s important is to find publishing spaces or as long as your process is serious and your publisher supports you, you shouldn’t have to worry about the rest or the only thing that matters is your privileged relationship with words not with journalists or media silence is always better than something indulgent. What fascinates Mathias isn’t the undeniable confidence the two lips show as they pronounce what appears to him to be more of a digression with every passing day. Which means that as Mathias stares at the two lips expelling this web of bs, what his brain is trying more and more pointlessly to communicate to him is the way they’re moving. Mathias really wants to climb up on the table, firmly grasp his interlocutor’s head with both hands, and quickly shove in his penis, the penis that would force open the lippy circumflex till it was stretched into an absolutely perfect O stuffed full up to her glottis.
Clotilde obviously has no idea about this and keeps prattling on and on, she found Mathias particularly cowardly during the roundtable that just finished (“Who or what do you write against?” “Myself”). Clotilde takes literature for a kind of holy war, which makes her look like some sort of gloomy lunatic. If it wasn’t for the size of her chest, she probably would have been scratched off the invitation lists. Clotilde writes books so dominated by style that it’s often impossible to understand a single word, just so language can stretch its legs, and that’s why sometimes her best friends tell her you know it might be time to accept that words aren’t really little animals with an existence, paws and round eyes. Clotilde takes advantage of an old misunderstanding that once let her use parrhesia on the few condescending people paying any attention. Since then some in the industry call her Joan of Arc because of the dark frame around her face and also because one day it seems the Word demanded she banish Beigbeder from France. A few years ago Mathias felt respect for Clotilde Mélisse. He’d even gone to one of her readings where he’d gotten his copy of Le Vagissement du minutier signed. On this day at 7:30 p.m. in the café next door to the puny venue where the town of Martel’s (in the Lot region) special events are held, what Mathias is feeling isn’t any respect but rather the beginning of an erection.
I say: I’m Mathias’s brain.
I add: I do not acknowledge you
Mathias got cable. Mathias reads all the book review sections in the magazines and newspapers, whether the column is a thoughtful critique and/or an overly long synopsis. Mathias buys the papers, and every day he checks the cultural webzines, since he got high-speed internet with his cable. He pays close attention to the names of the journalists, Eugène introduces them to him and their most r
ecent articles unfailingly become the topic of their first conversations. Still he wears himself out sometimes the way he has to dig around in his memory to find the writers cited by Martine Baudouin the bank manager he worked for at the Crédit Lyonnais in Sartrouville just to follow the conversation. Mathias has stopped crossing Paris via Métro Line 12 to go to Abbesses to purchase books that he ends up finding exhausting and not a lot of fun. He goes to fnac.com or asks Eugène to give him his press copies before they end up at a used book store. Once in a while, as he’s reading these works, he has to admit he’s impressed by subtlety, comedic virtue, and analytic acuity praised in the articles written by Eugène and his colleagues in which they make great use of terms like a vitriolic portrait of our society, a whole generation cruelly crushed, or even our modern world placed in an uncomfortable position with unrivaled panache. Which is always followed by quite a feeling of depression in his brain, the brain that Mathias can’t hear anymore, no not anymore, not in the least.
I say: I’m Mathias’s brain.
I add: I’m unfailingly polluted.
Mathias is hesitant because of his brain, which he could still hear a few months ago when his fingers were shaping Escale chez Perséphone. Eugène tells Mathias this time I’ll give you a hand, but next time you have to put in some effort. The gallery is crawling with people because of the open bar and the hors d’oeuvres catered by Dalloyau. It’s hard you know his writing is very organic it’s not that different from. Followed by a series of Anglo-American references that have nothing to do with what Mathias’s brain wrote, but Mathias knows full well that the article will be written two days before the deadline and reading will consist of skimming and paraphrasing the back cover. Mathias shakes so many hands his wrist gets weak. A lot of groups of broadcasting bodies move around the room. Reporters but everyone does freelance at Elle they’re the only ones who pay okay stop by the office I’ll see what I can do, artists he may have had shows everywhere he’s not selling what do you think can you imagine a guy in Beijing sticking one of his installations in his living room, writers she was awful at Campus and besides it’s awful when she’s on screen she looks a good ten pounds heavier a real hamster head, press agents I love your shoes I almost got the same ones but in glossy pink, publishers seven thousand a day no they’re not exaggerating the numbers they’ve been selling like hotcakes since the double page spread in Match, interns and the like I’m telling you Severine didn’t sleep with him the blonde behind Claude is the one who got the job, hangers-on I just talked to Aurore over at the open bar on rue Weiss but there’s nothing to eat there so we’re all going to meet at Kiano but we have to pick up Franck apparently it’s really hard to gate-crash. A lot of groups of bodies that do nothing but broadcast, desperately broadcast with the application that is distinctive of communities who are not up-and-coming but who have arrived, they are so arrived that they absolutely are, as Mathias knows and as his brain suffocates in the knowledge, the community that is. That is and can complete piles of forms, that so surely is that Eugène will never ask who’s that. Only the dozen or so swallows currently busy sacking the buffet are exchanging instead of broadcasting so Mathias goes over intrigued to say the least.
Not a Clue Page 11
