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Le bleu du ciel
Présentation de l'éditeur :
Le verbe vivre n'est pas tellement bien vu puisque les mots viveur et faire la vie sont péjoratifs. Si l'on veut être moral, il vaut mieux éviter tout ce qui est vif, car choisir la vie au lieu de se contenter de rester en vie n'est que débauche et gaspillage. A son niveau le plus simple, le Bleu du ciel inverse cette morale prudente en décrivant un personnage qui se dépense jusqu'à toucher la mort à force de beuveries, de nuits blanches et de coucheries. Cette dépense, volontaire et systématique, est une méthode qui transforme la perdition en connaissance et découvre le ciel dans le bas. Face à la mort, et sachant que rien ne lui échappe, il ne saurait être sérieusement question de "salut", aussi la volonté de se perdre est-elle la seule éclairante - la seule d'où puisse surgir une nouvelle souveraineté. Le Bleu du ciel en décrit l'apprentissage en dénudant au fond de chacun de nous cette fente, qui est la présence toujours latente de notre propre mort. Et ce qui apparaît à travers la fente, c'est le bleu d'un ciel dont la profondeur "impossible" nous appelle et nous refuse aussi vertigineusement que notre vie appelle et refuse sa mort. --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.
Quatrième de couverture :
« Dans cette nuit opaque, je m'étais rendu ivre de lumière ; ainsi, de nouveau, Lazare n'était devant moi qu'un oiseau de mauvais augure, un oiseau sale et négligeable. Mes yeux ne se perdaient plus dans les étoiles qui luisaient au-dessus de moi réellement, mais dans le bleu du ciel de midi. Je les fermais pour me perdre dans ce bleu brillant : de gros insectes noirs en surgissaient comme des trombes en bourdonnant. De la même façon que surgirait, le lendemain, à l'heure éclatante du jour, tout d'abord point imperceptible, l'avion qui porterait Dorothea... »
Le verbe vivre n'est pas tellement bien vu puisque les mots viveur et faire la vie sont péjoratifs. Si l'on veut être moral, il vaut mieux éviter tout ce qui est vif, car choisir la vie au lieu de se contenter de rester en vie n'est que débauche et gaspillage. A son niveau le plus simple, le Bleu du ciel inverse cette morale prudente en décrivant un personnage qui se dépense jusqu'à toucher la mort à force de beuveries, de nuits blanches et de coucheries. Cette dépense, volontaire et systématique, est une méthode qui transforme la perdition en connaissance et découvre le ciel dans le bas. Face à la mort, et sachant que rien ne lui échappe, il ne saurait être sérieusement question de "salut", aussi la volonté de se perdre est-elle la seule éclairante - la seule d'où puisse surgir une nouvelle souveraineté. Le Bleu du ciel en décrit l'apprentissage en dénudant au fond de chacun de nous cette fente, qui est la présence toujours latente de notre propre mort. Et ce qui apparaît à travers la fente, c'est le bleu d'un ciel dont la profondeur "impossible" nous appelle et nous refuse aussi vertigineusement que notre vie appelle et refuse sa mort. --Ce texte fait référence à une édition épuisée ou non disponible de ce titre.
Quatrième de couverture :
« Dans cette nuit opaque, je m'étais rendu ivre de lumière ; ainsi, de nouveau, Lazare n'était devant moi qu'un oiseau de mauvais augure, un oiseau sale et négligeable. Mes yeux ne se perdaient plus dans les étoiles qui luisaient au-dessus de moi réellement, mais dans le bleu du ciel de midi. Je les fermais pour me perdre dans ce bleu brillant : de gros insectes noirs en surgissaient comme des trombes en bourdonnant. De la même façon que surgirait, le lendemain, à l'heure éclatante du jour, tout d'abord point imperceptible, l'avion qui porterait Dorothea... »
238 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 1935
About the author
Georges Bataille
233 books2,608 followersFrench essayist, philosophical theorist, and novelist, often called the "metaphysician of evil." Bataille was interested in sex, death, degradation, and the power and potential of the obscene. He rejected traditional literature and considered that the ultimate aim of all intellectual, artistic, or religious activity should be the annihilation of the rational individual in a violent, transcendental act of communion. Roland Barthes, Julia Kristeva, and Philippe Sollers have all written enthusiastically about his work.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 320 reviews
April 19, 2020
Unlike Story of the Eye Blue of Noon doesn’t boast excess of sexual symbols but there is a profusion of existential signs instead. All that nausea and sickness and squalor of living so cherished by Jean-Paul Sartre are already in this novelette. And the main hero’s obsession with necrophilia symbolizes an abhorrence of the pending stream of death.
The tale is prophetic. In the tumultuous times hysteria prevails.
In front of them, their leader – a degenerately skinny kid with the sulky face of a fish – kept time with a long drum major's stick. He held this stick obscenely erect, with the knob at his crotch, it then looked like a monstrous monkey's penis that had been decorated with braids of coloured cord. Like a dirty little brute, he would then jerk the stick level with his mouth; from crotch to mouth, from mouth to crotch, each rise and fall jerking to a grinding salvo from the drums. The sight was obscene. It was terrifying – if I hadn't been blessed with exceptional composure, how could I have stood and looked at these hateful automatons as calmly as if I were facing a stone wall? Each peal of music in the night was an incantatory summons to war and murder. The drum rolls were raised to their paroxysm in the expectation of an ultimate release in bloody salvos of artillery. I looked into the distance... a children's army in battle order. They were motionless, nonetheless, but in a trance. I saw them, so near me, entranced by a longing to meet their death, hallucinated by the endless fields where they would one day advance, laughing in the sunlight, leaving the dead and the dying behind them.
The tale is prophetic. In the tumultuous times hysteria prevails.
March 22, 2024
In a time and place of fear there is often a self portrait that emerges that can no longer be hidden - and this is the true 'us' who we did not want others to see. Excellent examination of that which we hide - but that emerges in times of conflict. A haunting story that will stay with you - almost surreal in the way it twists and turns.
December 17, 2023
Much preferred this to 'Histoire de l'œil' (Story of the Eye). I found it, to my surprise, to be a quite brilliant novel to be honest. Sartre was a big fan of the novel and I can see why. Starting off in London, before taking in Paris, Barcelona, and briefly towards the end, Germany, all set around the time of the Spanish Civil War, Blue of Noon is bombarded with an acute nihilism, and lots of crying and moping, with our protagonist Troppman having a morbid fascination with corpses, as well as being drunk and sick most of the time. Bataille really captures that brooding feeling within his narrative in regards the years leading up to the Second World War, with Europe on a cliff edge, and he builds a pensive tension leading towards it's haunting ending. Expanding on that, Blue of Noon had some of the most beautiful depictions of sorrow and despair that I've come across.
The eroticism is toned down, the psychology is turned up, as Troppman slowly starts to creep into the shadows of rising fascism, who, during his stay in the places I mentioned above, spends time in the company of four woman: Dirty, the Marxist Jew Lazare, the young Xenie, and his wife Edith. Abomination would be one word I'd use when describing the thoughts of some it's character's, especially Troppman who seems to drift through the darkness of a decadent world worthy of a good scrubbing, and in an alcohol haze he tries to find a cause to devote himself to, but illness, lethargy and repulsion follows his path of righteousness. What is worth saying also, is that Bataille has the ability to incite a physical revolt in the reader as we accompany Troppman on his journey. I will now certainly read more Bataille. Maybe some non-ficton next.
May 13, 2026
I spent most of this book feeling slightly unclean and intellectually seduced at the same time.
Not aroused exactly — intoxicated.
Bataille writes as if shame were a door worth opening very slowly. Everything in Blue of Noon feels feverish: bodies sweating through political collapse, sex turning into despair turning into comedy turning into nausea. Europe is rotting in the background and the characters seem to respond by drinking more, touching more, humiliating themselves more. It’s excessive in a way that occasionally becomes almost ridiculous — and then suddenly profound again before you can laugh too hard at it.
There’s something adolescent about Bataille, but I mean that as both criticism and praise. He approaches degradation with the sincerity of someone who still believes it might reveal a hidden truth. Sometimes it works brilliantly. Sometimes it feels like a drunk philosophy student trying to scandalize a café at 2 a.m. But even at its most theatrical, the book has a strange gravitational pull. You keep reading because underneath all the erotic ruin and political dread there’s a genuine terror of being alive.
And God, the women in this book.
Not “characters” in the respectable literary sense — more like violent emotional weather systems. Dirty, ecstatic, self-destructive, impossible to fully understand. They move through the novel like omens. Troppmann himself often feels less like a protagonist than a nervous system reacting to catastrophe.
What impressed me most is that Bataille somehow manages to make degradation feel philosophical without sterilizing it. The filth remains filth. The despair remains embarrassing. Nobody becomes noble through suffering here. If anything, they become more animal, more absurd.
There were passages I found genuinely beautiful. Others made me roll my eyes and mutter, “oh, Georges, behave.” And somehow the contradiction feels essential to the experience of reading him.
This is not a clean book.
Not morally, not emotionally, not stylistically.
But it lingers like cigarette smoke in expensive fabric.
Not aroused exactly — intoxicated.
Bataille writes as if shame were a door worth opening very slowly. Everything in Blue of Noon feels feverish: bodies sweating through political collapse, sex turning into despair turning into comedy turning into nausea. Europe is rotting in the background and the characters seem to respond by drinking more, touching more, humiliating themselves more. It’s excessive in a way that occasionally becomes almost ridiculous — and then suddenly profound again before you can laugh too hard at it.
There’s something adolescent about Bataille, but I mean that as both criticism and praise. He approaches degradation with the sincerity of someone who still believes it might reveal a hidden truth. Sometimes it works brilliantly. Sometimes it feels like a drunk philosophy student trying to scandalize a café at 2 a.m. But even at its most theatrical, the book has a strange gravitational pull. You keep reading because underneath all the erotic ruin and political dread there’s a genuine terror of being alive.
And God, the women in this book.
Not “characters” in the respectable literary sense — more like violent emotional weather systems. Dirty, ecstatic, self-destructive, impossible to fully understand. They move through the novel like omens. Troppmann himself often feels less like a protagonist than a nervous system reacting to catastrophe.
What impressed me most is that Bataille somehow manages to make degradation feel philosophical without sterilizing it. The filth remains filth. The despair remains embarrassing. Nobody becomes noble through suffering here. If anything, they become more animal, more absurd.
There were passages I found genuinely beautiful. Others made me roll my eyes and mutter, “oh, Georges, behave.” And somehow the contradiction feels essential to the experience of reading him.
This is not a clean book.
Not morally, not emotionally, not stylistically.
But it lingers like cigarette smoke in expensive fabric.
April 11, 2026
Blue of Noon tries very hard to be shocking and profound, but mostly ends up feeling messy and uncomfortable without much payoff. The characters drift through chaotic situations with little clarity, and while that might be intentional, it doesn’t make the experience any more engaging. There are moments that hint at deeper meaning, but they’re buried under excess and confusion. Overall, it feels more like an experiment than a satisfying read.
June 25, 2021
A gruesome premonition. Written in 1935 and quickly superceded by events that left it unpublished for 20 years, this is a record and product of a collective (erotic?) death drive gripping interwar Europe. We all know where it lead, but the feverish personal-political particulars are all the more haunting for cutting off before. I was gripped with nausea as I read this today, and though I don't think this was in any way caused by the book, it seemed the appropriate state in which to fall into it, and I pressed on through the discomfort.
April 12, 2025
With this kind of text, we no longer ask ourselves whether it is well-written. It is written! That is to say, it is risky; I agree with Bataille regarding the works that deserve to be read and the others. The difference is a matter of necessity and urgency; if one dozes off (while reading or writing), it is a failure!
September 18, 2019
17/09/2019
22:10 :
Bon... Il me faut encore du temps pour mettre en ordre mes idées et mes impressions sur celui-là... Ce livre me laisse la drôle d'impression d'être passé à travers. ... C'est rare qu'une lecture me laisse déconcerté comme ça.
23:45 :
Relu le livre en diagonale. La note de lecture est en route. Normalement c'est pour demain.
Sacrée lecture biscornue.
18/09/2019 :
11:20 :
SUJET :
La vie subjective de Troppmann, contemporain de la guerre civile espagnole (1936-1939).
Surtout, le besoin de Georges Bataille de se confier lourdement.
MON IMPRESSION :
D'entrée, je suis frappé par un mélange de beauté et d'abjection, de fulgurence et d'obscène, une lucidité délirante qui culmine dans des rêves de fièvre peuplés de chimères, d'orgies répugnantes, de statues du Commandeur chevalines et de tueurs à la lanterne.
C'est un enchaînement d'évènements sans causes et effets clairement établis, sans différence de fond entre ceux de la veille et ceux du sommeil. Une lecture cahoteuse comme un délire de fièvre.
L'intrigue, ou ce qui en tient lieu :
Troppmann est dans une situation personnelle compliquée. Il a abandonné sa femme Édith, mène une vie dissolue avec une femme "perdue de débauche", Dorothea, alias Dirty. Moralement, c'est l'anomie, notre sujet est dans une dérive totale. La situation, malaisée d'entrée, s'embrouille davantage pour devenir inextricable. La vie de Troppmann devient une dérision, un sabotage et une imposture cauchemardesque.
Dans cette errance sans ancrage, ni tout à fait volontaire, ni tout à fait subie de l'extérieur, ce qui reste, c'est le besoin de pouvoir sur les autres. La soif de blesser, le désir morbide de tyranniser et de se faire tyranniser pour se prouver qu'on existe.
1. Le bleu du ciel est un texte immédiat et étrange qui humilie la langue écrite.
La confession doit sortir, la parole coule comme le sang d'une blessure, comme de la sueur, un rot ou du vomi qui ruisselle.
2. Avec la défaite du langage, la souffrance reste le seul bien commun d'êtres opaques et inouïs les uns pour les autres.
3. Devenir pur spectateur et étranger à sa vie.
À trois reprises, en rêve ou éveillé, Troppmann est témoin de révolutions :
Témoin de la Révolution russe dans le rêve de La Galerie de Machines, à Léningrad.
Témoin de la Guerre Civile espagnole, dans un quartier de Barcelone.
Témoin du bouleversement national-socialiste, de son incarnation dans les mouvements de jeunesses fascistes à Francfort.
Aussi bien, il reste spectateur passif. Ces Révolutions lui sont aussi étrangères que lui à lui-même. Troppmann se dit entraîné par les circonstances que dictent le sort.
Il y croit.
RÉFÉRENCES APPARENTÉES
Crime et Châtiment, Carnets du Sous-Sol, Les Démons- Dostoïevski
Le patronnage est reconnu dès la page 18
Dérision, on le trouve tout du long dans la soif d'expiation et la volupté d'anéantissement à différents degrés chez de tous les personnages.
Lazare, vampire laide et sale, l'ascète masochiste de la douleur, l'amie des pleurs, la sainte révolutionnaire fascinée par la mort ; M. Melou, le logicien rhéteur qui traite la mort de millions comme un problème de géométrie ; Dirty et sa débauche ; Xénie et sa soif de sacrifice, Michel, dominé par Lazare et qui va se faire tuer dans la guerre urbaine à la demande de Xénie.
Ce monde d'anarchistes sinon de nihilistes évoque aussi The Secret Agent de Conrad, avec ses intellectuels délirants.
Il a aussi partie liée avec Les Chants de Maldoror de Lautréamont, pour leurs intrigues décousues, leurs visions opiacées et leurs rêves fiévreux.
Kafka.
Le Spleen de Paris - Baudelaire pour ses visions déréglées.
Pour la situation à l'origine de
La Nausée de Sartre, pour la passivité et l'impuissance qu'ils dépeignent.
'En fait d'être humain, décidément, j'étais injustifiable.' (p.122)
Et ce besoin de se projeter, de projeter ce qu'on porte en soi, pour survivre.
'J'avais besoin de ne plus m'occuper de moi. J'avais besoin de m'occuper des autres.'
Proche encore de
La déchéance d'un homme d'Osamu Dazaï. Désir d'avilissement, détermination d'aller à fond dans la débauche, la déroute, tous deux en parlent.
C'est le tableau d'état transitoires, sur un fond d'angoisse et de menace insaisissables, ces états équivoques où l'on veut ce qui nous dégoûte et où l'on a horreur de ce qui nous plaît, habituellement.
Les Diaboliques - Barbey d'Aurevilly
Pour leurs personnages de femmes fortes, sadiques ou masochistes, résolues, troubles. La scène d'amour macabre dans le cimetière de Trèves m'a beaucoup fait penser aux passages apocalyptiques dans ses romans, aussi.
Céline
Pour l'oralité, l'obscénité et le travestissement.
À Rebours - Huysmans
Pour le désœuvrement, le dégoût de vivre, l'esthétique décadente.
Pour les films,
L'échelle de Jacob
Abre los ojos
22:10 :
Bon... Il me faut encore du temps pour mettre en ordre mes idées et mes impressions sur celui-là... Ce livre me laisse la drôle d'impression d'être passé à travers. ... C'est rare qu'une lecture me laisse déconcerté comme ça.
23:45 :
Relu le livre en diagonale. La note de lecture est en route. Normalement c'est pour demain.
Sacrée lecture biscornue.
18/09/2019 :
11:20 :
SUJET :
La vie subjective de Troppmann, contemporain de la guerre civile espagnole (1936-1939).
Surtout, le besoin de Georges Bataille de se confier lourdement.
MON IMPRESSION :
D'entrée, je suis frappé par un mélange de beauté et d'abjection, de fulgurence et d'obscène, une lucidité délirante qui culmine dans des rêves de fièvre peuplés de chimères, d'orgies répugnantes, de statues du Commandeur chevalines et de tueurs à la lanterne.
C'est un enchaînement d'évènements sans causes et effets clairement établis, sans différence de fond entre ceux de la veille et ceux du sommeil. Une lecture cahoteuse comme un délire de fièvre.
L'intrigue, ou ce qui en tient lieu :
Troppmann est dans une situation personnelle compliquée. Il a abandonné sa femme Édith, mène une vie dissolue avec une femme "perdue de débauche", Dorothea, alias Dirty. Moralement, c'est l'anomie, notre sujet est dans une dérive totale. La situation, malaisée d'entrée, s'embrouille davantage pour devenir inextricable. La vie de Troppmann devient une dérision, un sabotage et une imposture cauchemardesque.
Dans cette errance sans ancrage, ni tout à fait volontaire, ni tout à fait subie de l'extérieur, ce qui reste, c'est le besoin de pouvoir sur les autres. La soif de blesser, le désir morbide de tyranniser et de se faire tyranniser pour se prouver qu'on existe.
1. Le bleu du ciel est un texte immédiat et étrange qui humilie la langue écrite.
La confession doit sortir, la parole coule comme le sang d'une blessure, comme de la sueur, un rot ou du vomi qui ruisselle.
'Il y avait maintenant une fuite dans ma tête, tout ce que je pensais me fuyait. Je voulais dire une chose et, presque aussitôt, je n'avais plus rien à dire.' (p.96)
'Inutile de parler. Déjà les choses sont mortes, comme dans les rêves.' (p.101)
'Toutes choses commencèrent à se décrocher (...) il aurait fallu les fixer (...) aucun moyen. Mon existence s'en allait en morceaux comme une matière pourrie' (p.81)
2. Avec la défaite du langage, la souffrance reste le seul bien commun d'êtres opaques et inouïs les uns pour les autres.
'- Je souffre. - Que puis-je faire ? - Rien.' (p.96)
3. Devenir pur spectateur et étranger à sa vie.
'Je comprenais qu'à Barcelone, j'étais à l'extérieur des choses.'
À trois reprises, en rêve ou éveillé, Troppmann est témoin de révolutions :
Témoin de la Révolution russe dans le rêve de La Galerie de Machines, à Léningrad.
Témoin de la Guerre Civile espagnole, dans un quartier de Barcelone.
Témoin du bouleversement national-socialiste, de son incarnation dans les mouvements de jeunesses fascistes à Francfort.
Aussi bien, il reste spectateur passif. Ces Révolutions lui sont aussi étrangères que lui à lui-même. Troppmann se dit entraîné par les circonstances que dictent le sort.
Il y croit.
RÉFÉRENCES APPARENTÉES
Crime et Châtiment, Carnets du Sous-Sol, Les Démons- Dostoïevski
Le patronnage est reconnu dès la page 18
Dérision, on le trouve tout du long dans la soif d'expiation et la volupté d'anéantissement à différents degrés chez de tous les personnages.
Lazare, vampire laide et sale, l'ascète masochiste de la douleur, l'amie des pleurs, la sainte révolutionnaire fascinée par la mort ; M. Melou, le logicien rhéteur qui traite la mort de millions comme un problème de géométrie ; Dirty et sa débauche ; Xénie et sa soif de sacrifice, Michel, dominé par Lazare et qui va se faire tuer dans la guerre urbaine à la demande de Xénie.
Ce monde d'anarchistes sinon de nihilistes évoque aussi The Secret Agent de Conrad, avec ses intellectuels délirants.
Il a aussi partie liée avec Les Chants de Maldoror de Lautréamont, pour leurs intrigues décousues, leurs visions opiacées et leurs rêves fiévreux.
Kafka.
Le Spleen de Paris - Baudelaire pour ses visions déréglées.
Pour la situation à l'origine de
La Nausée de Sartre, pour la passivité et l'impuissance qu'ils dépeignent.
'En fait d'être humain, décidément, j'étais injustifiable.' (p.122)
Et ce besoin de se projeter, de projeter ce qu'on porte en soi, pour survivre.
'J'avais besoin de ne plus m'occuper de moi. J'avais besoin de m'occuper des autres.'
Proche encore de
La déchéance d'un homme d'Osamu Dazaï. Désir d'avilissement, détermination d'aller à fond dans la débauche, la déroute, tous deux en parlent.
C'est le tableau d'état transitoires, sur un fond d'angoisse et de menace insaisissables, ces états équivoques où l'on veut ce qui nous dégoûte et où l'on a horreur de ce qui nous plaît, habituellement.
Les Diaboliques - Barbey d'Aurevilly
Pour leurs personnages de femmes fortes, sadiques ou masochistes, résolues, troubles. La scène d'amour macabre dans le cimetière de Trèves m'a beaucoup fait penser aux passages apocalyptiques dans ses romans, aussi.
Céline
Pour l'oralité, l'obscénité et le travestissement.
À Rebours - Huysmans
Pour le désœuvrement, le dégoût de vivre, l'esthétique décadente.
Pour les films,
L'échelle de Jacob
Abre los ojos
November 11, 2022
Of this I am sure: only an intolerable, impossible ordeal can give an author the means of achieving that wide-ranging vision that readers weary of the narrow limitations imposed by convention are waiting for.
(Georges Bataille, Author’s Foreword, 1957.)
In Blue of Noon as in all his fictions – though, to my knowledge, Blue of Noon is his most explicitly personal – Georges Bataille put his money where his mouth was. Agree with his manifesto or not (and I’ll admit the older I get the more restrictive it seems, the less adventurous, the less admirable) you can’t miss his singleminded dedication to it, which gives his best work a thrust normally felt in thrillers, though it is powered almost entirely by this strange writer’s obsessions. True, it’s not just the suffering but his warped take on sex that’ll compell you, but in Blue of Noon, like Hitchcock, he seems to have perfected unseen-fuelled suspense, and there’s no need to explicate what is manifest in his characters’ actions.
In London, in a cellar, in a neighbourhood dive – the most squalid of unlikely places – Dirty was drunk. Utterly so. I was next to her (my hand was still bandaged from being cut by a broken glass). Dirty that day was wearing a sumptuous evening gown (I was unshaven and unkempt). As she stretched her long legs, she went into a violent convulsion. The place was crowded with men, and their eyes were getting ominous; the eyes of these perplexed men recalled spent cigars. [...] Drunkenness had committed us to dereliction, in pursuit of some grim response to the grimmest of compulsions.
What I love about Bataille is his clearsightedness. And his resolve: to tell the truth about the processes at work on his dissolute narrator (a truth which we presume, and Bataille does as much as acknowledge, he could only know by having endured it) even at the nadir of that barely-sketched character’s infamy. Blue of Noon revolves around the axis of humiliation. In scene after scene we witness the urge to humiliate in the hurt and unhappy – in the narrator (Troppmann), whose failed marriage has led him via a series of prostitutes to an impotent codependence with the cruel but beautiful (or, in his eyes, beautiful because cruel) Dirty, and then into bored victimising of the lost Xenie. That despite himself he’s drawn also into the orbit of the would-be revolutionary Lazare (though more because he requires “a bird of ill omen” to keep him company than from any social conscience, which would be trite) seems merely another instance of his bullying, since one thing he knows in his bones is that Europe is doomed, and every time he purges himself in confession to this good Christian virgin he can’t help but shock her with doom-laden pronouncements out of shame at his own helplessness. It’s ugly, but powerful. He’s far, far from a hero, but equally no villain, no death’s head, no gargoyle. What Bataille does here – and I don’t think it’s been done often – is reveal just how vulnerable a cruel man can be. Sensitive too. And aware of his own cruelty. All of which just compounds his suffering.
For readers of the 2001 Penguin edition (and probably the 2012 edition), Will Self pens an impressive introduction, comparing the novel to an out-of-control car. “It is as if some cloaca God were to descend to someone who was labouring on the torture throne of constipation, and deliver them a laxative balm.” He also compares “Bataille’s own view of lust as an annihilator of human difference [...] to the way the Nazis’ lust for power threatened humanity with annihilation.” (Blue of Noon is set, in various European cities, in the lead-up to the Second World War.)
For those unfamiliar with Bataille, The Story of the Eye is (in English) his most famous work, though My Mother / Madame Edwarda / The Dead Man (a novel and two short works published by Marion Boyars in 1989 and 1995, and again by Penguin in 2012) is equally rich, startling and powerful. His Eroticism also comes highly recommended, but I started to grow away from his vision before I read it and have only revisited him recently from an urge to consolidate that period and set something of it in writing. Call him an influence but not a favourite. Brilliant because unique, because so few have attempted what he attempts. But doomed to circle the same terrain ad nauseum, much as it may be his own.
July 4, 2014
May be three and half stars.
The rating here is very subjective. If, for instance, a person with the sufficient knowledge of the pre-war Europe along with its political turmoils and its popular philosophical ideologies, might end up liking it much better. And he/she might rate it highly.
Of course, I too did some extra reading. Searched for some of the definitions and features of Fascism, Spanish Civil War, the assassination of Dollfuss, etc. The reason for the extra reading: The novel is situated in a particular historical setting of Europe and the characters are allusions to various philosophical/political positions of the then Europe (Thanks to the introduction to Will Self). It was the time Fascism was gaining ground all over Europe.
The novel as such deals with a man and his amorous encounters with three women. The three women are supposed to be allusions to various ideologies. For instance, Dirty (Dorathea) is an allusion to the past regime or the regime that is to be thrown away. And so, calling her as Dirty is intentional (to me it looks like that). The past regime is one to which mud is slung. It is always dirty. And it has to be replaced with the new government and even if it is needed to be arrived at with the violent means, it is okay. This position is represented by Lazare, the second woman. Here too, the name is very suggestive. Dead man alive - Marxist ideology of salvation through violence is questioned (?). Or Marxist ideology itself is shown to be redundant. The other woman is Xenie, who represents bourgeois class.
The main character in the novel is attracted to all three and he can not decide where to place his trust. He is indecisive. He is content at times being with Lazare (Marxism/Fascism) and the next moment he has a longing for Dirty and he also flirts with Xenie. If that is the case, the novel has come out well.
I sincerely hope that I got the point.
The rating here is very subjective. If, for instance, a person with the sufficient knowledge of the pre-war Europe along with its political turmoils and its popular philosophical ideologies, might end up liking it much better. And he/she might rate it highly.
Of course, I too did some extra reading. Searched for some of the definitions and features of Fascism, Spanish Civil War, the assassination of Dollfuss, etc. The reason for the extra reading: The novel is situated in a particular historical setting of Europe and the characters are allusions to various philosophical/political positions of the then Europe (Thanks to the introduction to Will Self). It was the time Fascism was gaining ground all over Europe.
The novel as such deals with a man and his amorous encounters with three women. The three women are supposed to be allusions to various ideologies. For instance, Dirty (Dorathea) is an allusion to the past regime or the regime that is to be thrown away. And so, calling her as Dirty is intentional (to me it looks like that). The past regime is one to which mud is slung. It is always dirty. And it has to be replaced with the new government and even if it is needed to be arrived at with the violent means, it is okay. This position is represented by Lazare, the second woman. Here too, the name is very suggestive. Dead man alive - Marxist ideology of salvation through violence is questioned (?). Or Marxist ideology itself is shown to be redundant. The other woman is Xenie, who represents bourgeois class.
The main character in the novel is attracted to all three and he can not decide where to place his trust. He is indecisive. He is content at times being with Lazare (Marxism/Fascism) and the next moment he has a longing for Dirty and he also flirts with Xenie. If that is the case, the novel has come out well.
I sincerely hope that I got the point.
August 6, 2025
I remember laughing a lot when I read The Story of the Eye, at the absurd situations and unrealistic events (now they're shoving things up their arse, now she's raping a priest). I enjoyed it but couldn't take it seriously (I'm still not convinced I was supposed to). But that jovial surrealism is somewhat abandoned here in favour of a much darker narrative. It concerns a man named Troppmann who begins by telling us about a woman he refers to as Dirty (later to be revealed as Dorothy). She has disappeared (along with his wife who is, apparently, in England with the kids having left Troppmann for his abusive and unfaithful ways... we never hear about them again). Then there's a woman called Lavare. And one called Xenie. But none of this is frankly important despite each of them blatantly representing something or other (Lavare = Marxism, Xenie = aristocracy, and so on). The point of the book, as I saw it, was trying to enjoy your permissive life as a weathervane whilst fascism rears up behind you.
There's no plot really, the book just opens in London, then Paris, then (the more interesting stuff) in Barcelona before Troppmann and Dorothy head to Germany at the end. None of it really impressed me, in truth, but I did recognise the quality of Bataille's writing again, its short, snappy sentences and colourful prose. Troppmann spends most of the novel either sobbing, drunk, ill, or in some kind of fever dream, talking about wanting to spit in people's faces or lamenting his woes and generally feeling sorry for himself. It's a heightened style of storytelling which, if I'm brutally honest, was too melodramatic and eventually a little grating. In real life, nobody bursts out laughing at mild quips, violently sobs because it's Tuesday, or wrings every last droplet of emotion from an event otherwise banal. But you get the picture. It's slightly over-the-top (like Story of the Eye) but with none of the laughs. I enjoyed it but ultimately felt it was a little on the forgettable side.
Meanwhile, we have the issue of the rise of fascism. The book ends with the couple in Germany, watching a group of Hitler youth prosaically prancing around them. In an era (today) where styling your hair wrong can lead to an accusation of being a fascist, I found the real thing, bubbling away behind events in the novel, to be a difficult concept to remove entirely from the context of Tropmann's indulgent actions. In other words, he (and others evidently) are relentlessly advocating for or just passively tolerating a culture which was instrumental in the rise of the very political movement they fear. He treats his wife like crap and has almost NOTHING to say about the welfare of his children. He frequents a place called the Criolla where small boys dress as girls for the sexual amusement of patrons. But again, nothing to say about this. The notion that fascism appeared fully formed without these contributing factors makes the whole thing hard to swallow. 'Gee, we were all just having fun with small boys dressed as girls when these mean fascists turned up and spoiled it all'. Well yes... quite. Society tends to move right after your disgusting (normalised) habits have started to concern them (and this should not be quite as surprising as you make out). God only knows what fate his children endured. We'll never know. They simply didn't matter. I dunno, this thing left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth.
There's no plot really, the book just opens in London, then Paris, then (the more interesting stuff) in Barcelona before Troppmann and Dorothy head to Germany at the end. None of it really impressed me, in truth, but I did recognise the quality of Bataille's writing again, its short, snappy sentences and colourful prose. Troppmann spends most of the novel either sobbing, drunk, ill, or in some kind of fever dream, talking about wanting to spit in people's faces or lamenting his woes and generally feeling sorry for himself. It's a heightened style of storytelling which, if I'm brutally honest, was too melodramatic and eventually a little grating. In real life, nobody bursts out laughing at mild quips, violently sobs because it's Tuesday, or wrings every last droplet of emotion from an event otherwise banal. But you get the picture. It's slightly over-the-top (like Story of the Eye) but with none of the laughs. I enjoyed it but ultimately felt it was a little on the forgettable side.
Meanwhile, we have the issue of the rise of fascism. The book ends with the couple in Germany, watching a group of Hitler youth prosaically prancing around them. In an era (today) where styling your hair wrong can lead to an accusation of being a fascist, I found the real thing, bubbling away behind events in the novel, to be a difficult concept to remove entirely from the context of Tropmann's indulgent actions. In other words, he (and others evidently) are relentlessly advocating for or just passively tolerating a culture which was instrumental in the rise of the very political movement they fear. He treats his wife like crap and has almost NOTHING to say about the welfare of his children. He frequents a place called the Criolla where small boys dress as girls for the sexual amusement of patrons. But again, nothing to say about this. The notion that fascism appeared fully formed without these contributing factors makes the whole thing hard to swallow. 'Gee, we were all just having fun with small boys dressed as girls when these mean fascists turned up and spoiled it all'. Well yes... quite. Society tends to move right after your disgusting (normalised) habits have started to concern them (and this should not be quite as surprising as you make out). God only knows what fate his children endured. We'll never know. They simply didn't matter. I dunno, this thing left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth.
October 2, 2025
20. yüzyıla klonlanmış Marquis de Sade olarak gördüğüm Georges Bataille’yi üçüncü kez okudum. İlki “Gözün Hikayesi” idi, Enis Batur beğenmişti, gözün şekli ile erotizm ve şiddet ilişkisi kuran berbat bir romandı. İkincisi “Edebiyat ve Kötülük” isimli 5 baskı yapan bir deneme kitabıydı, okunabilir bulmuştum, bu ise sonuncusu, ismine kandım ve okumaya başladım. Mayıs 1935’de yazmış deneysel sayılabilecek romanını. Bu kez de siyaset ile erotizmi iç içe koymuş. İspanya iç savaşı ve Nazizmin yükselişe geçtiği yıllarda yani. Yine sert bir erotizm, sinir uçlarına dokunan sarhoşluk manzaraları, mide bulandıran sıradışı sahneler. Yine berbat bir roman ama hiç olmazsa Gözün Hikayesinden bir parmak daha iyi. G. Bataille okumayacağım artık.
June 13, 2024
Second read proves that there is a reason why this belongs on the lower rung of Bataille's corpus, and also stands as a testament to why he left the manuscript in a drawer for such a long time. The poignant and vibrant images that litter a quasi-Surrealist masterpiece like Story of the Eye are few and far between here, with a pitch-perfect Bataillean love scene sadly only occurring in the very last few pages. But with Bataille, and this can be difficult to achieve for many writers, he conjures images that really stick, that have the capacity to haunt. A graveyard made infinite by the incandescent-candles-as-stars cleaves open a rapturous and frustrated eroticism, two never become one flesh, instead they revel in the mire of the profane as disciples of paraphilia, with their cathected objects (Dirty's lunar breasts, Henri's dirt covered legs) never bringing about an ecstatic release. Instead they shiver, "quivering like two rows of teeth chattering together" - they are not of the flesh, they are emaciated, spectral figures interpenetrating one another's abyssal absence.
This is grade A Bataille-as-fiction-writer material. A similarly impactful moment is Henri's encounter with the Hitler Youth bandstand - the eroticism of the leader's drum major stick, the seething rage and bloodshed inherent in their military formation as they play their music, unable to be satiated by anything but the violent libidinal flows that they will soon release as Nazi troops, with this "rising tide of murder, {...} it will be impossible to set anything but trivialities - the comic entreaties of old ladies". Fearful stuff, and of course commensurate with Bataille's worries in the early 30's as he wrote for Acephale and his other journals.
It's a shame that the book has to begin with a scene so puerile and adolescent as to to make one come close to tossing it away, the silly repetitions of the dereliction Dirty and Henri are in the midst of mixed with the dull subversion of class expectations (Oooh at the Savoy one must not get too drunk and vomit, crazy) are just fodder for eye-rolls. It doesn't get to the metaphysical crux that many of Bataille's best scenes reveal, but maybe it's bad form to make such demands. My privileging of Bataille-as-theoretician probably blinds me to the virtues of his literary work by itself, but I think that when his atheological lens leers out most clearly in his prose his scenes as a consequence take on a real strength and an intensity. Everything, however trivial, becomes supercharged with significance when these moments occur - and sadly everything else, the plodding plot, the omnipresent nausea and onset of civil war, pales massively in comparison.
_______________________________________
"To Neil,
Hopefully a more successful encounter than after ‘The Story of the Eye’
Love,
Sherilyn x"
The scrawled in message behind the front cover of my copy. Fuck you Neil. Fuck you Sherilyn.
This is grade A Bataille-as-fiction-writer material. A similarly impactful moment is Henri's encounter with the Hitler Youth bandstand - the eroticism of the leader's drum major stick, the seething rage and bloodshed inherent in their military formation as they play their music, unable to be satiated by anything but the violent libidinal flows that they will soon release as Nazi troops, with this "rising tide of murder, {...} it will be impossible to set anything but trivialities - the comic entreaties of old ladies". Fearful stuff, and of course commensurate with Bataille's worries in the early 30's as he wrote for Acephale and his other journals.
It's a shame that the book has to begin with a scene so puerile and adolescent as to to make one come close to tossing it away, the silly repetitions of the dereliction Dirty and Henri are in the midst of mixed with the dull subversion of class expectations (Oooh at the Savoy one must not get too drunk and vomit, crazy) are just fodder for eye-rolls. It doesn't get to the metaphysical crux that many of Bataille's best scenes reveal, but maybe it's bad form to make such demands. My privileging of Bataille-as-theoretician probably blinds me to the virtues of his literary work by itself, but I think that when his atheological lens leers out most clearly in his prose his scenes as a consequence take on a real strength and an intensity. Everything, however trivial, becomes supercharged with significance when these moments occur - and sadly everything else, the plodding plot, the omnipresent nausea and onset of civil war, pales massively in comparison.
_______________________________________
"To Neil,
Hopefully a more successful encounter than after ‘The Story of the Eye’
Love,
Sherilyn x"
The scrawled in message behind the front cover of my copy. Fuck you Neil. Fuck you Sherilyn.
April 18, 2020
A gruelling story set in the turmoil of the 1930s. The story takes us on a journey of sexual depravity and excess with the rise of Fascism before the second world war. If is about the main character Troppmann who is out of control drinks drinking to excess and having affairs. womanises and is on the verge of despair. His wife Dirty leaves him for Brighton and he goes to Paris to go on a bender to end all benders.
Not an easy story to read and you need a shower after reading it. The characters are mostly sinking into drunken chaos with no future. The goal appearing to be trying to drink yourself to death while being as deprive as possible. A story of losing yourself to madness before the horrors of the Second World War.
Not an easy story to read and you need a shower after reading it. The characters are mostly sinking into drunken chaos with no future. The goal appearing to be trying to drink yourself to death while being as deprive as possible. A story of losing yourself to madness before the horrors of the Second World War.
March 18, 2024
Damn bitch you live like this ?
September 3, 2015
Não. Georges Bataille não é para mim. Pelo menos O Azul do Céu.
Excepto o título, tudo é negro neste livro:
Uma alcoólica (chamada Dirty) que não controla o sistema digestivo ("superior e inferior");
Um homem que descobre ser necrófilo quando vê o cadáver da mãe;
Cenas de sexo em cemitérios;
E mais umas coisas que já esqueci...
Nada disto me impressionou, apenas me enfastiou. Ou estou a ficar perversa, ou não entendi nada. Espero que a segunda hipótese seja a certa...
(Na parte final tem uma referência ao Nazismo, mas já não me interessou fazer a ligação aos acontecimentos do cemitério e da taberna...)
Excepto o título, tudo é negro neste livro:
Uma alcoólica (chamada Dirty) que não controla o sistema digestivo ("superior e inferior");
Um homem que descobre ser necrófilo quando vê o cadáver da mãe;
Cenas de sexo em cemitérios;
E mais umas coisas que já esqueci...
Nada disto me impressionou, apenas me enfastiou. Ou estou a ficar perversa, ou não entendi nada. Espero que a segunda hipótese seja a certa...
(Na parte final tem uma referência ao Nazismo, mas já não me interessou fazer a ligação aos acontecimentos do cemitério e da taberna...)
January 26, 2013
I've read this book three weeks ago in scarce hours, but its female characters still haunt my mind - Lazare, Dirty. The book strongly reminded me of all the fiction I have read by Henry Miller, but it is far more elegant. The text is definetely kindred, my-poetry-like with this natural and bright promiscuity. Book includes several descriptions of somebody's or author's dreams. Intimate and not at all political, there's nothing radical in this book but its historical context barely dimly seen. Actually, I wonder if being a type of a person easily succumbing to ideas of alterations of social order - an activist - isn't merely a chemical gap between a human and what an addict of endorphin our body is at times. Out of sudden, the protagonist is ready to become a kamikaze for some underlit political purpose, although the whole narration danced around his love torments/adventures in fever. I feel like I could have written this too. I picked up this book in order to establish a link between eroticism and political engagement, however it seems like this is what the book is missing..
Read
June 13, 2012This is probably the least pornographic Bataille book I've read. Which means the kinky sex isn't constant, merely occasional.
When I read L'Histoire de l'Oeil, I was an acid-dropping 19 year old, and extremely receptive to all things transgressive and French. I was somewhat afraid that an older, soberer self would be unimpressed by Bataille. But, if anything, he's become more powerful. The Blue of Noon is a fairly remarkable, fairly funny novel about everything and nothing. And the ending... oh my, what a portent.
When I read L'Histoire de l'Oeil, I was an acid-dropping 19 year old, and extremely receptive to all things transgressive and French. I was somewhat afraid that an older, soberer self would be unimpressed by Bataille. But, if anything, he's become more powerful. The Blue of Noon is a fairly remarkable, fairly funny novel about everything and nothing. And the ending... oh my, what a portent.
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May 16, 2020
I love this, I love it just as much as his Story of the Eye and My Mother/Madame Edwarda/The Dead Man story-set.
Albeit more grim and nihilistic than anything else of his that I've read thus far, I can see a maturation in this work of his compared to his others.
His eroticism days were not forgotten but simply put on lay-by for being placed in a more precise part of the story, and although the necrophilic talk was a bit much for me he does wrap it in such a poetic way that it doesn't overwhelm the story.
The relationships in Bataille's work are always of a deep nature as opposed to many other writers' scratch-the-surface works of erotica, and the detailing throughout is exceptionally vivid as always.
For me, personally, I've consumed enough of his work that I think it about time I got tucked into the biographical work that others have provided on him.
I'd suggest, for future Bataille fans, to leave this to last and get through My Mother/Madame Edwarda/The Dead Man first, followed by Story of the Eye, followed by this, but that could be my bias speaking.
Albeit more grim and nihilistic than anything else of his that I've read thus far, I can see a maturation in this work of his compared to his others.
His eroticism days were not forgotten but simply put on lay-by for being placed in a more precise part of the story, and although the necrophilic talk was a bit much for me he does wrap it in such a poetic way that it doesn't overwhelm the story.
The relationships in Bataille's work are always of a deep nature as opposed to many other writers' scratch-the-surface works of erotica, and the detailing throughout is exceptionally vivid as always.
For me, personally, I've consumed enough of his work that I think it about time I got tucked into the biographical work that others have provided on him.
I'd suggest, for future Bataille fans, to leave this to last and get through My Mother/Madame Edwarda/The Dead Man first, followed by Story of the Eye, followed by this, but that could be my bias speaking.
March 31, 2025
toujours eu un attrait particulier pour ces romans autobiographiques, sortes de confidences amoureuses dans le genre de Nadja prenant ici une dimension de débauche et de peine profonde, lâche et cruelle. Tristement enivrant..
Ma femme, que j'avais honteusement délaissée, me téléphonait d'Angleterre, par inquiétude ; pendant ce temps, l'oubliant, je traînait ma déchéance et mon hébétude dans des endroits détestables. Tout était faux, jusqu'à ma souffrance. J'ai recommencé à pleurer tant que je pus : mes sanglots n'avaient ni queue ni tête.
November 9, 2020
3.5 stars. An unusual, clever, gruesome, grim, concisely written novella about idle, nihilistic Troppmann and his self destructive relationships with three women. Set in 1935, mostly in Europe, where Troppmann experiences the Catalan riots and the rise of Nazism in Germany. Troppmann narrates about his relationship with unattractive Lazare, submissive Xenia and deviant Dorothea (‘Dirty’). Troppmann writes about abusiveness, drunkenness, self harm, violence and perverseness.
September 19, 2014
Brief, but scarringly debauched reminiscences of a man and his self-destructive relationships with three women (ugly Lazare, submissive Xenia and perverted Dirty) set against the rise of Nazism and the Catalan riots in 1935. Abusive, drunken, dilettante Communism, self-harm and perverse (with even a touch of necrophilia thrown in), this is not for the faint hearted, but it is powerful, nihilistic fare and despite the gruesomeness of it all, I wanted to go straight back to read parts of it again, so it definitely has something.
December 7, 2023
A tremendously staid and static novel in the trad French Literature of Decadence. I usually fall heels up for it, but Bataille just bores the living shit out of me. It is somewhat resuscitated with a solid closing block that opens the aperture, but I can’t see anything beyond navel gazing whose belly produces a yarn never spun into anything of interest. There’s more than pretty string with which to dawdle, sometimes. Ho hum.
April 20, 2017
The nature of hot sex and fascism via the eyes of the one and only Georges Bataille. Now here's a man who knew how to have a good time. One cannot seperate the politics from the sex. Is lust an individual desire or part of the whole picture?
May 19, 2026
When I reached that cup of dark, shallow, yellowish knob, I felt highly uneventful about the side of me that waited on the other side of the room. The word war and terror don’t scare me, and it’s obviously because I haven’t been in one. My war was happening inside my house, with shrieks, wooden chairs, fists, and bruises. Metals, stones, nausea, colds, holes, knives, scratches, scars, and broken glasses. Sometimes blood was even better than the terror of the darkness that I had to face. Locked behind the door, patiently awaiting my step, and that’s why I'm not really knowing how to make a face in front of terror, for I had given myself a chance to ride with the black face. I have outgrown the monster, that scared, terrified side of me. No, I don’t think he’s a monster.
Jumped into the story of Blue of Noon I got to face the same fate. Why was it so easy to read, and taste so sweet on my lips? If I could I would want to bathe in the navy of its paragraphs and swim to the very bottom of its ocean. Magnifying the beauty and the abundance of bubbles that surround my face as I breathe out. Let my body sink and touch my nakedness with its soft yet terrifying blackness. My hands would reach every inch of molecules and it would make me fall deeper and more, until the pain lingered on my body, waiting for the minutes to turn into decades, and I'll be there forever, in the pleasure of pain, in the beauty of tears. Let my body sink in the sweet of terrors, the ambiguous floating space, the immortal of which I have spared.
Jumped into the story of Blue of Noon I got to face the same fate. Why was it so easy to read, and taste so sweet on my lips? If I could I would want to bathe in the navy of its paragraphs and swim to the very bottom of its ocean. Magnifying the beauty and the abundance of bubbles that surround my face as I breathe out. Let my body sink and touch my nakedness with its soft yet terrifying blackness. My hands would reach every inch of molecules and it would make me fall deeper and more, until the pain lingered on my body, waiting for the minutes to turn into decades, and I'll be there forever, in the pleasure of pain, in the beauty of tears. Let my body sink in the sweet of terrors, the ambiguous floating space, the immortal of which I have spared.
April 7, 2025
insane !!
September 5, 2022
This was like a fever dream—a wonderful joyride on the train of imagination that takes you through highly personal emotional and sexual dramas, playing within the backdrop of epic conflicts that eventually came to shape our world as we know it today. As above, so below is one maxim that captures the idea of this novel: the macrocosm world of 20th century Europe began to mirror the microcosm world of the characters; each, in turn, influencing the other.
July 19, 2018
Creo que el choque entre el poder -que es la muerte- y las fisuras del poder -donde resiste la vida- es estructural, inevitable, ubicuo. Por momentos, las fisuras tiemblan, se multiplican, se ramifican. En esos momentos, pasan cosas extrañas. Hay expansión de agonías, opresiones, perversiones, epifanías. El azul del cielo es una novela crónica de uno de esos momentos prerrevolucionarios. Está la Guerra Civil Española. El anarquismo sin fronteras que se reunió en Barcelona. Por eso se trata de un clima de época, pero también de patrones estéticos de quiebre que ocurren en otros momentos de efervescencia. Es una novela de pura pasión, de tanta intensidad que gasta rápido la vida. Es una novela erótica, perversa, política, filosófica. Hay mucho sexo, alcohol, vómito, asco y fascinación. Un protagonista reventado, Doppelgänger de Bataille, y tres mujeres. La más interesante es una versión literaria de Simone Weil. La más fea, que es a la vez la más atractiva. La mirada horizontal es de caos y dolor. La mirada vertical es tranquilidad. El cielo es azul. Es novela a-teológica.
May 3, 2023
“Envidiaba a la gente que tiene un Dios a quien poder aferrarse, mientras que yo dentro de poco ya no tendría más que los ojos para llorar”
December 10, 2023
Vuotissimo
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