I think the easiest way to capture Toussaint as a writer is that in his case, an essay called “Reading Proust” is in fact much more about the act of reading Proust than about Proust himself, and moreover that a putative essay of his called, simply, “Proust”, would no doubt suffer the same pleasantly narcissistic treatment. But of course, you realise halfway through that this memoirish piece captures Proust perfectly, in its meticulous reconstruction of a semi-fictitious past. One is left wondering whether Toussaint set out to talk about Proust and drifted off, or set out – rather ridiculously, I admit – to talk about armchairs and zeroed in on the (or, should that be, an) essence of Proust.
Perhaps it is all fair enough that a memoir on reading should situate the meaning of literature in the act of reading it. Every so often when I open a book and I feel a slight disconnect to the words - or even, it seems sometimes, to the very fact of words - I think of a David Berman poem which defiantly starts: “It is too nice a day to read a novel set in England.” And off I go, excused by poetry, bumbling off to idle about in the faint sunlight (Berman himself concludes, somewhere halfway through: “On a day like today, […] we're too busy getting along.”)
Which is just to state the obvious – that the act of reading is contingent on the armchair as much as the book, that the room is the words and the words are the room.
It is also, though, a way of pinning down a particularly popular modern pastime, namely the act of not-reading. Toussaint himself has pointed out that “if your goal is to write, not writing is surely at least as important as writing”, and I think it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to apply this idea to writing's counterpart. I recall a scene in Seinfeld where George sets down to read Breakfast at Tiffany's in a long sequence of preparatory motions that recalls Calvino's famous opening paragraph in If on a Winter's Night a Traveler (spoiler alert: “of course, the ideal position for reading is something you can never find”), only to then swiftly put the book down and leaf through the TV Guide instead. Let's call that the Art of Not Reading. When Toussaint discusses Proust, he calls In Search of Lost Time “one of the rare books I've read less often than re-read, […] no longer really knowing, ultimately, if I've already read at least once before certain passages I'm now re-reading.” Surely only in an age of not-reading can we see the value of re-reading books we've never read, the value of re-reading over reading, in other words. While I don't want to put words into Toussaint's mouth, I think that we can safely surmise this order of importance:
1) re-reading
2) reading ex aequo not-reading
Surely, we can agree that distraction is the muse of the not-reader. It is therefore not surprising that Toussaint, the not-writing writer, is great at distraction. In the essay “Literature and Cinema” here, he introduces the topic by claiming to have given “a good dozen” lectures with that exact name (“Literature and Cinema”), only to go on and not talk at all about the content of these lectures. In fact, when he comes near the subject of the lectures, he writes that he will spare [us] the content “to avoid too obvious a mise en abyme.” Mise en abyme: an image within its own image. This, of course, is ingenious, for it tells us that the real subject of “Literature and Cinema” is not literature and cinema, nor is it the dozen or so lectures by Toussaint called Literature and Cinema (for if it was, there would be no mise en abyme), but rather the circumstances of a dozen or so lectures by Toussaint called Literature and Cinema (or, even, his thoughts on the circumstances, etc.). What it implies, really, is that the very fact of the text being an essay necessarily changes its subject from what it is about to what the author thinks it is about. Of course, Toussaint wouldn't be Toussaint if this paratextual approach wasn't then again reflected upon in the text itself, with interjections such as “and here, we are drawing ever so slowly closer to my point”, etc.
Of course, too, in the end Toussaint does somehow – and at this point one could say rather incredulously – manage to get to the essence of the curious symbiotic relation between literature and cinema, and the reader is left wondering whether they've been taken for a ride, knowing full well at the same time that the digression was always going to be part of the point. But I can say this much: of this little 50-page booklet, about 40 pages are probably digression, and yet that still leaves more astute and wise observations than most books manage in about ten times the space. That's gotta be an impressive feat of some sort.