I've got quite a memory. Engraved in my mind, things are. I can't forget anything . . . It's not a sign of intelligence . . . Nothing to boast about, memory . . . that's just how it is . . .
* * * * *
Celine wrote this novel in pencil on paper in a prison in Denmark during WWII. It marks the start of his mature style, all exclamation marks, ellipses, and perfectly measured phrasing. It's a declaration of his status as supreme chronicler of 20th century horrors: "I drown out all the howlers! I'm a shock-trooper mastiff in the barking department!" It's also tremendously funny and wistful. He writes about the terrible prison conditions, his illnesses, the other tortured prisoners, and his longing for France, his wife, his cat, and his bike.
* * * * *
You can find something funny in anything! I'm sick as a dog and falling to bits, but I'll give up joking only after I give up the ghost! my last gasp! The proof, here, with only an eighth of a glimmer of light, things oozing out of my asshole, my armpits, and the elbows, too, blood coming out of the eyes, from the soupy mess of my grave, me whistling a tune, that's what you'll hear! A regular blackbird! . . . putting on a brave face while I ham it up? Maybe you're right! So what? But you won't catch me taking it lying down!
Don't tell me a cat's just something to pet. Not at all! A cat is bewitchment itself, tact emanating in waves . . . they go "grr . . . grr" and it's words . . .
the bike that's so light it almost glides forward without me, at the mere suspicion that I might want to straddle it! . . . the brand: the "Imponder" . . . faster than Arlette in a sprint! Wait'll you see me! . . . Arlette, who's a sylph on the pedals! . . . From Trinite to Montmartre: seven strides! a breeze . . . that's her! a breath of air and she's gone! and that's uphill!
So you say, "You'll have a car!" Not so! The car is a fatso, a half-hearse for has-beens! I won't hearse around! It's the "Imponder" for me! no other! A patient phones? I fly! all reflex! calves! lungs like a forge! I care for myself while caring for others! One visit, two healthy specimens!
On the bike I'm a more presentable kind of nutcase! you get a look at me, the patrician! rejuvenation through zeal! brimming with health! taking care of business! ardor! reflection! heart! a new man!
* * * * *
Near the end there's a long, hilarious section about Jules, a talented, legless, chaotic artist who lived in Celine's building in Montmartre. The novel was already compulsively readable, but this portion compelled me to voraciously finish it in a few days. Dig the little scene below.
* * * * *
- Champagne or I'll die!
They'd bring it back to him! . . . The tyrant! . . . All for Jules! and not so much as a thank-you! nothing! He'd knock it back in one go! . . . Chug-a-lug! Burp! That was it . . . The window watchers would come up, they were thirsty, too! . . . They took the liberty of saying something . . . some remark or other . . . battle royal!
- Come in here, you lazy bastards!
Some guy who didn't know any better . . . he dared . . . a newcomer . . .
One step . . . a quick little maneuver . . . and then plumpf! plop! Irons! canes! bottles! the guy's kisser! Ah! Hee! Ah! Hee! Ole Jules's got no legs, but he's got arms! . . . what an aim, amazing! . . . the dexterity of a monkey! . . . terrible! . . . every projectile hits its mark! . . . He had a monkey's hearing, too, what a sense of hearing! . . . He had strength, too! . . . and guile! . . . so the guy gets clobbered! got the hell out of there fast! squealing! bleeding! . . .
- After the murderer!
Jules would be shouting after him! that they should catch him! finish him off! . . .
* * * * *
Amazingly, Fable and its second part, Normance, were not translated into English until the 21st century. Readers keen on Celine's books will find much to enjoy between their covers. There's no other hallucinatory, semi-autobiographical body of work like the mad French doctor's, and this volume is primo.
* * * * *
It's the web of Time . . . Time! the embroidery of time! . . . blood, music, and lace! . . . I'm spreading it out for you, unfurling it, laying it all before you . . .
Life's a series of repeat performances, and then you die. It brings people back to us, the same people, their "doubles" if they no longer exist, always the same gestures, the same old song . . . you screw up your entrance, your exit, and your lousy luck begins! flops! catcalls! . . . You only get one act to play! One only!
"It is no doubt Celine's singular contribution to world literature to have bared man's innate violence, demonstrating it in ever better ways, in all its forms, and furiously tearing off the veils with which we try to cover it." (Henri Godard)