A choice. Numberless made within the ordinary mayhem of a day. A person makes choices from the beginning to the end -scheme of their life. Peter Kien wants to spend the passing of his time, supported from the inheritance of his father's death, within the library of his own creation. Books instead of people. Facts and theories devised by those ideas argued by the greatest Sinologist in the world, himself. Life is to be defined by knowledge and study. While no one but his housekeeper sees or knows, he builds clear borders and boundaries. All four rooms in his flat are filled with his shelves. He is having a tryst with his books.
Much that has been written about this book has rightfully focused on its theme of totalitarianism. My reading, which certainly doesn't deny this focuses more on the individual, the aesthetic accomplishments, with hopes that it resonates with a few of you.
Except for an hour walk early each morning to sneer at the bookstore windows for the trash they display and the public gobbles up, he has nothing to do with the world outside his library. Not only does life not run according to strict schedules and routine as is paramount in his daily research work but beyond his carefully laid borders is a mixture of individual perceptions, daydreams, delusions, urges and instincts, colliding, resulting in expectations and behaviors missing each other. Nothing is as it is. It is but the stealth and passions of conflicting illusions fighting out their separate dramas to maintain a comfort of denial and diversion. Only if one is to give up one's self and life, participate in the ultra confined categories of what is proscribed as permissible, will agreements be reached. Most appear unconcerned that essences of their lives will not float past. They seem relieved in rolling in the squalor of greed, false politics, subgroups morphed to back their own chosen or assigned ideologies, own code of dress, appearance, speech. Much backslapping and in- jokes. Beneath it all, an unquestioned assignation of what is substituted for value.
Kien, with his photographic mind cares for nothing but his immaculate schedule of study and the endless back and forth over time of communications with other known Sinologists disputing endlessly, if eloquently, the finest points within this chosen context. This process of following the strictest of regimens, parsing fine blades of thought, is learning. The process of learning is in his life the highest from of being, of value. He eschews all worldly acclaim of his work. Known more as a legend in his field he does not respond to ongoing invitations to participate in conferences or to publish.
But…is it really doing or offering anything different to the world than the rest of the hooligan sub worlds? Is that our responsibility? Our worth in life? Helping the world? But…listen, what the Professor is doing is an activity of a much higher aesthetic order. It will enhance him. Enhance him? For what? He isn't leaving the house. Who cares. Who really cares about the finest distinctions made in Sinology? Does anyone care any more or less that Joe every Thursday night after work gets drunk at the same bar and on signal everyone raises their mug and sings in stomach bending laughter the same song. Is this just another placating diversion? These treasured volumes are no different by nature from what the Professor has sealed himself off from? But what if the seal, as in any amalgamation, developed the split of hairline fissure? An unnoticeable spread? Life seeping in or out?
Allowing the world to be sucked into his flat, Kien finds himself removed into the streets of unprinted life where he comes upon or it comes upon him, greed and filth at every level. It is here where that fraction of a fraction of a point is lost. Unlike, the great past television series, The Wire, where corruption of the system and soul is exploded before the viewers eyes adamantly focused on, a Baltimore street gang, the education department and the police department. Canetti frolics through too many strata diffusing somewhat the power of the effect. I say this with great reservation, not only because it is Canetti but their seems a strident effort to shade close to vaudevillian as a style of emphasis. It might have been even more powerful if pared a thin slice toward the dramatic, and half-step from the comic. These may be the words of an old fool living in a modern time and ignorant of the world of 1935. Fortunately he remains just this side of caricature which would be the death bell for this work, though there remains isolated incidents which do detract.
There is something wry going on here. A wink of the eye. As with Walser he stands at a distance smiling at the blunders and misapprehensions of his fellow humanity. However, Canetti's smile is a bit sadder, a touch of melancholy weighting it down at the corners. Possibly the other side of the vaudevillian card is a helpless sadness. He demands the verities of dis-reality to reflect the pliabilities, of our constantly constructed inner realities, the plumbers tape and glue used to anchor our anxious worlds together. He, like myself, seems to have greater faith in the world between covers of a book, its abstractions that weave thought, understanding, into an experience sidling up closer to what may be a reality. Yet, there remains a sense that he is not completely certain.
The story, which can certainly carry itself is enlightened by Canetti's style of hovering in the omniscient third person. He shifts within the minds of his characters to omniscient provisions, to direct talk with the reader. This is accomplished smoothly. Unnoticed, the sorcerer keeps the narrative atilt yet moving forward. Always forward in what may initially feel like stillness.
Something else occurs. Not a literary event but a furthering of a rare literary accomplishment which brings its unexpected presents. Canetti conjures with feint brush strokes a Peter Kien. In my mind as I read he is a tall, thin 40 year old esconsced in his library, books, ongoing study and research. Little description of Mister Kien's physical appearance is provided. Somehow, from gestures, his housekeepers reactions, the description of his books and shelves, and certainly not least the genie-like rising between words, unspoken images of this man comes to life. The point is that for this reader I see Peter Kein differently, despite none of this mentioned in the text, at different times. I find it difficult to understand it as authorial intent. This seems to be what may arise during the heightened whirlwind of a creative process. Carving the end joints of his existence to the bare essentials he shrinks and ages for me on the page. The alchemical brew of gesture, few descriptive details, behavior and response ladled in a slow brim, the reactions of others during his one foray into the guttered streets of life during his punctual one hour morning walk, whitens his hair, thins his bones. His back is now bent, fragile hands shake. Later, hair darkening in my mind as I read, he stands shorter and broader. Further on he rises again tall and lanky. I know this person well. It is unsettling.
This is, Auto de Fe, Elias Canetti, yet he has invited me into this novel by dismissing the thud of a report of physical descriptions of his characters. He has left it to me to join him with my own images to fill in the vacant spaces. His craft, the building of the text and its terms, and little old me. So, I was wrong. He did intentionally create this feat, not only with Kien but most of his, our, characters, understood its overwhelming value as engagement, just not in a way I expected. Then, then, then, if this was not only my personal reactions but also to some degree orchestrated by a master, the irrefutable images I had of these characters not only changed during the book but consistently their fictional images behaved in ways different, even opposite from their appearance. So, without the use of concrete description of characters he works with the reader in steeping the blend of tea then with open palms capturing the steam lifted from the kettle's spout and creating an image of a character, a character more real than those existing outside the covers of this book, who then functions different from their rising and changing appearances. If…if…I am accurate then a part of the art of this book is that we are always changing and not what we appear, even or especially to ourselves. This life we hold so precious is an illusion but not in the cliched way. It is an illusion because illusions are necessary to create the divergences to not spend our lives blinking but to invest ourselves into whatever we need to do to create enough delusions of safety to provide room for comfort, enjoyment, and even the room to search about for meaning.
It is a melancholic message. A tough bitter one, truthful as it may be. There was good reason to lighten the frame by holding some scenes in an old vaudevillian theater of forgotten repute.
Will he find his way back to his flat, his books? Each character shark- swims. Pivotal and pointed, the streaming loops, diving plunges, gummed or raw-toothed intersects with hungry schemes of safety. Life is not about survival but the convenience of knowing that one will survive. It is the culling of extinction in daily and dreaming life. Diving, at each character's pace into the grimed process also defeats time. By each day, hour, second, taken up by this task or worrying it, there is little time for consciousness or anything else. Their obsessive paranoid greed leaves them in a cage of interlocking steel prongs, the sound of pecking just beyond one ear.
I cannot end without a warning. This is a book that stays with you. A certain weight and mass it gestates slowly raising questions at the most inopportune times, resting within and waiting with its slow melancholic smile.