Henri Duchemin et ses ombres

by Emmanuel Bove

Henri Duchemin et ses ombres comprend sept nouvelles. Editées pour la première fois en 1928 (chez Emile-Paul) elles sont reprises telles quelles dans le présent volume. L'ensemble est représentatif de la première manière de Bove : appauvrissement volontaire du langage, phrases courtes et incisives, recherche du détail cocasse et touchant. Ces textes ont en commun de mettre en scène des personnages velléitaires dans des situations sans issue. Une constante de l'oeuvre de Bove poussée ici à son accomplissement. Sous leur diversité, ces sept microcosmes dégagent une profonde unité. Cependant, chaque nouvelle annonce à sa manière les oeuvres futures. A noter que " Le Crime d'une nuit " est le premier texte de Bove. Dans " Un autre ami ", on retrouvera Victor Bâton, le personnage de Mes amis.

Genres: Fiction, Short Stories, France, 20th Century, French Literature, Literary Fiction, Classics

233 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1928

About the author

Emmanuel Bove, born in Paris as Emmanuel Bobovnikoff in 1898, died in his native city on Friday 13 July 1945, the night on which all of France prepared for the large-scale celebration of the first 'quatorze juillet' since World War II. He would probably have taken no part in the festivities. Bove was known as a man of few words, a shy and discreet observer. His novels and novellas were populated by awkward figures, 'losers' who were always penniless. In their banal environments, they were resigned to their hopeless fate. Bove's airy style and the humorous observations made sure that his distressing tales were modernist besides being depressing: not the style, but the themes matched the post-war atmosphere precisely.

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Emmanuel Bove may be not a renowned author but he writes better than many renowned ones.
Henri Duchemin and His Shadows is a fine collection of seven psychological stories…
Night Crime is a dream in Christmas Eve… Loneliness and severe penury like a funhouse mirror turn the dream into a murderous nightmare…

Exactly as the man without a name had said, moonlight illuminated the room. It was the light of insomnia, a light for sick eyes.
The banker’s body was hidden by blankets and his head, resting on the pillow, seemed to lack a torso. There was also something ridiculous about this older man’s head perched on its exposed neck.

Another Friend is about a false friendship… Night Visit is a story of ruined relationships…

Everything on earth follows the same laws. Starting at one point, a man, an animal, a tree grows and grows, then slowly deteriorates.

What I Saw is about the anguish of jealousy… The Story of a Madman is a manic depression tale… Is It a Lie? is about a lying wife… In The Child’s Return a prodigal son attempts to return home…

No one was in the courtyard. In my blurred vision, the line of the horizon seemed to spin as I looked at it. No tree, no bush concealed me. I was facing the walls of the house, the window, and the slope of the roof at which I had tossed balls as a child.

Poverty and unhappiness pitilessly keep one’s ego down.

[Guille · Rating 4 out of 5]

4,5 ⭐


Con el mismo empeño que pongo en el apostolado en favor de Nina Berberova, les recomiendo ahora a ustedes otro autor mayúsculo y también prácticamente desconocido: Emmanuel Bove, (además de su casi anonimato en España, ambos comparten sus orígenes rusos y el país de acogida, Francia).

“Estuve mucho rato mirándola antes de despertarla… fue para que se sintiera confusa cuando se lo dijera”

Tal vez conozcan su novela más famosa, «Mis amigos», el resto de su obra se encuentra en una casi completa oscuridad, quizás en un penoso e injusto homenaje a su autor que prefería quedar en un segundo plano, lejos de los focos, y que fueran sus libros quienes se comunicaran con el público, cosa que desgraciadamente no es el caso. Afortunadamente, en los últimos años parece estar viviendo un renacimiento (en Francia fue muy popular en la primera mitad del siglo pasado) que espero se extienda a nuestras tierras (mi agradecimiento a las editoriales Pre-textos, Hermida Editores y Pasos perdidos por la labor en este sentido).

“Se acordaba un poco del anciano que había dicho que para redimirse había que sufrir. Pero eso no lo incumbía a él porque nunca le había hecho daño a nadie”

Este libro reúne siete relatos, siendo el protagonista del primero, «El crimen de una noche», quién le presta su nombre al conjunto, remedo del Raskólnikov de «Crimen y castigo». En todos ellos hay hombres —siempre hombres, las mujeres son secundarias ocupando papeles de sospechosas o sospechosas o culposas de causar infelicidad— merecedores de compasión que solo logran provocarnos rechazo, seres en búsqueda de una felicidad que creen merecer y que se les hurta, piensan, injustamente. Un ejemplo magnífico de esas miserias humanas que no por cotidianas son menos irritantes.

“Me gusta echar pan a los pájaros. Lo hago porque es indicio de alma generosa. Tengo tanto más mérito cuanto que nada me atrae en ellos. Como a la mayoría de la gente, me resultan entrañables su independencia y su encanto, pero no hasta el punto de hallar contento en echarles miguitas”

La mayor parte de estos cuentos están narrados en primera persona y con una sencillez tal que, por contraste, resaltan aún más las tortuosas personalidades de sus protagonistas, verdadero centro del relato. Son hombres solitarios que anhelan reconocimiento, que desean encontrar al gran amor, al amigo perfecto, aunque se sientan recelosos, desconfiados, inseguros, favoreciendo el rechazo y, por consiguiente, la decepción y la desilusión.

“Cuando un hombre sufre, ¿qué puede decirnos que no sepamos ya?”

Estos seres míseros y miserables, dóciles en el exterior y soberbios internamente, sufren, no encajan, se desesperan, son ineptos para hacer lo que deben y acaban haciendo justo lo contrario o, si no, resignándose a solo imaginar lo que son incapaces de hacer.

“Todo esto me sucedió ayer. He sumido en el dolor a cuantos me conocían. Y, por primera vez en la vida, no estoy sufriendo”

P.S. Si tienen curiosidad por saber cómo era físicamente este especial, único y extraordinario autor, pueden verle en la portada de «El Doctor Pasavento», de Vila-Matas, autor al que agradezco descubrirme al escritor, como lo hizo con otros muchos.

[Kansas · Rating 4 out of 5]

https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2024...

"¡Contar mi vida! ¿Acaso se le cuenta la vida a un amigo? ¿Es posible contar la propia vida sin mejorarla o sin empeorarla, sin mentir? En cuanto a las confidencias, ¿es posible hacerlas solo porque te lo pidan? Hablarle de mi vida y de mí a un recién llegado, no, no era posible."


Con este libro de Bove me he saltado una de mis reglas que es la de no leer dos libros seguidos de un mismo autor, bueno, me la salto a veces, sí, pero no es habitual pero en este caso y tras Un padre y su hija, me quedé con las ganas de saber algo más de los personajes de Emmanuel Bove, así que elegí esta pequeña colección de relatos que la verdad ha resultado una delicia, aunque algún que otro relato se le nota que ha pasado el tiempo por él, sobre todo en torno a una cierta condescendencia de Monsieur Bove en torno a las mujeres, que no vale la pena destacar aquí con ninguna cita, porque no me quedó muy claro si ese pequeño ninguneo hacia la mujer es tal cual o solo resultado del relato en cuestión. No sé bien todavía, pero como pienso seguir leyendo a Bove, a ver si me lo aclaro. El caso es que el comentario en torno a Henri Duchemin y sus sombras va a ser la excusa para extenderme sobre todo en el primer relato “Crimen de una noche”, un relato espectacular que define muy bien la escritura de Emmanuel Bove.


“- No me sea ridículo. Si se siente desgraciado, lo que tiene que hacer es suicidarse.
Henri Duchemin se puso colorado. Pasó un minuto pensando qué responderle.
Como no se le ocurría nada, se levantó y se fue con el corazón cargado de amargura.”


En Crimen de una noche nos encontramos con un personaje prototípico de Bove, Henri Duchemin, que vive en una pobreza relativa, en búsqueda eterna de un poco de amistad y de amor. Es la víspera de navidad y se encuentra solo, apartado del mundo, buscando desesperadamente un asidero humano al que agarrarse y este primer relato ilustra la capacidad de Bove para moverse entre el límite de lo onírico y un mundo ideal soñado, y la más triste y cruda realidad. En esta nochebuena Henri Duchemin se hace amigo de alguien que le convence para asesinar a un banquero con la promesa de hacerse rico. Este asesinato será la excusa de Bove para poner a su personaje al pie del abismo. La gracia de Crimen de una noche está en cómo Bove nos introduce en la mente de Duchemin, no tanto obsesionado por las implicaciones morales del presunto asesinato, que yo diría que no le quitan el sueño, sino que será un asesinato que acepta cometer para sentirse menos solo, y reafirmarse en el hecho de poder conservar un amigo, así que se puede decir que es su soledad, más que el deseo de hacerse rico, la base de su crimen.


“Mientras todo el mundo hablaba al mismo tiempo, Henri Duchemin empezó a comprender que no lo querían. Se le reveló la fealdad de la vida. Hasta ese momento, mientras estuvieron escuchándolo, había vivido en un sueño.”



En los relatos posteriores, Bove se embarca de nuevo en el tema de la amistad como en “Otro amigo”, y en “Visita por la noche” un amigo le pide a otro que le ayude a confirmar el adulterio de su esposa (“Así que dejé de pensar en ella. ¿Se ha fijado usted en que son precisas varias horas de ausencia para acordarse de la mujer que amas cuando se ha ido por iniciativa propia?”). Siete relatos en los que se repiten una y otra vez los temas de amistad, adulterio, la obsesión por salir de la pobreza o el suicidio, porque en el universo de Emmanuel Bove, la amistad no es algo confiable, como tampoco lo es el amor en el sentido de que sus personajes, hombres inseguros, frágiles, que ejercen un autovictimísmo continuo, siempre acaban dudando de ellas, o sus amigos masculinos los acaban defraudando. “Ese almuerzo lo recordaré toda la vida. Hubo tanta confianza entre el señor Boudier-Martel y yo, tantas finezas que hoy en día me cuesta creer que de todo aquello no quede nada”. Ya comenté en anteriores reseñas, que me parecía más una carencia de base no tanto basada en los demás sino del propio personaje, que cuestiona a los demás por la distancia pero al mismo tiempo tampoco se exponen lo suficiente para establecer los vínculos ansiados así que acaban convencidos de que están mejor solos. Así que en el mundo de Bove el afecto o el amor o la amistad siempre acabarán siendo traicionados: sus personajes se enfrentan a esta traición casi orgullosos porque mentalmente ya se han autoconvencido y autojustificado de que siempre tienen razón. Es un mundo de paranoia, obsesión recurrente y desapego continuo porque incluso tomando a las personas que se van encontrando como son, los personajes de Bove siempre acabarán decepcionados.


“Quien no me conozca bien podría creer de entrada que soy una persona difícil y que de ahí vienen mis desdichas. No, solo pido un poco de amistad. Sé que es muestra de una gran sabiduría no pedirles a los hombres más de lo que pueden dar. Hay que tomarlos como son. Lo sé. Me conformo con tomarlos como son. Pero incluso eso se me niega.”


“Harto de buscar, se sentó en el sillón y cerró los ojos para no ver la oscuridad”. Los hombres de Bove son frágiles, por supuesto como resultado de esa Primera Guerra Mundial de la que venían no solo ellos sino el mismo Bove, sufren insoportablemente porque no saben gestionar el día a día así que al final siempre acabaran echándole la culpa al mundo porque se sienten solos e incomprendidos. Casi todos los relatos, como ocurría en “Mis Amigos”, comienzan con normalidad, sintiéndose ellos con expectativas pero a medida que avanzan, su propia mente le juega malas pasadas, un sobrepensamiento de la mente que les hará imaginar hechos que podrían ocurrir pero que igual no van a ocurrir nunca, y así se irán fracturando lentamente, no sabremos tampoco realmente si la gente que rodea a estos personajes son realmente como nos las describe el personaje, o son resultado de su mente paranoica: “Escuchó sin respirar. Tenia miedo. Quiso correr. Pero le flojeaban las piernas, como en la guerra, cuando llevaba un compañero haciendo las veces de camillero”. Así que se puede decir, o es la impresión que voy teniendo, de que los personajes de Bove tienen un conflicto continuo entre querer establecer relaciones significativas y su propio desprecio o rechazo a establecer vínculos, es una dicotomía y una contradicción que se repite una y otra vez. Los personajes de Bove quieren desesperadamente agradar, enamorar, establecer conexiones, y mientras se obsesionan con esto, se van angustiando cada vez más, no tanto por la infelicidad que les produce sino porque quieren verse reafirmados a través de los demás. La pobreza los hace inseguros, pero también desconfiados porque están continuamente dudando de cómo son percibidos por su entorno.


“No escribo a menudo, así, a vuelapluma. Para que me decida a hacerlo tiene que haberme pasado algo realmente grave. Por eso le pido, estimado señor, que sea indulgente. No tiene usted ante sí a un escritor, sino a un hombre que sufre y busca la clave que se lo explique todo.”


No he buceado mucho en la vida de Emmanuel Bove pero imagino que continuamente está hablando de sí mismo y a través de sus personajes se confiesa y busca esa autoestima en continua quiebra. Y lo que más me sigue fascinando de su narrativa es su estilo, porque aunque nos presente a personajes en continua angustia existencial, inseguros, frágiles, queriendo amar pero dudando continuamente de poder ser amados, sin embargo esas dudas no se reflejan en su estilo que se revela seguro, firme, directo. Sus frases son cortas, apenas revelando detalles y sin embargo, desvelándolo todo entre lineas. Enganchan y atrapan enseguida porque Emmanuel Bove tiene una capacidad innata para convertir al lector en cómplice de sus historias. Sus historias fluyen entre el argumento que nos presenta y el pensamiento más íntimo del personaje protagonista, así que es como si hubiera dos lineas argumentales paralelas en sus historias: el del yo íntimo y el hilo argumental básico, y es en este yo íntimo dónde Bove ejerce la extraña sensación de estar contándonos un secreto. Y no es tal el secreto, simplemente nos está revelando sus miedos.


"¿De dónde me venía la tristeza? Mis libros, todos mis libros dormían en la biblioteca. Nadie había hablado mal de mi. Estaba en el centro de todo. Así pues, no debía sentir temor de que los acontecimientos, libres de mi presencia, fueran en una dirección que me habría sido imposible modificar. No estaba descontento de mi mismo. E, incluso aunque lo hubiera estado, esa sensación no habría tenido la fuerza de esto que notaba."

♫♫♫ I Dreamed I Dream - Sonic Youth ♫♫♫

[MJ Nicholls · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bove, famous for his masterpiece of solitude My Friends, also penned short paeans to solitude and strange male friendships, seven of which are collected in this fresh translation. ‘Night Crime’ features a woeful soul whose whisperings lead to murder, a fattened wallet, and the inevitable moral decay; ‘Another Friend’ a woeful soul who meets a rich ‘friend to the poor’ who proves to be no friend at all; ‘Night Visit’ a woeful soul whose girlfriend in a moment of thoughtless cruelty ends their relationship; ‘What I Saw’ a woeful soul convinced his wife was kissing another man in a taxi; ‘The Story of a Madman’ a woeful soul who chooses to sever contact with everyone close to him to make them suffer; ‘The Child’s Return’ a woeful soul who is unable to return to his parental home after a long absence; ‘Is it a Lie?’ a woeful soul who wonders where his wife was last night. A pattern is clear: woeful souls whose relationships are teetering on the brink of severance, or fail to even occur. The pain of attempting to make meaningful contact with another human being is Bove’s topic, one plumbed with wonder here.

[Tony]

See, I was in an Irish graveyard, in the Fifteen Shilling plot, and I was getting terribly confused at the chatter, which I did not expect. So I slipped out, promising to myself to return, and maybe I will, and I opened this as a respite. Yes, as a respite.

There are seven stories here, the best of them merely banal. The worst, annoying, in this way: Now I am writing to you. You can see that I am writing because you are reading what I write. Uplifted?

Anyhow, as if I've taken some potion, they're all fading. Disappearing. Into the ether. Tomorrow, I will wake up with the usual lack of purpose. I will blink. I was reading something, wasn't I? I mean, I'm always reading something. What was it, these last few days? Poof.

So now I have to decide whether I should return to The Dirty Dust. As if I can control such a thing. And will they be accepting me? As if they can control such a thing.

----- ----- ----- ----- -----

I'm bursting to ask you this, though. When did we start using the verb burst to describe anything other than the explosions of grapes and the odd appendix? It's not just in this book. It's rather frequent. By good writers and bad. But in just one story here a character burst out laughing, only a few pages later to burst into sobs. Twice. Isn't there any other way to laugh or cry than to burst into it? And is it similarly annoying in other languages?

You have your issues; I have mine.

[Bogdan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Après Mes amis et Armand, c’est le troisième livre d’Emmanuel Bove que je lis.

Le crime d’une nuit, le récit le plus long et celui par lequel commence ce recueil, est le premier texte de l’auteur que je rencontre écrit à la troisième personne. Cette perspective confère à la narration une objectivité relative, différente de celle, plus subjective, à laquelle je m'étais habitué. Cependant, la narration à la première personne des personnages principaux des deux autres récits apportait déjà une perspective légèrement aliénée.

J’ai retrouvé ici la même clarté d’un style concis, opérant par des prises visuelles, par des instantanés qui figent le quotidien le plus ordinaire dans des hypostases inattendues et inquiétantes. Avec précision, Bove esquisse des personnages inédits et rend vibrante toute la pauvre atmosphère des chambres louées et des bistrots de banlieue. Quelques mornes façades, quelques fenêtres aveugles, quelques rues noyées dans la nuit et un chantier lui suffisent pour faire surgir du néant l'image d'une ville entière.

Le crime d’une nuit a des allures hybrides de récit policier onirique, où l’écriture se révèle bien plus captivante que la trame. Voici un petit passage pour illustrer cette atmosphère:

La chaleur de son corps séchait tout doucement ses habits. Il se sentait mieux. Bientôt, il lui sembla que le plancher se dérobait sous ses pieds et que ses jambes balançaient dans le vide, comme celles d'un enfant sur une chaise.

C'est l’histoire sombre d’un pauvre homme qui oscille entre léthargie et une pulsion soit suicidaire, soit meurtrière. Mais la narration a une dimension onirique. On ne sait jamais, jusqu'à la fin, si l’homme rêve ou s'il veille, s'il a vraiment tué et s'il va se tuer, ou s'il va tout simplement se réveiller. Bref, l'histoire peut basculer dans plusieurs extrêmes, qui conservent chacune leur ambiguïté jusqu'au dernier moment. C’est un récit kafkaïen avant la lettre, et il y a particulièrement une scène dans la périphérie de la ville qui m’a rappelé beaucoup les dernières pages du Procès de Kafka – livre que Bove, bien sûr, n’avait pas pu lire à l’époque où il écrivait.

Un autre ami, le second récit, se trouve aussi comme chapitre dans Mes amis, le roman de début et le chef-d'œuvre de Bove. Mais je pense que sa présence ici n'est pas superflue, elle témoigne seulement de son autonomie narrative, et le récit fonctionne très bien aussi comme pièce à part.

L'interaction des deux personnages principaux dans Visite d'un soir, le troisième récit, m'a rappelé comment Armand, du roman homonyme, était fréquemment imité par et même se confondait avec son ancien ami Lucien. C'est un aspect que j'ai un peu analysé dans ma critique de ce roman-là.

Généralement, chez Bove, il y a une attention hypersensitive que les personnages narrateurs ont aux moindres gestes qu’ils font ou qui sont faits par les autres; il y a aussi les gros plans pris à l'improviste sur des détails anodins et l'exactitude d'un regard à part qui fige ces détails avec appréhension. Tout cela rend le narrateur lui-même et ses perspectives étranges.

Il y a beaucoup de moments où le narrateur pourrait éprouver des sentiments immédiats et directs envers d'autres personnages, mais il est toujours isolé et figé par son regard du “côté”:

Mon ami, qui s'était interrompu, tira son mouchoir et s'épongea drôlement les sourcils, avec l'insistance, avec le soin qu'il eût pris pour tout le visage. Je le regardais de côté pour ne pas le gêner.

Un autre aspect narratif qui m'a frappé aussi bien dans Armand que dans le récit Visite d'un soir, ce sont les gros plans faits sur l'intérieur du corps humain :

Avec précaution, il s'approcha de moi. On aurait dit qu'il craignait que le moindre bruit n'eût fermé ma bouche. Il la regardait en clignant des paupières auxquelles manquaient des cils. La clarté de la lampe, qui glissait sur la rondeur de ses yeux, en effaçait la couleur. Il éclata de rire. Oui, il éclata de rire. Ses doigts, dont les ongles minces épousaient la chair au lieu de s'imposer, tremblaient l'un après l'autre. Quelques dents que je ne connaissais pas m'apparurent au fond de sa bouche, des dents semblables aux autres mais auxquelles je n'étais pas habitué. Elles me révélaient des mystères physiques. J'eus conscience de n'avoir plus en face de moi un ami, mais un homme comme moi. Et cela fit plus pour m'attendrir que son attitude désespérée.

Étrange façon – il s'agit d’une sorte de révélation physiologique… – par laquelle le personnage narrateur s'identifie avec son compagnon et arrive à ressentir envers celui-ci une brève et indirecte sympathie seulement via l'image inattendue de ses molaires…

Dans le récit suivant, Bove aborde un style épistolaire, mais pas à la française. Il me semble qu'il est plutôt dans la veine de la première œuvre de Dostoïevski – Gens pauvres. C'est le moment opportun de mentionner que le père de Bove fut Russe et que l'auteur a hérité quelque chose de slave qu’il a porté aussi dans son esprit. Il a en commun avec Dostoïevski une intensité psychologique dans des relations trop étroites pour l’âme du protagoniste et un laconisme presque théâtral avec lequel l'atmosphère de la pauvreté est mise en scène.

À propos, il y a un roman de Bove qui a le titre révélateur Un Raskolnikov, mais je ne l’ai pas encore lu.

Après le premier, l’avant-dernier récit est mon favori. Tous deux semblent influencés par Kafka, mais je doute que Bove, mort en 1945, ait eu le temps de le découvrir. Tout de même, la ressemblance entre Le retour de l’enfant et Heimkehr est tellement grande que j’ai dû faire quelques recherches. Il s’avère que ce dernier est un texte posthume de Kafka, apparu en 1936, tandis que ce recueil de Bove, dans l'édition dont je l’ai lu, date de 1928.

La trame des deux textes est complètement la même: un fils revient à la maison de son enfance après une longue absence, mais il reste figé dans la cour et ne peut s’approcher ni aller à la rencontre des siens. Il se cache dans la cour, retenu sur place par un profond sentiment d’angoisse, d’appréhension et de culpabilité envers ses parents.

Le texte de Kafka n’a pas de dénouement – le fils reste sur place –, mais le récit de Bove, si. Étant plus long que le texte de Kafka – qui est très concis et ambigu –, plus détaillé dans les impressions vives du voyage du fils vers la maison et dans les flashbacks, Le retour de l’enfant m’a touché davantage que Heimkehr, notamment par toute la description de ce long retour et par ce qui en résonne dans le personnage.

Dans ma critique d’Armand, j’ai recensé les images liées aux ombres. Ici, je veux montrer comment on lit dans ce recueil. Les citations sont tirées de presque tous les récits, mais elles n’ont pas le même ordre dans le livre qu’ici; je les ai regroupées d’une manière à mieux vous intriguer:

”Attention! lecteur. Lisez ces lignes tout seul. Il faut qu’il n’y ait personne autour de vous. Moi, je suis seul aussi. Nous sommes tous les deux seuls.”

“Il lisait les faits divers, mais jamais de romans policiers, car il éprouvait une sorte de gêne à la lecture d’un récit qui n’avait pas existé.”

“Un client, qui s’assoupissait près du poêle, sursauta. L’eau s’évaporant de son pardessus et de ses souliers l’enveloppait d’une nuée transparente. La patronne, qui lisait un roman, avait du mal à tourner les pages.”

“L'asile semblait abandonné. Il y entra, en prenant soin de laisser la porte ouverte afin de pouvoir fuir en cas de besoin. Le silence était profond. Une odeur désagréable flottait dans l'air. Le tuyau noir d'un poêle montait droit jusqu'au plafond. Les couchettes, en rang le long des murs blanchis, étaient toutes occupées. De mauvais rêves devaient tourmenter les mendiants, car leurs vêtements pendaient jusqu'à terre ou gisaient entre les lits. Dans une cabine vitrée, le surveillant, éclairé à demi par une lumière glissant sous un abat-jour, lisait un livre dont les pages se recroquevillaient aux coins.”

“D’où venait que j’étais triste? Mes livres, tous mes livres, dormaient dans la bibliothèque.”

“Il se leva, marcha dans la pièce cependant que je posais mon livre, alluma une cigarette, puis se rassit. Il fumait comme les nerveux, une cigarette trop molle. De temps à autre, il crachotait des brindilles de tabac.”

“Paul parlait sans le moindre geste, comme un malade. De temps en temps, il lançait un coup d'œil sur la porte et cela suffisait à lui faire perdre le fil de sa pensée. On eût dit qu'il lisait et que son regard, distrait un instant, ne retrouvait plus la ligne qu'il venait de quitter. Et je l'écoutais, quand il ne disait rien, avec la même attention, pour qu'il se remît le plus vite possible.”

“Elle tenait un livre avec la grâce d’une personne qui s’est assoupie en lisant. [...]
Elle avait lâché le livre, sans doute pour que son sommeil parût naturel. Il glissait doucement. Je le laissai tomber. Elle ouvrit les yeux. « Paul, pourquoi n’as-tu pas pris le livre ? » – « Je te regardais, ma chérie. » Je compris alors, en l’espace d’un instant, qu’elle avait deviné que je doutais de son sommeil.”

“Oui, je lisais un livre qui m’intéressait autant qu’un livre peut le faire. J’étais plongé dans ce roman au point d’oublier où je me trouvais quand, tout à coup, en tournant une page je dois dire, pendant cette seconde d’inattention qui, à chaque feuillet, coupe un récit, il m’apparut clairement que je ne m’étais pas trompé.

J’avais vu la chose, de mes yeux vu, par conséquent c’était vrai. Ma chère amie avait beau nier, puisque je l’avais vue, c’était vrai.”

“Puis elle changea de conversation, s’occupa à des riens et, prenant un de mes livres, s’assit dans un fauteuil. En manière de plaisanterie, je lui dis :
— Tu vas l’apprendre par cœur.
En effet, elle ne lit que mes livres et comme ils sont rares, elle les lit et relit.
— C’est ce que je voudrais, mon amour. Je suis jalouse de ta pensée.”

“Tu me lisais tes lettres. Je te lisais les miennes.”

“Je lisais lorsqu’on frappa.”

“Une seconde, je crus qu’il lisait dans mon âme.”

“En ce moment, j’écris. Vous voyez bien que j’écris puisque vous me lisez. Eh bien, eux, ils souffrent, ils souffrent à cause de moi. Mais, il ne faut pas que je m’attendrisse, sinon je ne terminerai pas cette histoire, et ce serait dommage.”

“Quelques habitués lisaient les journaux du soir. Un courant d’air balançait la chaînette du manchon à gaz. La bonne, accoudée sur le buffet, souhaitait de partir.”



“Ayez la bonté de lire attentivement ce qui va suivre.”

Si je me rappelle bien, Céline disait dans un entretien qu’il y a seulement deux ou trois vrais styles dans une génération littéraire entière. Comme beaucoup de belles exagérations, cette affirmation montre une réalité. Je pense que la génération de Bove a peut-être été la plus riche en vrais, nouveaux et distincts styles de toute l’histoire de la littérature (si tant est que l’on puisse compter ces styles sur les doigts), et c’est peut-être une des raisons pour lesquelles Bove – cet auteur du silence et d’une modestie géniale – reste encore couvert par l’ombre des grands écrivains qui se sont imposés et qui furent canonisés. Mais pour moi, certains ne sont pas plus “grands” que l’auteur mineur Bove. Certainement pas Camus et Céline, pour ne pas aller au-delà de la lettre “C”. Kafka était aussi l’auteur d’une “littérature mineure”, selon Deleuze et Guattari. Mais je me demande pourquoi Bove l’est encore, alors qu’il a écrit comme nul autre dans le grand espace de la littérature francophone et mondiale.

[Ben Winch]

These are effective stories, neat and well-wrought, but I can’t imagine they’re central to Bove’s ouevre. Really, I bought this book on impulse, on the strength of its cover, the ostensible link with Robert Walser (he’s namechecked in the blurb) and the introduction by Goodreads friend/acquaintance Donald Breckenridge. Well, the cover’s great – I love Arp and that combination of greys/blues. As to Walser, he’s here, but peripheral: underdogs in rented walk-ups abound, and tortured (in Bove’s case paranoiac) love affairs, but the sense of a wilful unhinged mind spinning in unpredictable ellipses is absent. Instead, each story narrows, relentless, to its target. Some – “Night Crime”, “What I Saw”, “Is it a Lie” – ride a fine, haunting line between subjective and objective that lifts them somewhere near the realm of Walser; others ��� “Night Visit” – I found slightly banal. In all, my impression was less of an adventurer on the fringes than of a tenured professional, subdued and tasteful, whose stories could slot neatly into any number of “Best of...” European anthologies, whose prose is a marvel of compression and focus, but who could never chill or freeze the blood like Walser, Poe (there’s a similarity, especially in the title story) or Beckett (the other name dropped here, whose recommendation of Bove, I forgot to say, was the clincher). And Donald Breckenridge’s introduction? It’s skilfully done, a briefer, denser version of a standard NYRB/Penguin/what have you template, but without that spark of irreverance I guess I was hoping for from a Goodreads “amateur”. But then, Mr Breckenridge, like Bove, may well be a professional. Overall, an intriguing but slightly underwhelming package, at least on first reading. All surface? Or the clear lines of stained glass with shadows beneath? I guess I’d have liked more a dive into the shadows. “Night Crime” was promising; the others were a little too opaque.

[Tosh · Rating 4 out of 5]

I have never read Emmanuel Bove, and now, I feel like I have a good new friend. On the other hand, do I need him as a friend? The short stories all deal with a main character who feels misplaced or not connecting on a human level with others or their settings. In many ways, they are totally self-destructive figures who seem to enjoy their fall from grace to embrace emotional failure. Most of his fiction was written between the two world wars, so it's a world that itself is in conflict, and i think Bove is commenting on the nature of that landscape and how one lives on that mental state of depression and fear of the future. Relationships seem to be built on quicksand than on pavement and ground. Bove captures these moments that are totally believable, yet they are basically insane people. Right now, I feel we are going through an age of intense anxiety. "Henri Duchemin and his Shadows" expresses the culture of the 20s, and makes perfect sense in the year 2015 as well.

[Pieter-Jan De Paepe · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bijzondere schrijver die Bove

[Hux · Rating 3 out of 5]

A collection of seven short stories, all of which are either very sad or very suspicious. The writing is as cool and crisp as ever from Bove, containing his signature to-the-point style, making the reading experience extremely enjoyable. There's a definite influence from Poe here, not least in the way that stories begin with a man telling you that he's not crazy. But where Poe gives you a twist or an unsettling dream, Bove is more straightforward, writing stories that are simplistic, authentic, yet beautiful.

The seven stories are 'Night Crime' about a feverish dream of murder. 'Another Friend' about a poor man being taken under the wing of a rich man. 'Night Visit' about a friend who has been dumped by his girlfriend, 'What I Saw' about a man who sees his girlfriend kiss another man, 'The Story of a Madman' about a man cuts everyone out of his life, 'The Child's Return' about a man on a train who returns to his parents after five years, and finally 'Is It a Lie?' about a young wife explaining why she did not come home all night.

Each of them are very good. Story of a Madman was my favourite as it dealt with the very modern phenomenon of ghosting people, simply removing them from your life. One by one, he methodically tells his father, girlfriend, best friend, sister that he simply doesn't want to see them anymore. He has no reason for it, he has just decided to live a new life without them. I also enjoyed the beautiful simplicity of The Child's Return. It was very moving, heartfelt, and by far the most evocative of the landscape around him. The weakest story, however, was probably Another friend which is ironic because it's essentially a repeat story from a portion of his masterpiece 'My Friends.' Most of them are just very sad, containing themes of jealously, loneliness, paranoia, poverty, or regret. Story of a Madman being the only exception. The narrator seems happy, liberated. And yet he's the madman of these seven stories.

They're all very well written, using the stark yet fluid language which is clearly Bove's forte. The quote on the back of the book by Peter Handke rather perfectly sums up Bove's writing. "It's like drawing with very clear lines."

[Stephen P(who no longer can participate due to illness) · Rating 2 out of 5]

Too slight and thin. It was as though after a certain point Bove cared little for his child moving on to his next progeny where the same sad occurrence prepared itself to happen again.

[Daniel Polansky]

A collection of lovely, sad, strange short stories. I particularly liked the one where a man destroys everything in his life just to prove he can do it.

[Guy · Rating 4 out of 5]

Lost, desperate, isolated characters inhabit Emmanuel Bove’s short story collection Henri Duchemin and His Shadows (1928). While the characters are sometimes isolated due to circumstance, it’s primarily their inner thoughts and private fears that separate them from mainstream society. The dominant threads here are broken relationships, absorbing disillusionment and coming to terms with a less-than-satisfactory life. Naturally, most of the disillusion occurs in relationships between men and women.

Night Crime is set on Christmas Eve with the title character, Henri Duchemin, mired in a life of poverty turning desperately to a stranger for sympathy, but he’s told that if he’s that unhappy, he should just kill himself.

He closed his window and, motionless in front of the only armchair, he saw women everywhere, in the depths of the walls, standing on his bed, languidly waving their arms. No, he would not kill himself. At forty a man is still young and can, if he perseveres, become rich.

Henri Duchemin dreamed of supplicants, of owning houses, of freedom. But once his imagination had calmed down, it seemed the disorder of his room had grown, in contrast as it was with his reveries.

This is a nightmarish, surreal tale in which Duchemin is tempted by a stranger to commit a crime which will supposedly solve all of his problems.

In Another Friend, a poor man is befriended by a wealthy stranger. The poor man imagines that he has met someone, finally, who will be an understanding friend, only to discover that the stranger collects poor people and gets some strange satisfaction from giving them a meal and listening to their tales of woe.

In Night Visit, marital woes between Paul and Fernande spill over on to Paul’s friend, Jean. Paul worships Fernande and describes her in the most glowing terms, but Jean finds Fernande to be a “rather corpulent, rather common woman.” Who can explain why we love some people while we ignore others who are far more suitable? Here’s the story’s final passage which, on the surface, would seem to have little to do with the subject.

An automobile on its way to Les Halles passed very close to us. In the pure, freezing air, it left such a circumscribed scent of vegetables that when we took one step to the side, we could not smell it any more. In the middle of the sleeping city, beneath the sky, we were alone. The moon had disappeared. And without it, as if they lacked a leader, the stars seemed to be in disarray.

In What I Saw the narrator, Jean (possibly the character from the previous tale) tells the story of his girlfriend, Henriette. While the narrator stresses how much he loves his girlfriend who is “as sweet as an angel,” we get the impression that beneath the surface, there’s an undercurrent of problems. There are hints that he’s been unfaithful perhaps, but he’s always forgiven, and when he tests her love with questions, she always gives the right responses.

Even though she is beautiful, she recognizes that a man’s lapse is not as great as a woman’s.

Through the narrator’s description of his girlfriend, a picture of Henriette gradually builds. There’s nothing to fault in what she says or what she does, but somehow, once again, there’s a feeling of unease.

Candy, cake, fruit-she always goes without in order to offer them to me and, if I don’t take them, because I know how fond she is of them, she insists with so much love that I would be hurting her if I continued to refuse them. Nothing exists for her. She sees all of life through me.

Is this woman a saint? Or has she honed her manipulative skills to a fine point? Or is she merely holding her own in this relationship in which the narrator completely underestimates the female sex?

In Is it A Lie?, my favourite in this collection, a much older husband, Mr. Marjanne must confront his wife’s infidelity when she provides a very flimsy story excusing an overnight absence. This short story takes us through Claire Marjanne’s ridiculous version of events, and as a result we become both witnesses and participants in her fabrication. Taking the moral high ground, she grasps the power in the marital relationship and then Claire manipulates her husband, drawing him into her web of lies, liberally casting details and logic as though these will base her story in reality.

One of the blurbs connects Bove’s stories to the female characters in the novels of Jean Rhys. I’d disagree, and if you’re hoping to find Jean Rhys-type stories here, you’ll be disappointed. Bove’s main characters are lost males, and if there are women in their lives, then the women are lying to them, cheating on them, or simply moving on. The story Henri Duchemin and His Shadows gives a glimpse of café culture, reminiscent of Rhys, and a hard, acid-tongued woman who tells the title character to stop whining and just kill himself. Ultimately the women here are the tough ones–they survive and move on leaving their men wondering just what went wrong.

Resurrected by New York Review books. Translated by Alyson Waters

[Adam Dalva · Rating 3 out of 5]

My first time reading Bove - his stories have a wonderful subconscious flow and his descriptions are often remarkable. I am certainly going to read one of his novels after this, because the qualities that set this apart (strong characters, humor, writing) lend themselves to that form. The collection starts off very strongly, but it trends downhill because the stories are a bit too similar - it would probably be better to read one a day. Though they are all accomplished, the stories of lonely men who suspect their wives, wander through dreams, suffer in poverty, and directly address the reader with lengthy preambles start to blend together. This isn't the fault of Bove or the wonderful translation, but it makes it a bit tougher to recommend the book to non-fans. As a historical document though, this is fascinating. You can see the Beckett influence, the Camus, the Claude Simon. That missing link aspect was my favorite thing here.

[Jan · Rating 3 out of 5]

Happiness and love are Illusive, are not to be achieved by the characters of the seven stories, brought together in ‘Henri Duchemin en zijn schaduwen’ (Henri Duchemin and his shadows/ Henri Duchemin et ses ombres). It’s mostly the dark side of social realism that Emmanuel Bove explores, full of poverty and loneliness. It is Bove’s style that lifts up his stories and makes them interesting, making them somehow close to you as reader.
One of the underlying themes is the unfullfilment of life passing by, close to your heart, without being able to do something about it. For Bove-characters perception – how they think they will be regarded by others – is their reality. There is a strong desire for meaningful relationships, but with denial of invitations as result. Moving literature. JM

[WillemC · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bove is zo een van die auteurs wiens werk ik tot nu toe vrij wisselvallig vond, en dat is met de verhalen in "Henri Duchemin..." niet anders. Qua personages zeer "Boviaans" allemaal - eenzaten en zonderlingen die op sociaal vlak meestal geen echte connectie kunnen maken - maar slechts vier van de zeven verhalen zijn écht de moeite, de rest is middelmatig. 3.5/5!

"Mijn lange schaduw ging voor me uit. Ik ontweek bomen en stapels stenen, zodat hij ongeschonden zou blijven."

"Een kilometerpaaltje herinnerde mij eraan dat mensen, ergens, van het bestaan van deze weg wisten."

[J.M. Hushour · Rating 3 out of 5]

As the Introduction states, Bove is a nice point at which Kawabata might have met Poe. Certainly "Night Crime", the story that actually features the titular Duchemin, comes pretty close. The rest not so much. Kawabata actually wrote beautifully if deceptively simply, whereas Bove is just sort of...there. Poe was fucking weird and gloomy whereas Bove sort of slouches towards that.
The stories aren't bad, but they're puzzling in their mediocrity, especially considering Bove's other, more engaging works.

[Bram · Rating 4 out of 5]

Reading Bove is like watching the bastard child of Victor Hugo and Franz Kafka (obvious physiological impracticalities notwithstanding) sipping strychnine from a fine china cup while playing chess in a deserted park. Make of that what you will.

[Tom · Rating 4 out of 5]

Poe meets Simenon. Psychological hysteria meets cynical reason. . . It's the sort of thing you'll like if you like that sort of thing.

[Melissa · Rating 4 out of 5]

I received an ARC from the publisher.

This collection of short stories all feature men who are unhappy and looking for someone or something with which to identify. In the first story entitled “Night Crime,” Henri Duchemin, a forty-year-old man, is alone on Christmas Eve in a pub lamenting over his poverty and loneliness and the last thing he wants to do is to go back to his cold, empty flat. He wanders around the streets in the rain until he really has no choice but to go home. But before he goes home, a woman whome he meets on the streets notices his sadness and abrasively suggests that he kill himself. As he drifts off to sleep, thoughts of suicide and murder haunt his restless dreams.

My favorite story in the collection is written in the epistolary style. “What I saw” is a letter written by Jean to an unnamed friend; Jean desperately wants his friend’s opinion about something that he saw involving his girlfriend that disturbed him greatly. Jean’s letter begins with a description of his girlfriend, Henrietta, and her devotion to Jean. One thinks she is the model woman until, one day, Jean sees her sitting in a taxi and kissing another man.

When Jean confronts Henrietta about the liaison, Henrietta adamantly denies ever being with another man. Henrietta and Jean’s other friends try to convince Jean that he must have been mistaken and only saw someone who resembled Henrietta. Jean wants so much to continue his relationship with Henrietta and as he finishes his tale he begs the recipient of the letter to tell Jean his true opinion about Henrietta’s alleged indiscretion. Jean, like the other characters in the story, has a tenuous grasp on an important relationship in his life and he is eager and even desperate not to lose it.

Another story worth mentioning is “The Story of a Madman.” Fernand, the narrator, makes it a point at the beginning of his tale to address the reader and inform him or her that he is not, in fact, crazy or out of his mind. He goes on for a few pages giving us some background about his activities and frame of mind so that when he carries out his plan, the reader will think he is perfectly sane in doing so.

Fernand then proceeds to have a meeting with his father and tells his parent that he never wants to see him again. Fernand then makes his way to his girlfriend, Monique’s apartment; He assures us that he is deeply in love with Monique and they have a fantastic relationship, but he informs her that he never wants to see her again either. The next stop on Fernand’s list is his best friend, with whom he also breaks off all contact.

Fernand’s final stop on his break-up tour is with his sister and brother-in-law. After a friendly conversation, he also informs them that he never wants to see them again. So, we are left wondering why Fernand would alienate all of the people in his life that he loves. There are hints throughout the story that Fernand is exercising his willpower and that he is attempting to make a plan and adhere to it no matter what others may think. But the last few sentences of the story leave us with a haunting suggestion that maybe his motives for leaving are a bit more depressing and sinister.

This is a small yet powerful collection of stories that will leave you thinking about these men and their feelings of alienation and unhappiness. Bove’s language is sometimes curt and sometimes poetic. He weaves these small tales in such a way that we are never sure where they will end. I highly recommend this brilliant collection of writing brought to us by The New York Review of Books classics collection.

For more of my reviews please visit: www.thebookbindersdaughter.com

[Kobe Bryant · Rating 3 out of 5]

Sad little stories

[Jfmarhuenda · Rating 4 out of 5]

Gracias a Vila-Matas por haberme descubierto a este maravilloso escritor.

[Laura · Rating 2 out of 5]

I tried so hard to like this book as it was gifted to me and because I generally like short stories, even ones written by sad men. Unfortunately, I think this is one of the most boring books I’ve read in the past few years, thus why it took me so long to read though it being quite a short collection. The two stars are for “Night Crime” and “The Child’s Return”, the only worthwhile short stories included in this collection.

[Helke Voss-Becher · Rating 5 out of 5]

I had read these Bove-stories in French and was intrigued. Two years ago I was asked to translate "Ce que j'ai vu" into German. (Now available as "Was ich gesehen habe" im Golden Luft Verlag, Mainz.)
I then bought the English edition (Henri Duchemin and His Shadows) in order to look at the translation into English.
The translation deeply impressed me. I can only recommend this book to all those who cannot read Bove in the Original.

[Ronan Doyle · Rating 4 out of 5]

Glad to find this every bit as tonally deft and narratively neurotic as My Friends: Bove, safe to say, is very much my jam. These are poetic little nuggets of loneliness and discontent, malaise and misunderstanding.

[Anders · Rating 3 out of 5]

Charming enough in their own way. I bought this because Winter's Journal sounded interesting. I'd still like to read it, but these weren't that impressive. I think the best was Kafka without the punch and not as sympathetic as Bartleby (mentioned in the forward), the main issue being the narrator is someone else rather than the absurd hero. The others were good at psychological realism but suffered from overindulgent and overly neurotic narrators, a preoccupation with the inanities of heterosexual relationships, or a touch of ennui (other reviewers called these stories banal, but if this is what banality is, strike me down. I'd say they're more bland than banal and far too excitable to be mundane.).

I can only judge Bove so much for these short stories. And while they have flaws, there is a poignancy behind them to be discovered.

[Ben Koops · Rating 3 out of 5]

Beetje wisselende bundel, niet zo verpletterend als Mes amis. Vooral de eerste twee verhalen beklijven. Bove is heel goed in de vinger op de zere plek leggen, in van die moeiteloze zinnetjes die een heel leven vol ellende oproepen. Vooral ook armoede, en de schaamte die met armoede gepaard gaat. Andere verhalen zijn wat anders van opzet en gaan meer over jaloezie, achterdocht en de gevolgen van een breuk in vertrouwen. Vertrouwen in de medemens wordt bijna altijd beschaamd in de verhalen van Bove. Toch gaan zijn hoofdpersonen door, tegen beter weten in. In de hoop dat ze dingen toch kunnen veranderen. Of zichzelf. Niet grimmig maar stemt wel tot nadenken.

[Czarny Pies · Rating 2 out of 5]

As with Mes Amis, the reader feels that the objective of Emmanuel Bove in "Henri Beauchemin et ses ombres" is to provide the back story to the famous Beatle Song "Eleanor Rigby" with its celebrated refrain:
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

The characters are poor economically, intellectually and spiritually. Emannual Bove is unquestionably a writer of talent but his recipe quickly becomes tiresome. His characters and their dilemmas are all too similar. The denouements are highly predictable.

[A.O. · Rating 3 out of 5]

A sad set of stories about a sad little man. While individual stories, it’s clear that the protagonists are all cut from the same cloth (that of the author according to the foreward). The writing and pacing of these stories is very well done, and the unreliability of the narrative whether in monologue form or dream like state, makes for an interesting read. However, the misogyny of the protagonist caused for some of the poignancy to be lost, and far from hitting a tragic note desired caused a reaction of derision.

[Catriona · Rating 3 out of 5]

Given that I love a depressing story with an existential crisis thrown in for good measure, and given that this book contains only depressing stories with existential crises thrown in for good measure, I really ought to have enjoyed this more than I did. Some of the stories are genuinely affecting, but others were either too banal, or I missed the point.
This is the first Emmanuel Bove I've read, and I'm sure I'll try something else of his, but maybe not for a while yet.