Un bárbaro en Asia

by Henri Michaux

“ Un bárbaro en Asia , escrito entre 1930 y 1931, es un clásico moderno. Diario de viaje, cuaderno de ruta, ofrece al lector, en forma de ensayos o de reportajes, una ojeada sagaz de la India, de China, del Japón y de Malasia. Notará el lector que Michaux hace siempre turismo espiritual y quedamos estupefactos ante la personalidad secreta del escritor. Michaux traza sobre todo un retrato pintoresco de los hindúes y de los chinos. Todas sus impresiones se caracterizan por su desparpajo y buen humor. Y si a esto se añade una prosa muscular, enjuta, en la que cada frase tiene una densidad explosiva, de seguro que leemos al mejor Michaux” (Cristobal Serra). En junio de 1966, escribía Jorge Luis Borges sobre este libro : “Había entonces traducido Un bárbaro en Asia y espero no haber traicionado ―en el sentido del refrán italiano― esta obra aguda que no es apología ni ataque, sino las dos cosas a la vez, y muchas cosas más”.

Genres: Travel, Nonfiction, Asia, Literature, France, Memoir, French Literature

176 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1933

About the author

Henri Michaux was a highly idiosyncratic Belgian poet, writer and painter who wrote in the French language. Michaux is best known for his esoteric books written in a highly accessible style, and his body of work includes poetry, travelogues, and art criticism. Michaux travelled widely, tried his hand at several careers, and experimented with drugs, the latter resulting in two of his most intriguing works, Miserable Miracle and The Major Ordeals of the Mind and the Countless Minor Ones.

Reviews

[Mariel · Rating 4 out of 5]

And now, said Buddha to his disciples, when about to die:
'In the future, be your own light, your own refuge.
'Seek not another refuge.
'Go not to seek refuge other than in Yourselves.'
'Pay no attention to another's way of thinking.
'Hold fast in your own island.
'GLUED TO CONTEMPLATION.'

Michaux wrote that the less approachable someone is, the more he has an inner life. I wondered if he didn't believe that when in Miserable Miracle he wrote that the mescaline made him want to give away all of his secrets. I don't know how anyone could believe that, that a person loses themselves. Are people crumbling footprints and thumbprints, Hansel and Gretel evidence for the predator-eyes in the stars? What are you going to do? Turn to stone and wait hundreds of years for Disney to unfreeze your head? You get to live then? Don't smile and x won't mark the treasure. Michaux didn't really believe that, not all of the time. He couldn't have. There's a little Nepalese girl who gives him a smile of such openness, so sweet, that it was somehow the mirror to himself. A self he has to live with hardness and those unresting places one has. He contradicts himself a lot. Get a load of this.

But the breast is not a face. Although I know these things very well, nevertheless every time I saw the breasts of an intelligent woman they bestialized and transformed her for me so, so much. Young girls with such touching expressions became, though they did not themselves suspect it perhaps, good for nothing but to be enjoyed by and to belong to everybody.

His topless women in Bali who "got over" being women, no feminity left. Their bodies are taking their breasts back into bones. But he has already demonstrated the men playing at being women on stage as coquettes. (To him the sole beautiful woman in Southern India) The real woman among them, a singer of few gestures, is natural, a human being who doesn't have to think to be herself. So how can these Balinese women forget being women, then? I could see old women falling apart in their bodies, hosting and tumorized. It is something beyond purpose and yet he ruins it saying they gave birth to men (but not women?) before disintegrating. Only the women, though? Wouldn't a man be as flabby, organs with bents of their own. I didn't get how he sets apart the factory workers in Bengal as totally unto themselves. As opposed to the Europeans, always opposed to someone else. Compared to them the British women are whores, he says, to be taken by a dog on the street. I don't know how you can know who is for themselves and who isn't. Michaux would absolutely hate the Gothic Lolita fashion in Japan today (as he hated everything about Japan when he visited, and all French fashions after the sixteenth century). Anyway, it's said that these girls are dressing for themselves (probably showing off expensive pieces to their friends). I doubt he would have thought they weren't trying to titillate him. Right, so what about a society that hinged very much on parental pressure? Are you modest because you want to be or because you could reasonably expect to be honor killed for stepping out of line? (He does note that the female factory workers are considered well out of the way of accepted propriety. They had to eat. Why does everything anyone does have to be about someone else? I hate that so much.)
But again he says something else. French women, no longer transported by their love for him. He's sitting on the side of the bed and forgotten. The Arabian woman has dreams to come between you. When he's going on about this I knew they had to be prostitutes. "There's no motherflippin' way he just wormed his way into the beds of these women, left them to be abused by societies that no, no way accepted that, especially with a white man! And it's all about him?!" They were prostitutes, after all, because he goes on about Chinese prostitutes later. The Chinese prostitute clings to him, takes care of him. Taking advantage of their dire financial straits and it's love, right? I've read about this a lot, the white man goes to a poor land and purchases the affections. But is it really love? Oh no, no. The squirmy worms are not only in their belief, though I don't always know if they see it that way.... I don't know how he knew that it is between god when the Hindus make love. (I loved reading about the sexual positions in their architecture.) He says that the Europeans wouldn't enjoy intercourse with an Indian woman. I'm leaning towards thinking he still didn't with any Bengali women because he still loved them for their mystery. I had a misery picturing Michaux in India, swarms of men and all of the women behind doors. (I didn't know what Michaux looked like until I was almost done reading the book, though. I only searched his picture online after fed up with ugly Southern Indians this, ugly Japanese that. "I doubt you looked good to them!" He had an inbred face. Too many typical French features crammed on a bust. I'm sure they saw him as the conqueror anyway. Is that the off the hook mystery if you flipped the vision.)
Michaux said a person can pin point the essential when they are in movement that someone wrapped up in life can't see. Maybe they don't want to, self interest or too much going on. This could be true, in the way that if you go anywhere you are likely to find someone to fit inside some truth for you. I feel like this all said a lot more about him than it did about them, though. He admits he's trying like hell to generalize. Why would you want to? The Hindus didn't need him to look into their unknowable gazes. He really wants them to be unknowable. Why the hell Michaux thought he knew everyone back home in France, though? I could never go back to Asia in the 1940s. It's pretty amazing how much the countries he visited changed so much so soon after Michaux's book. China most of all, probably. He loved China and hated the hell out of Japan. Everything about them is ugliness to Michaux. Korea he didn't like much better. He wrote things about the Western influence on Japan that he says could never happen in China. There are restrictions against playing World of Warcraft for too long in China today. Kids had wasted away in front of the game. In the USA parents have let their children die in the name of the computer generated role playing game. They couldn't feed the kid but could feed the cat (WoW!). It's useless to put any people under any thumb like this, anywhere. He would really hate today as much as yesterday. Conquering everybody and looking like everybody else.

It was annoying as hell that he couldn't like anything without liking something else less. Someone must go graceless for another to move him. It's great how he describes the flight of the bat. "One would think it was taking to the air like a sheet with hands." I loved that. I liked how he disagrees that the pigeon makes a cooing sound. He hears harsh coughing inside throats alighting on copulation. But there's something to be said for the franticness of the hummingbird, living so much in a second longer than yours. Or the sing songy flight of an insect. The bat you might not know is there like their buzzing. But maybe you're just the tree the bat hangs on. It isn't because of the bat that the moonlight glows on their sleep. He reminds me of people you see on goodreads sometimes. They loved this last book they read so much that they now gotta remove a star from all other books. No clue of why they loved this new book. Maybe they loved their book more than I love mine because it's a lover's secret, or maybe I said fuck it, I'm gonna be me with me. An open something. It's a losing world of the other ground falling short. I wish Michaux didn't do that so much. It doesn't make any sense because he writes about loving the suggestion in Chinese poetry. I wish A Barbarian in Asia had been about this suggestion. I wish I could read Chinese poetry. Every word kaleidoscopic paths. A building up in a big picture hint. Like that. I also don't get why he discounts "poetry for the people" but takes a country's stage plays and films as beating within their mutual breasts. It must be a parted seas stampede. I love stuff like how the music in Korea used to be sung by only prostitutes. Indians keeping a monkey in a horse's stall. An overlapping truth, not drowning. Like that. Maybe Michaux just had a lovely idea that it was peaceful for the monkey (his own kind demanding entertainment all the night long). But still, keeping the horse alive because a stranger. I don't know I would have thought of that the way Michaux did. I don't get why he needed people to be strangers. I feel that you can get peace within yourself too, just that why does it have to hide. But you know, the wondering what could have been true about people, telling his definitives to shut the hell up, and living off of the mirror smiles.

Chinamen should always be thought of as animals. The Hindus, as other animals, the Japanese ditto, and the Russians and the Germans, and so on. And in each race these three varieties: the adult man, the child, and the woman. Three worlds. A man is a creature who understands nothing about a child, and nothing about a woman.
And neither they nor ourselves are right. We are obviously wrong, all of us.

[Mike · Rating 2 out of 5]

It's hard to believe, almost mind-boggling, that a total kook and wingnut such as this guy could travel in such interesting places as India, Nepal, Ceylon, China, Japan, and Malaysia in the late 1920s and early 1930s, and come back with so little of interest to say about it. I swear I think you could have taken any literate or semi-literate person alive in France in 1929 or 1930 or 1931 and sent him or her on this trip, and I almost guarantee that person would have come back with more interesting observations than this monkey did.

[Rodrigo Fernández · Rating 4 out of 5]

Igual que con los trópicos de Miller, siento que no estoy ante alguien que haya llevado a cabo un trabajo, una rumiada traducción de una experiencia individual a una más universal, sino ante alguien que no ha tenido más remedio que hacer coincidir su experiencia –sea cual sea ésta- con la escritura. Cada vez me convenzo más de que no son el estilo ni el intelecto los que escriben. Es una manera de caminar y de observar e, incluso, una manera de mantenerse callado. “Escribir no es sentarse a escribir; ésa es la última etapa, tal vez prescindible”, dice Levrero. Párrafos cortos y precisos, impresiones brutas –“¿quién más idiota que el hindú idiota?”. Un ojo ajeno pero sin el cedazo occidentalizante. Una descripción geográfica de Asia que va llenando todo el cuadro mental como en una etnográfica pornografía marvelística aparejada a una lectura más psicologica o espiritual que transmite una pasmosidad digna de los solitarios personajes de Tsai Ming-liang o Wong Kar-wai -dice Michaux sobre los hindúes que ve atiborrando las calles: “De pie, los ojos parecen de hombres acostados”, y, más adelante, sobre la manía que tienen estos de tumbarse en sitios inverosímiles, agrega: “¿Es posible acaso preveer donde un gato va a echarse?". ¿Quién consigue en la actualidad apuntar a tanto flancos sin que se le noten las costuras a cada uno de los programados intentos por achuntarle al clima moral de la época? A quien sepa, que me cuente dónde podría estar el Henry Michaux de hoy en día.

[Andrew]

Michaux loves to generalize about nations, so let’s apply that here. The French are unqualified masters of the travelogue that says little to nothing about the place itself, and everything about the preconceptions and hastily drawn conclusions of the clearly all-seeing and intellectually superior French observer (Jean Baudrillard and Bernard-Henri Levy’s risibly stupid books about American yahoos come to mind too). The descriptions in Michaux’s book border on the discussions of physiognomy and national character in 19th Century textbooks (“consider the perfidious Chinaman”). A legitimately idiotic text by a legitimately great surrealist poet.

[Ryan (Glay)]

Def a different Travel read, but I was expecting that knowing that Michaux was one of the leading lights of the early 20th century French Avant-Garde ...

Although I'm not as shocked as some people in the review section seem to be. Predictably most reviewers seem to be shocked by Michaux's un-politically correct characterizations of the Asian countries that he visited, but no one seems to pick up on his obvious irony. The book is littered with praise of Asian cultures and criticisms of European ones, he call's Hinduism a 'superior culture' to the European and talks of the only people who build ugly houses in Malaya are the Europeans, among MANY other examples...

Having got that out of the way, I have to say the I didn't find the book a very enjoyable read though it is interesting. I wanted to hear much more about Michaux's own personal adventures on his travels ALONG with his odd and sometimes interesting characterizations of Asian, dance, language sounds, nature history, architecture etc ... In most of the work he keeps his self hidden ... There is almost no description about HOW he came to make his observations, which to me seems like the fun of travel writing .... How exactly did you first come into contact with Bengali literature that you like so much? Did you go to a Brahman's House, the Calcutta library? What? Where? ... Same goes for watching the Balinese Dance and drama that you seemed to like so much? Where and in what city in Bali did you see this? How did you find out about it? Serrendipity? or did you find out about it through a Thomas Cooke travel guide?

[Nomen est omen]

Batılıların doğuluları, merkezine kendi medeniyetlerini koyarak yorumlamalarından garabet işler çıkıyor. Güya en orijinal olması gereken kalemler bile oryantalizm batağına batarak ya doğuya dişil özellikler verip aşırı mistikleştiriyor ya da onu kolonizasyon döneminin klişeleş miş düşünceleriyle hunharca eleştiriyor. Michaux bir taraftan Asyalı halklardan öğrenebileceğimiz şeyler var derken bir taraftan inanılmaz bir snoplukla bu halklarla ilgili "espiriler" yapıyor. Üstelik hem övdüğü hem yerdiği noktalar o kadar tekrar ki baygınlık geliyor insana.( Ve evet dönemi için bile klişe)
Belki de yazar, Lautréamont'a öykündüğü tarzında, turist olarak geçtiği yerleri değil de (ki koloni dönemi avrupalıları gittikleri yerde tüm hayatını geçirse de hep turist kalma potansiyeline sahiptir) kendi içinden çıktığı toplumu seçseymiş daha şaşırtıcı ve özgün bir eser ortaya koyabilirmiş. Çünkü içerik olarak olmasa da yapısal olarak büyük bir potansiyeli var kitabın sinir de olsanız elinizden bırakamıyorsunuz. Alaycı ve şiiirsel.

[Jordi Ortiz · Rating 4 out of 5]

“La preparación psíquica es lenta. Un hombre mata más pronto de un sablazo que por magia. El sable está listo en todo momento: no hay que afilarlo después de cada ejecución. El último imbécil puede manejar un sable, y es más fácil reunir veinte mil imbéciles que veinte buenos magos”.
Un apunte inicial: la tarjeta del Restaurant Xinès “Gran Muralla” de Vilafranca del Penedès en el interior del libro ya anticipaba las gratas sorpresas.
Un apunte sustancial: he doblado tantas páginas de este libro que parece un abanico.
Qué de bellas, divertidas y aceradas pinceladas da Michaux –el poeta, pintor y viajero Michaux− en este libro magnífico. Cuánta afilada y sana malevolencia, cuánta incorrección, cuánta desenfadada profundidad, cuántas barbaridades.
“¿Quién medirá el peso de los mediocres en el establecimiento de una civilización?”
Bravo, bravo por ese tono gamberro que navega por las páginas de este libro que nos comunica directamente con los años 30, que nos abre la puerta de una India de canónigos, una China de inventores y un Japón de borrachos y militares preparándose para lo que será el mundo tras la II Guerra Mundial. Entrar hoy en “Un bárbaro en Asia” es viajar con él en el tiempo y en el espacio, leer para reír con Michaux, emocionarse con él y escandalizarse por él hasta querer tirarle de las orejas en más de una ocasión. “Jamás, jamás podrá sospechar el hindú hasta qué punto exaspera al europeo”.
Podrás estar de acuerdo o no con lo que dice –el autor no juzga, sólo condena o absuelve−, pero estás ahí, te trasladas a los parajes y las culturas en que penetra con todos los sentidos, SUS sentidos. Y es que no hay gravedad en las reflexiones del irrespetuoso hombre blanco, si no guantazos enguantados. Guantazos que son a la vez fruto de la observación, la penetración y el prejuicio. Fruto del turismo de espeleología espiritual y de las peligrosas generalizaciones.
Porque Michaux (reitero: poeta, pintor, viajero) es muy basto y es finísimo, y logró un libro tan rico en desmanes como en halagos y caricias.
“Un bárbaro en Asia” habla de mendigos y castas, de religiones y preceptos, de idiomas cantados y escrituras que son flechas, de los trenes de la India y la estación de Calcuta, de la música, de peces raros, de las simbiosis entre monos y caballos, de la filosofía china y el conocimiento en general, del amor y la tragedia (“en Europa, todo acaba en tragedia”), de inventos y de juegos, incluso del movimiento de los sauces (“el menos ostento de los árboles”).
Un apunte final: “¿Puede alguien ser del todo infeliz cuando está cantando? No, hay una desesperación fría que no existe aquí. Una desesperación sin recursos y sin más allá que sólo existe entre nosotros”.
Necesito leer “Ecuador”, que es su primer libro de viajes. Pero ya.

[Ana · Rating 4 out of 5]

Oh, the irony of this author! Amazing!

[Tess · Rating 4 out of 5]

I forgive him if he is ever paternalistic or colonial minded. He's a great observer with a poet's DNA.

[Jim · Rating 4 out of 5]

Henri Michaux's A Barbarian in Asia is the type of travel book that would not be popular today, as it deals heavily with racial, ethnic, and religious stereotypes. Mind you, some of these stereotypes are true, and Michaux always expresses himself well. I don't always agree with him, particularly in his disdain for the Japanese. (But then, in the 1930s, Japan was becoming a militaristic power intent on defeating China.)

Sometimes it is illuminating to read what our forefathers would have considered to be a classic, even if today it is largely politically incorrect -- in spades!

[Badkismati · Rating 1 out of 5]

Y i k e s

[Philippe Noth · Rating 2 out of 5]

Henri Michaux... Mon auteur favori Nicolas Bouvier le cite si souvent qu'il me fallait le découvrir.

Un Barbare en Asie est une entreprise risquée: l'oeil de l'auteur juge divers peuples et races qu'il a côtoyés lors de ses voyages. Dans le contexte des années 30, c'est délicat. Qu'on pense au ton involontairement colonialiste des premiers Tintin! Souvent, Michaux n'évite pas l'écueil des généralités: "le Chinois est comme ceci, le Bengali comme cela, ...". Ce qui le sauve, c'est son auto-critique. Une auto-critique dans la préface - une préface nouvelle, rédigée 40 après -, dans les notes de bas de page, dans l'introduction au chapitre sur le Japon. D'ailleurs le premier mot du livre, dans la préface, est "mea culpa". Le monde change, et si les observations de Nicolas Bouvier restent pertinentes et délicieuses, celles d'Henri Michaux s'avèrent vite dépassées. C'est parce que Bouvier s'intéressait aux individus, en évitant les généralisations. Si Bouvier considérait Michaux comme un maître, alors je dirais que l'élève a dépassé le maître. Peut-être une seconde oeuvre de Michaux me permettra de corriger mon jugement.

[Alex · Rating 4 out of 5]

What absolute joy was reading this book. Michaux's writing is extraordinary, mixing surrealism, sarcasm, and a certain stream of consciousness. The book lacks correctness in more than one way. It would probably be denounced in our current "Cancel culture" times. However, if you brush aside the grotesque, Michaux's sharp dissections are spot on. He shrouds his perceptions in sarcasm and a clear superiority but this doesn't detract from the incredible and acute points he raises about different cultures. Even more staggering is how deep his thinking goes and the amount of exposure to the key texts of each culture he exposes. It's said he outgrew many of his opinions on the different cultures he portraits, especially about Japan, and I'm sure that if he attacked this travel diary later, he would have written a less sordid and biased text.

Nevertheless, that rawness of thought is, for me, the amazing charm of this book. Don't expect an unbiased or "studied" cultural assessment of the East, but a wonderful dairy of Basho-like humorous haikus on imperfect human perceptions.

[Grizol · Rating 4 out of 5]

Absolutely hilarious book of some French guy reflecting (ranting, in true form) about his experiences in Asia in the 30s-50s. Not even remotely politically correct, instead consisting of broad generalizations of race and religion that certainly could not be published today, though ultimately all of it born out of a genuine humanity and playfulness. Read the entirety of it in approximately 24 hours - it is light enough and full of quotes, just not the ones you'd use in more polite company.

[Daphne · Rating 5 out of 5]

Just about everything by Michaux is an eye-openner. This one reads like a lullabye.

[Rafa · Rating 2 out of 5]

Anecdotario.

[Te Ve · Rating 5 out of 5]

Un libro de viajes de un Marco Polo del siglo XX que traficaba bienes espirituales y culturales.

[Lukáš Palán · Rating 3 out of 5]

Tuhle knížku jsem objevil v Brooklynu v knihkupectví a páč na obálce bylo napsaný Mišák, hned jsem to lapil a říkám "dej to sem ty američane, valím s tím dom nazdar," aniž bych se podíval, že je to cestopis z Indie, Číny a Džaponska.

Proti cestopisům nic nemám a Mišákův Ekvádor byl naprostá bomba, ale jestli mě tři nějaký národnosti fakt nezajímaj, tak to jsou čínani, indiáni,džaponci, rusové, tibetané a všichni asiati. Mišák to navíc tentokrát popisoval dost stroze a mdle, asi mu tam nikdo nedal dorgy nebo napít, takže halucinogenní lingvistiky opravdu mnoho nebylo. Na nějakej hinduismus taky nejsem zvědavej, páč moje náboženství je jégr kérky kvéry děvky.

Zklamání.

7/10

[Cristina · Rating 2 out of 5]

At first I wanted to give it a single star for torturing me so much into finishing it.
I'd pick it up, get bored, disagree, put it down, again and again. It felt like I had to listen to his opinions because I was the one asking him in the beginning, by buying his book. My mistake for thinking it would be more interesting..

Alas, it barely has a beginning and an end, being a compilation of small stories or thoughts. As for information, it tells you how it was seen in the 60's, but for me, it is like an old map (outdated).

[Lourenço]

Se eu soubesse que ia ler uma espécie de literatura de viagem, originalmente francófona feita no século XX e preenchida com pensamentos xenófobos, teria ido ler mais uma BD do Asterix, que essa pelo menos tem algum sentido de entretenimento.
Um livro ganha camadas novas e perde as antigas com o passar do tempo. Se o que suscita interesse neste livro alguma vez foi o retrato intelectual e cultural feito sobre as populações orientais, hoje o interesse principal reside em compreender o psicológico do contemplador em si.

[Camille · Rating 5 out of 5]

Chaque texte de Michaux, c'est comme un bonbon qu'on mange, un bonbon à la fois amer et léger. J'aime la description de la vie du voyage, plus que du voyage même.
Je suis fascinée par la dernière phrase, elle me reste en tête même des années plus tard - cette mention du retour, à la fin du livre de voyage.
Je reste tout aussi collée à la contemplation.

[João Moura · Rating 2 out of 5]

O nome na capa engana...Este não pode ser o verdadeiro Henri Michaux...o relato de viagem pelos confins da Ásia do Michaux que conheço teria de ser muito mais interessante que isto...Ou foram drogas a mais que impediram fazer um melhor levantamento das impressões ou foram drogas a menos que impediram de fazer um livro melhor...

[Michel Van Goethem · Rating 4 out of 5]

Barbarian in Asia
by Henri Michaux

[Kevin Svartvit · Rating 4 out of 5]

Did all the people complaining about the stereotypes & racism read copies of this without his updated sixties introduction? Great read especially because it’s so dated and ignorant

[Joe Olipo · Rating 1 out of 5]

“Good day, Gretel.”
“Good day, Hans. Have you brought me anything nice?”
“Didn’t bring anything. Want something from you.”
— Grimms Fairy Tales, Clever Hans

On Ways to Forget

Clever Hans is a fool caught in a double bind. He has nothing nice to give Greta, but he can't give her 'nothing' either . . . so there's simply no way for Hans to visit Greta. A shrewd Hans could make the most of this situation; perhaps spending his impotent maturity reading tall tales about faraway lands. Fools, however, have ways of outwitting such quandaries. Clever Hans gets around the dilemma by defying expectation; asking for a favor when one had been expected from him. (It's an unknown fact that Clever Hans originated the phrase, "Decisive blows are struck with the left hand . . .") One wonders how Greta feels about all this. In the sense that love is, "giving what you don't have," then the various ways in which Hans manages to bungle and lose all Greta's gifts (such that no one has them) could be transmuting mere things into amorous feelings. Yet everything good in a fairy tale must be done to excess. So Hans might marry a picky princess from an unlikely land, but if he tries to get with the girl next door we must remind him not to forget his place. Hans's misunderstanding of figurative language, which has gotten him this far, becomes the cause of his tragic estrangement when he begins "casting eyes" at Greta — major gross-out.

Michaux writes about foreign lands like he's never seen a thing. On a semantic level it's as if the text were part of a fairy tale; one in which a clever fool convinces everyone in the village he's well-traveled by copying out passages from popular novels. But we mustn't forget the central conceit that our narrator is a mere barbarian in comparison with the so-called 'primitive cultures' he portrays. This humble role reversal was once widely accepted in European ethnography because it always maintains some ammunition in reserve: 'nonetheless, don't forget this barbarian has conquered you.' Yet Michaux is going one step beyond 'colonialism-by-another-name' with the secondary conceit that a 'barbarian' also wrote the text. This is a bind for the reader, since if we don't like what he thinks that's because a barbarian thought it, and if we don't like how he says it that's because a barbarian wrote it.

Bad writing can be enjoyable so long as we don't forget the tension that it's 'bad on purpose to prove a point.' The secret of such enjoyment is that intellectual tension isn't sustained; ironic-enjoyment relaxes into simple enjoyment. Edward Said's remarks on Orientalism (which are really about other matters) could also be applied to this forgetful phenomenon: "If knowledge [of Orientalism] has any meaning, it is in being a reminder of the seductive degradation of knowledge, of any knowledge, anywhere, at any time. Now perhaps more than before" (Edward Said, Orientalism). Forgetting in this way (i.e. setting aside the knowledge of a tortuous interpretation) becomes a process of autonomy, which allows the text to do whatever it was going to do anyway, for better or worse.

Hans's Trina reminds us there are other ways to forget. She's the one who, unhappily, marries Hans after Greta breaks it off. Neither are satisfied with the relationship, since all his unfortunate qualities are duplicated in her. Yet what can be done, since they are bound in an ordained relationship under the sign of Ecclesiastes. This is how Trina gets out of the relationship:

“Am I or am I not Trina?” She didn’t know how to answer this question and stood there a while in doubt. Finally, she thought: “You should go home and ask if you are you. They’ll know for sure.”
So she returned home, knocked at the window, and called inside: “Is Hans’s Trina inside?”
Since the others thought she was in her usual place, they answered: “Yes, she’s lying down in her room and sleeping.”
“Well, then I’m not me,” Trina said in delight. So she went off to the village and never returned, and this is how Hans got rid of his Trina.
— Grimms Fairy Tales, Hans's Trina

If we are taking lessons from fairy tales, perhaps this one is recommending a personal oblivion as its own consolation. At least, it appears to be able to get you out of an ecumenical bind or two. In its secondary function, the forgetful oblivion is a salve for those rabid critics, who, justifiably, wish that physical punishment should be heaped on top of verbal violence. ('Otherwise how will they learn!') ("FAVOR: It is doing children a favor to slap them; animals, to beat them; servants, to fire them; criminals, to punish them; [writers, to shoot them]" (Flaubert, Dictionary of Received Ideas).) For those who think the author should face the firing squad for work this bad, our consolation is that, from the perspective of (forgetful) oblivion, he already has.

[Gabriel Morgan · Rating 5 out of 5]

What the hell is Michaux doing? Something instructive. Hell no. Not instructive. Something something something.

Something primordial?

You know what runs like a drizzle of wet shit down the palace of consciousness?

Answer: "Condé Nast Traveler"

The reason I love Henri Michaux is mainly the Tina Brown episode.

Michaux famously beat Tina Brown to death with his cock. Then he threw her off the top of Machu Picu. Michaux enjoyed Harold Evans' anus for several summers but then tired of him.

I also appreciate that Karl Pinkelkraut guy (or whatever his name is) from "An Idiot Abroad"

Karl is good. But not as good as Michaux.

And not as good as mescaline.

[Agnieszka · Rating 5 out of 5]

I really like this book! Although some of the author's opinions are stereotypical and potentially harmful to Asian people, I interpret them as literary constructs rather than definitive representations of the nations described. It was refreshing to read all those improper and currently unpopular expressions. Those words are probably possible to find out only in books written ages ago, impossible nowadays.
This book is definitely not for everyone—those without a sense of humor or the ability to take things with a grain of salt should probably put it down.

[agustín n · Rating 4 out of 5]

me gusta el "desparrame" que asumen a veces estas observaciones, una especie de diario de viaje con el impetu y la curiosidad propios de quien ve algo por primera vez. sin duda las anotaciones de michaux de las culturas asiáticas que visita pueden incomodar, sin embargo, también evidencian al sujeto detrás de una voz narrativa a través de sus impresiones. tal vez leer este tipo de obras nos acerca más al viajero que a los lugares y personas visitadas por el.

[Eric Cecil · Rating 2 out of 5]

Didn't actually finish it. Still enjoy his surrealist work, though.

[Vishnu T]

Yuck

Unless his intention was to embody the voice of a judgemental arse

Either way, annoying stuff.
His poetry's great though