The Mausoleum of Lovers: Journals 1976-1991

by Hervé Guibert, Nathanaël (Translator)

The Mausoleum of Lovers comprises Guibert's journals, kept from 1976-1991. Functioning as an atelier, it forecasts the writing of a novel, which does not materialize as such; the journal itself -- a mausoleum of lovers -- comes to take its place. The sensual exigencies and untempered forms of address in this epistolary work, often compared to Barthes' A Lover's Discourse, use the letter and the photograph in a work that hovers between forms, in anticipation of its own disintegration.

Genres: Memoir, Nonfiction, Queer, LGBT, France, Gay, French Literature

571 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2001

About the author

(Saint-Cloud, 14 décembre 1955 - Clamart, 27 décembre 1991) est un écrivain et journaliste français. Son rapport à l'écriture se nourrit pour l'essentiel d'autobiographie et d'autofiction1. Il est également reconnu comme photographe et pour ses écrits sur la photographie.

Hervé Guibert est issu d’une famille de la classe moyenne d’après guerre. Son père est inspecteur vétérinaire et sa mère ne travaille pas. Il a une sœur, Dominique, plus âgée que lui. Ses grand-tantes, Suzanne et Louise, tiennent une place importante dans son univers familial. Après une enfance parisienne (XIVe arrondissement), il poursuit des études secondaires à La Rochelle. Il fait alors partie d’une troupe de théâtre : la Comédie de La Rochelle et du Centre Ouest. Il revient à Paris en 1973, échoue au concours d'entrée de l’Idhec à l'âge de 18 ans.

Homosexuel, il construit sa vie sentimentale autour de plusieurs hommes. Trois d’entre eux occupent une place importante dans sa vie et son œuvre : Thierry Jouno, directeur du centre socioculturel des sourds à Vincennes rencontré en 1976, Michel Foucault dont il fait la connaissance en 1977 à la suite de la parution de son premier livre La Mort propagande et Vincent M. en 1982, un adolescent d’une quinzaine d’années, qui inspire son roman Fou de Vincent. Il est un proche du photographe Hans Georg Berger rencontré en 1978 et séjourne dans sa résidence de l’Ile d’Elbe.

Il est pensionnaire de la Villa Médicis entre 1987 et 1989, en même temps qu'Eugène Savitzkaya et Mathieu Lindon. Ce séjour inspira son roman L'Incognito.

En janvier 1988, il apprend qu’il est atteint par le sida. En juin de l’année suivante, il se marie avec Christine S., la compagne de Thierry Jouno. En 1990, il révèle sa séropositivité dans son roman À l'ami qui ne m'a pas sauvé la vie - qui le fait connaître par ailleurs à un public bien plus important. Cette même année il est l'invité de Bernard Pivot dans Apostrophes. Ce roman est le premier d'une trilogie, composée également du Protocole compassionnel et de l'Homme au chapeau rouge. Dans ces derniers ouvrages, il décrit de façon quotidienne l'avancée de sa maladie.

Il réalise un travail artistique acharné sur le SIDA qui inlassablement lui retire ses forces, notamment au travers de photographies de son corps et d'un film, La Pudeur ou l'Impudeur qu'il achève avec la productrice Pascale Breugnot quelques semaines avant sa mort, ce film est diffusé à la télévision le 30 janvier 1992.

Presque aveugle à cause de la maladie, il tente de mettre fin à ses jours la veille de ses 36 ans. Il meurt deux semaines plus tard, le 27 décembre 1991, à l'hôpital Antoine-Béclère. Il est enterré à Rio nell'Elba près de l'ermitage de Santa Catarina (rive orientale de l'Ile d'Elbe).

Les textes d'Hervé Guibert se caractérisent par la recherche de simplicité et de dépouillement. Son style évolue sous l'influence de ses lectures (Roland Barthes, Bernard-Marie Koltès ou encore Thomas Bernhard, ce dernier "contaminant" ouvertement le style de A l'ami qui ne m'a pas sauvé la vie).

Hervé Guibert compose de courts romans aux chapitres de quelques pages, qui se fondent souvent sur des faits biographiques maquillés de fiction. Le lecteur est saisi par l'intrigue brutalement exposée (ainsi dans Mes parents), et appuyée par des passages au vocabulaire sophistiqué ou par des descriptions crues de tortures ou d'amours charnelles. Ce texte est en grande partie extrait de son journal intime publié en 2001 chez Gallimard (Le Mausolée des amants, Journal 1976-1991).

Il travaille avec Patrice Chéreau avec qui il coécrit le scénario de L'Homme blessé qui obtient le César du meilleur scénario en 1984, mais aussi avec Sophie Calle. Journaliste, il collabore dès 1973 à plusieurs revues. Il réalise des entretiens avec des artistes de son époque comme Isabelle Adjani, Zouc ou Miquel Barceló qui fait plus de 25 portraits de lui. Il écrit des critiques de photographie et de cinéma au service culturel du journal L

Reviews

[Vincent Scarpa · Rating 5 out of 5]

A document of unbearable beauty and tragedy. I can't think of a book that made me weep the way this one did, so many times throughout its 570 pages. The way Guibert writes about the body, about suffering, about desire, about strangers, about photography—I've never read anything like it. I would've read 570 more pages of his mind at work, gladly, and what a loss for literature that Guibert died at only 36, and with so much left to say.

And for what it's worth: I'm rarely compelled by journals, often finding them postured or else dull, but The Mausoleum of Lovers is so much more than Guibert's day-to-day diary. It is both map and maze. It is, as Guibert has it, "a request for love."

[Erik · Rating 3 out of 5]

Hervé Guibert's journals carry his characteristic dark musings but lack a coherent editorial touch.

Guibert is a French writer who has been completely undertranslated into English. Fortunately, he religiously kept journals from his time as a young gay man up until his death from AIDS in 1991. What these short entries reveal is a man in love with several other men who felt out of place in the world and then watched as his friends and lovers died around him. What The Mausoleum of Lovers unveils is a tale of loving many and losing each one.

But the journals are disjointed and there is absolutely zero editorial context given throughout. As a Guibert fan, I enjoyed the book but it is long and a bit of a slog.

[David M · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Somewhat fantastical suffering, sitting in the restaurant near that vibrant little boy sitting with his parents, horrible of course, and his brother, at resigning myself to the definitive idea, on this side of death, that I will never have a son of my own, and that at the precise age at which my father was awaiting the birth of his son, me, I have only death to wait for." - pp 487

If you're looking for juicy tidbits on Michel Foucault The Friend who Did Not Save My Life has more to offer. The Mausoleum of Lovers, however, is the more affecting book. Just incredibly, unbelievably sad at times.

The passage quoted above seems to crystallize so much of the legacy of AIDS and gay self-loathing.

[Aidan · Rating 5 out of 5]

A beautiful, sublime work.

Originally started as notes to his lover T., it nevertheless became a journal of sorts and was eventually published under the title Le mausolée des amants.

It is way above everything else I've ever read in my life, in terms of honesty, intensity, and beauty. This book is like no other book in the world. It is revelatory and majestic. Every page is a treasure. Not everything in here is always an agreeable or a pleasant read, but it is supremely human. Guibert exposes his vulnerable parts, and that is ultimately attractive. The way he reveals himself, the genuineness of his expression, is commendable.

Most important of all, the work of art is not the book, but Hervé Guibert. And he was an exceptional man.

[Dylan · Rating 5 out of 5]

took me 3 years to read but this was monumental; perfect, clarifying, devastating. oh hervé you sweet sweet boy.

~~~~ thank u daniel for gifting me this!

[Kim · Rating 3 out of 5]

Ah, Guibert. Nothing evaporates this lifeblood called sadness. Please indulge yourself with this very problematic favourite. Welcome to the inner life of a faggot: full of sex, sorrow, and suicidal impulses. Falling in love and out of line. His poetic cadence embodies the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. Cum dripping off the pages. Tinged by alabaster white boy blues.

[Brian O'Connell · Rating 5 out of 5]

“(One of the roles of literature is the apprenticeship of death.)”

This is going to be a shitty review, but you’ll have to forgive me, for I have never read a book like this before. I did not know anything about Hervé Guibert when I impulsively picked it up back in September; I’ve learned much more since, of course, but I don’t feel my ignorance impaired my experience. A mutual of mine on here despairs of the lack of any defined editorial presence, and it’s true that this might have benefited from at least an introduction to contextualize certain names and dates. The vagueness didn’t detract from my appreciation (a hopelessly insufficient word!) of the text, however. If anything, it lent it a generality that paradoxically rendered the descriptions an even more intimate tone. And Guibert’s voice is powerful enough on its own without distinct placement in time and space.

Over the past three months my relationship with this book has become more like that of a friend, of a person to talk to, than that of a discrete work of art. Reading these isolated thoughts and observations, fragments of memory and experience and sensation, cleared my thoughts and communicated depths of emotion I’ve seldom experienced from any work of literature. I can’t speak about this, really. It’s too difficult. I was writing down a quote practically every page. I found such comfort in his words, I don’t know. They filled me with that rare awe and horror of life, they brought me in touch with the world...it’s hard to express.

The last stretch was very painful. Knowing that the end of the book very literally meant the end of his life was difficult to bear. It’s as direct a contact with death as the written word can bring you, really. I felt something, maybe only a fraction, but something of the loss. After finishing this I feel like I’m going to have some sort of mourning period. The only way I can soothe myself is by, hopefully, reading everything else by Guibert that I can get my hands on. His is a rare mind paired with the rare gifts of a writer. I wish he could have written forever.

[Riley G · Rating 4 out of 5]

Came for the aphorisms, stayed for the come.

[Dean · Rating 3 out of 5]

While I am always drawn to Guibert’s morbid fascinations and the romanticisation of his sorrows and turbulent love affairs, this book desperately needed an editor.

The reading experience would have been much improved if more order was given to the text such as breaking it into chapters (e.g. when a notebook was finished, the year it was written, the book he was working on, major themes of that time, etc). I also would have loved a key with who was being referred to by the initials because it wasn’t always clear.

With the way it’s published, it just felt like a long stream of consciousness, intentional I know, but challenging to follow.

This is the third work I’ve read by Guibert and it’s made me excited to dive into more of his work! So now onto the fun part of trying to source out of print English translations!

[natty · Rating 5 out of 5]

did i finish this jarringly long journal? no. did i love every page that i DID read? yes. this is one of the books that i know i will probably never finish, but every time i pick it up, i enjoy its beautiful writing. the only downside is the fact that either Guibert is a literary genius or the translator has an insane depth of academic vocabulary, because i'm reading this book in English as a native English speaker and i still have to look up the definitions of 1 out of every 100 words in this book, which causes me to keep setting the book down. sigh.

[Charlie McManus · Rating 4 out of 5]

Spend 570 beautiful pages with someone and then watch them slowly die, feel a little defeated

His writing is beautiful and I resonated with a lot, although he loses a star for some questionable attitudes towards certain topics

[sputnik sweetheart · Rating 5 out of 5]

strange, bursting with intelligence and whimsy, hilarious, viscerally erotic, and heart fucking wrenching. guibert is such a good writer it's difficult not to become overwrought with awe and inspiration from every page, every fragment, every sentence

[Quinn · Rating 5 out of 5]

My other Daddy <3

[Andrea Abello]

A journal of unbearable beauty + tragedy 🩵

[Jesica · Rating 4 out of 5]

Very much like a pillow book - very beautiful and sad! The part I didn’t like was when he mentioned his friend Gilles - I hope Gilles is rotting in prison!

[Ami Boughter · Rating 4 out of 5]

"I’m not able to rid myself of my self."



An unusual journey to a book for me. I came across this photo, a self-portrait of Hervé Guibert from 1989, read the title of his journals, and down the rabbit hole I went, uncovering the inner workings of a fantastic mind and a beautiful life that was tragically cut short: Guibert died of AIDS at the age of thirty-six.

Unsettling to read his journals, knowing, as I neared the end of the book, that his life was ending. Unvarnished, heartbreakingly raw writing - a stunning testament of time and place.

[Richard · Rating 5 out of 5]

absolutely crushing

[Dado Darc · Rating 5 out of 5]

mon livre de chevet et je le relis et relis (autocorrect me donne relish... bon!)