Le Dimanche De La Vie

by Raymond Queneau

Engagé volontaire pour cinq ans, Valentin Brû, au bout de ce temps, n'est encore que soldat de deuxième classe. Il se laisse alors épouser par une mercière de Bordeaux, demoiselle d'âge mûr. Vers 1936, un héritage les amène à Paris ; Valentin vend des cadres pour photographies, tandis que sa femme se met à exploiter secrètement des dons, plus ou moins authentiques, de seconde vue sous le nom de Mme Saphir. Mais Valentin n'est-il pas lui-même un peu prophète ? Il attend la guerre pour le lendemain, et la guerre finit par arriver ; elle le surprend dans des circonstances bizarres et c'est dans des circonstances non moins singulières qu'il retrouve son épouse après l'exode. C'est à propos de la peinture hollandaise et de ses scènes de "naïve gaieté et de joie spontanée" que Hegel parle de "dimanche de la vie", et il ajoute : "Des hommes doués d'une aussi bonne humeur ne peuvent être foncièrement mauvais ou vils."

Genres: Fiction, France, French Literature, Novels, Classics, Roman, 20th Century

256 pages, Pocket Book

First published January 1, 1952

About the author

Novelist, poet, and critic Raymond Queneau, was born in Le Havre in 1903, and went to Paris when he was 17. For some time he joined André Breton's Surrealist group, but after only a brief stint he dissociated himself. Now, seeing Queneau's work in retrospect, it seems inevitable. The Surrealists tried to achieve a sort of pure expression from the unconscious, without mediation of the author's self-aware "persona." Queneau's texts, on the contrary, are quite deliberate products of the author's conscious mind, of his memory, and his intentionality.

Although Queneau's novels give an impression of enormous spontaneity, they were in fact painstakingly conceived in every small detail. He even once remarked that he simply could not leave to hazard the task of determining the number of chapters of a book. Talking about his first novel, Le Chiendent (usually translated as The Bark Tree), he pointed out that it had 91 sections, because 91 was the sum of the first 13 numbers, and also the product of two numbers he was particularly fond of: 7 and 13.

Reviews

[Orsodimondo · Rating 4 out of 5]

LO SPIRITO DEL TEMPO


Danielle Darrieux è Julie e Jean-Pierre Moulin è Valentin nel film omonimo.

Ogni volta che il soldato Brû passava dinanzi al suo negozio, essa lo guardava.

Essa, o ella, o lei, è Julie, proprietaria del negozio di merceria, che su edizioni diverse può restare in francese, o diventare Giulia, come nella mia del 1954, o adottare forma ibrida, Julia.
Esso, o egli, o lui, è Valentin Brû, soldato semplice di ritorno dalle colonie, nello specifico il Madagascar, dove è probabilmente stato mandato a combattere i malgasci.
Siamo a Bordeaux nel 1936.


Il film è del 1967, quindici anni dopo la prima edizione del romanzo.

Passa oggi e passa domani, guarda oggi e riguarda domani, Giulia, o Julia, s’invaghisce di Valentin.
Forse è soprattutto un capriccio. Forse è che lei è ben più matura (= agée) di lui e ancora zitella. Forse è che lui sembra così pervaso di innocente allegria e di spontanea gioia, di candore e fragilità…
Fatto sta che lei, Giulia, o Julia, gli mette gli occhi addosso, e decide di sposarlo.

Un’eredità porterà la nuova coppia dalla provincia alla capitale, abbandonando la merceria per andarsi a occupare di un negozio di cornici. Ma soprattutto per occuparsi di un nuovo talento scoperto (o inventato) all’improvviso che diventa attività: cartomante. Prima lei, poi lui al posto di lei.

La Francia è nel periodo tra le due guerre mondiali: in Germania il nazismo impera e sparge in Europa sentore di nuova violenza.
Il mondo che Queneau abbraccia è la piccola borghesia, corredata d’ignoranza invidia e gelosia e…
Ma poi c’è Valentin e il mondo forse s’illumina un pochino.


Il film è diretto da Jean Herman.

Sì, certo, l’epigrafe hegeliana – e la partecipazione appassionata di Queneau ai seminari sulla “Fenomenologia dello spirito” del filosofo tedesco (seminari ai quali partecipavano oltre a Queneau, Jacques Lacan, Georges Bataille, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Roger Caillois, Éric Weil, e occasionalmente anche André Breton e Hannah Arendt) - filosofo tedesco che è l’autore dell’espressione usata nel titolo, la domenica della vita (è la domenica della vita, che tutto eguaglia e scarta tutto ciò che è cattivo; uomini dotati di una così buona indole non possono essere nel fondo malvagi o vili scrive Hegel), espressione che per Hegel si riferiva alla pittura fiamminga a cavallo tra ‘500 e ‘600, e cioè un’umanità intenta in piccoli affari quotidiani insignificanti, è superata da ciò che vi è dietro ovvero quel senso di appagamento, conciliazione dei sensi, quell’aura che Hegel non esita a definire “Spirito del tempo” - e quindi il ripetersi di calamità, guerre, rivoluzioni che rende la vicenda umana simile a un vasto mattatoio – si esaurisce e si compie nella “fine della storia”, quando le grandi lotte sono superate e così pure la filosofia (il cui posto è preso dalla saggezza); l’uomo post-storico è soddisfatto, riconciliato con il mondo. Contento, anche se non felice.



La chiave è Valentin, lui che vive in piena metafisica, dato che abitualmente non pensa a niente, è lui che sa mostrare quanto e come il re sia nudo.
Il suo candore, la sua innocenza, che forse non sono che un altro vestito della dabbenaggine, quel suo mix a cavallo tra saggio premonitore e tontolone, molto “vicino alle bestie” o molto “vicino a dio”, secondo i punti di vista, che lo rende perfetto cartomante (indovino, anzi indovina, visto che si travestiva da donna per prendere il posto della moglie sotto il nome d’arte di Mme Saphir), lettore, forse inventore, ma sarebbe più giusto dire premonitore per come andarono poi le cose, Valentin incarna lo spirito del suo tempo. O, se non altro, interpreta alla perfezione il principio della risata liberatoria come indica l’excipit del romanzo:
Julie scoppiò a ridere: faceva così, Valentin, per toccargli il sedere, a quelle ragazze.

[Geoff · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Sunday of Life begins with two great epigraphs:

"The characters of this novel being real, any resemblance they may bear to imaginary individuals must be purely fortuitous."

"...it is the Sunday of life, which levels everything, and rejects everything bad; men gifted with such good humor cannot be fundamentally bad or base."-Hegel

Queneau's portrait of the good-humored "Hegelian naif" sees to both tasks, instilling real life catastrophe (life in Bordeaux and then in Paris during 1936-1940) with the take-absurd-as-absurd-may-come wanderings of fictional ex-Private Valentin Brû, a typical Queneau creation- part saint, part sage, part Pierrot, part Chaplin, everyman and noman. The first half of the book might come off as a little shallow, a bit too full of that Marx Brothers-type slapstick and quickfire dialogue Queneau always accomplishes so effortlessly that one is deceived into thinking it might possibly be fluffy stuff, until a little past the midway point of our narrative (about the time Brû begins attempting to acquire the skill of observing Time as it passes) things get stranger, and the bizarre paths our good fellow has been meandering take on ever deeper implications and philosophical resonance with the troubled times, as Valentin begins to question the efficacy of his life and the people around him, and begins investing more and more of his mental energy in sweeping away the detritus that clots the mind so as to "read what is not on the face of the clock", and war approaches. Something is being said in this book, similarly to Queneau's masterful Pierrot Mon Ami, about living life in such a way that the misfortunes we experience are not as devastating as they might be, if we cultivate aloofness (or are naturally imbued with it) and see in disaster the chance for its opposite. Only, for Brû, this mode of life is not something cultivated or even chosen, it is his natural state, a state of bumbling grace, an instinctual shrugging-off of annihilation, of rising above the petty or scheming or doomed nature of most of the other characters that populate this book by an organic c'est la vie attitude and a life lived with the temperament of Atlas never even having hoisted the world in the first place. There is a bunch of stuff about clairvoyance and people's mania to be deceived, lots of stuff about Germany and France's historical conflicts, including Brû's obsession with visiting the site of the battle of Jena (which happens to be the place Hegel was studying during said conflict, there's probably plenty of material to delight well-read Hegelians in this text that went over my head, including jokes about 2 always meaning 3, etc.), lots of stuff about the shadows of our perception and how we are so easily lost in the tideflood of the everyday, lots of stuff about Marie Claire magazine (don't ask). All in all, a very strong showing from Queneau, who is forever endeared to this heart of mine, and whom I appreciate more and more with each book, especially when in the middle of a dialogue spattered with "cunts" and "what the fucks" and jokes about slutty daughters, he can let loose a paragraph like this:

"The days that pass, which turn into time that passes, are neither lovely nor hideous, but always the same. Perhaps it rains for a few seconds sometimes, or the four o'clock sun holds time back for a few minutes like rearing horses. Perhaps the past doesn't always preserve the beautiful order that clocks give to the present, and perhaps the future is rushing up in disorder, each moment tripping over itself, to be the first to slice itself up. And perhaps there is a charm or horror, grace or abjection, in the convulsive movements of what is going to be and of what has been. But Valentin had never taken any pleasure in these suppositions. He still didn't know enough about the subject. He wanted to be content with an identity nicely chopped into pieces of varying lengths, but whose character was always similar, without dyeing it in autumnal colors, drenching it in April showers, or mottling it with the instability of clouds."

[Amirhosein · Rating 3 out of 5]

توی دلم هزار جور غر به خیک آقای کنو بستم ولی آخرش دلم راضی نبود. در عین اینکه کتاب رو دوست نداشتم، طنزش جای خیلی خیلی کوچیکی رو توی قلبم دست و پا کرد. ماهیت طنزی که کنو ازش استفاده می‌کنه خود طنز شاید سخیف ولی در عین حال خنده‌آور فرانسویه و یه‌جورایی اصل جنسه. با اینکه خیلی از مهارت‌های زبانی‌ای که کنو ازش بهره می‌بره و در آثارش استفاده میشه در ترجمه محو و کمرنگ شده و از دهن افتاده. کنو مدتی با سوررئالیست‌های فرانسوی و آندره برتون و بقیه‌ی دوستان هم دمخور بوده ولی بعدا به دلایلی باهاشون اختلاف پیدا کرده و ازشون جدا شده. بعدا گروه "اولیپو" رو به ‌همراه ژرژ پرک و ایتالو کالوینو و رفقا تاسیس می‌کنه که اصل توجه‌شون در این گروه معطوف به تکنیک‌های نوشتاری و استفاده از ریاضیات و علم و منطق در ادبیات بوده.
داستان‌ این کتاب هم درمورد سرباز خوش‌تیپیه که اسیر چنگال عشق یه پیردختر ۴۰ ساله به اسم ژولیا میشه! ژولیا توی این داستان به همراه خواهرش شانتال، یک مغازه‌ی خرازی رو اداره می‌کنن. در ادامه تفاوت‌های شخصیتی و دیدگاه‌ها، تقابل مفهوم‌های مخالف رو در عمق آشکار و برجسته می‌کنه. داستان‌ به‌شدت دیالوگ‌محوره و به نمایشنامه با توجه به طنز بودنش شباهتی هم پیدا می‌کنه. به‌طور کلی اتفاقات خاص و مهمی در داستان وجود نداره. روایت هم بسیار آرام و یکنواخته. قسمت‌های زیادی شاید کسل‌کننده به‌نظر بیاد و حوصله‌ی خواننده رو محک بزنه و کاسه‌ی صبرش رو لبریز کنه. در کنار این کسل‌‌کننده‌بودن کنو نیم‌نگاهی کنایه‌آمیز به روزمرگی هم داره.

[Mariafrancesca di natura viperesca sta con gli ultimi della terra · Rating 5 out of 5]

Raymond versus Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel

[1997: parte di uno stock di ‘Queneau’ si perse sugli scaffali ma non troppo, evidentemente, se ogni tanto la suggestione del titolo mi saltava all’occhio. E ora … colpita e affondata]

Nella prières d’insérer (così si chiamano in Francia i foglietti volanti inclusi nelle copie dei volumi appena pubblicati, con brevi note informative ad uso della stampa) della Domenica della Vita Q. scrive:
"Arruolato volontario per cinque anni, Valentin Brù è, in capo a questo tempo, ancora soltanto soldato di seconda classe. Si lascia allora sposare da una merciaia di Bordeaux, signorina di età matura. Verso il 1936, un’eredità li porta a Parigi; Valentin vende cornici per fotografie, mentre sua moglie si mette a sfruttare doni, più o meno autentici, di seconda vista col nome di Mme Saphir. Ma Valentin non è forse lui stesso più o meno profeta? Attende la guerra per l’indomani, e la guerra finisce per arrivare; essa lo sorprende in circostanze bizzarre poiché egli fa allora la parte di madame Saphir e tranquillizza una clientela inquieta. È in circostanze non meno singolari che ritrova la sua sposa dopo l’Esodo. È a proposito della pittura olandese e delle sue scene d’ingenua gaiezza e gioia spontanea che Hegel parla di Domenica della vita e aggiunge: “ Uomini dotati di una così buona indole non possono essere nel fondo malvagi o vili… in questa sfrenatezza priva di preoccupazioni è implicito il momento ideale: è la domenica della vita che tutto eguaglia e che allontana ogni cattiveria; persone che sono così cordialmente di buon umore non possono essere del tutto cattive e basse”.
Un foglietto volante d’autore, non c’è che dire: in tutti i sensi. C’è tutto. Dati, cause e pre-testi. Meno male che l’ho trovato a lettura finita: l’ho copiato paro paro dalla postfazione. Non perché non sapessi cosa dire – una lenzuolata a riguardo mi affollava la mente – ma piuttosto come dirlo e cosa mostrare.

Già l’incipit è una manifestazione d’intenti: rigoroso uso del parlato francese, una roba (scusate il mio parlato) molto vicina a quella del Gadda nazionale: più che avvicinarlo allontana il lettore da quel quadro – mondo piccolissimo borghese, molto propenso alla risata o al politicamente scorretto che, come dice il maestro di Q. - Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel -, “ [essendo] di una così buona indole non possono essere nel fondo malvagi o vili”.
Il Maestro si riferiva alla pittura olandese che rifuggiva dal solenne e colorava il mondo che non passava alla storia ma che della storia era l’humus. Storia destinata a morire a Jena dopo la vittoria di Napoleone di cui “Lui” fu l’entusiasta testimone.

Per questo Valentin Brù aveva la fissa per Jena, la meta per eccellenza dei suoi viaggi sognati. Soprattutto però – e collegata al toponimo, non c’è dubbio - quella per il tempo. Attenzione: il tempo nella sola sua eccezione cronologica, quello scandito dalle lancette dell’orologio, anzi da quella lunga il cui movimento a scatti poteva essere sorpreso da lui ma solo a mente liberata: quattro minuti il suo record personale.
L’hegelianissimo Q. sembra coagulare così nel giovane soldato di seconda classe, appagato corniciaio e “addivina vintura”, i pilastri del Maestro: il tempo storico sulla via del tramonto e lo Spirito di un’umanità intenta in piccoli affari quotidiani insignificanti nella domenica della vita.
Queneau ci tiene a sottolineare, nei titoli di coda (o forse in quelli di testa) che ”ogni riferimento a persone esistenti o a fatti realmente accaduti è puramente voluto”. Come se volesse sgomberare ogni dubbio di non stare trattando materia fantastica anche se da oltre il Reno arrivava lo stridio isterico dell’uomo col baffetto e il rombare del passo dell’oca. E Valentin Brù li sente sti frastuoni e li chiama guerra, la guerra che verrà e che annuncia come un dato di fatto.
Sembra…

Ma Q. scrive La domenica della vita nel ’52: e se la storia si è suicidata ad Aushwitz neanche lo spirito della domenica della vita, gode ottima salute.
Mi vien da chiedermi, con Jaques Bens (vedete voi chi era, se vi interessa), come abbia potuto il buon vecchio Hegel essere così accecato dai quadretti olandesi: "la storia degli uomini è piena di tiranni allegri, di carnefici pazzerelli, di faceti bastonatori e di festosi seviziatori…più curioso è che Q. abbia ripreso a suo conto quest’asserzione nel 1950-’51, cioè ben poco tempo dopo che il buon umore nazista ha fatto morire dal ridere tutta l’Europa. E anzi mi chiedo quanto sia la parte di sarcasmo in quella epigrafe " .

Ecco, appunto: non è che Q. ( mi astengo dallo scrivere il nome per intero perché tutti quei dittonghi mi confondono) abbia rigirata la frittata e non sia Valentin Brù la risposta a “cosa può accadere quando si vive di innocente allegria e di spontanea gioia"?
Che lasci a noi la risposta giusta se ancora siamo in grado di ascoltare i segnali che oggi ci vengono dal canale di Sicilia?

[MJ Nicholls · Rating 3 out of 5]

This, Queneau’s fourth last (or sixteenth) novel, preceding the blockbusting supersmash Zazie dans la metro, is standard fare from the OuLiPo founder and mathematical whizz. Valentin Brû is one of Queneau’s ‘everymen’ who takes up with a woman twice his age to help run a picture frame shop. As usual, there are zippy, tricky plots with characters flicking in and out, little comments on the act of writing and language games a-go-go. Somehow it didn’t take off for me like Pierrot or Witch Grass, probably since there’s little to tell it apart from his preceding fifteen books and no one standout character. His writing here does seem ‘transitional’ to a degree—less involved in the story, more aware of the mechanisms of fiction. Still, the OuLiPo wouldn’t happen for another eight years, so that’s a flat theory. Probably very funny for the uninitiated.

[Márta Péterffy · Rating 5 out of 5]

Erősen szubjektív csillagozás, engem szórakoztatott, örültem hogy megtaláltam a polcon. Érdemes olvasni, abszurd humor, nyelvi leleményekkel. Hozzáteszem, remek a fordítás!
Van történet, de Queneau-nál nincs igazán realitás, bohózatot írt és a vége is elnagyolt, nem kell meglepődni. A maga korában kivételes volt ez a stílus, a szürrealizmus is jellemző rá, mégis könnyen olvasható és gyakran megnevettet. A regény végefelé kicsit komorodik, filozofálgat például az idő tetmészetéről, valamint a szereplőket eléri a háború réme, ám akkor is megmarad a karikatúra-szerű ábrázolás.
Queneau ismert még két könyve kapcsán: Stílusgyakorlatok, Zazie a metrón.

[Glyven · Rating 5 out of 5]

Raymond Queneau’s novels are infused with Monty Python silliness and Marx Brothers wit, and they can (and usually do) take mundane scenarios and make them both hilarious and fascinating from a literary perspective. In The Sunday of Life, Queneau’s sense of the absurd in everyday situations elevates what could have been a dull story into a hilarious series of events. The main character, Valentin Brû, seems at first to be a wishy-washy, almost Candide-like naïf, yet the reader is drawn to his endearing good humor.

This being a Queneau novel, there are plenty of quirks that draw the reader’s attention to the novel’s artifice, without ever detracting from the story. (For example, one character’s surname changes every time it’s mentioned, a technique for showing the character’s non-individuality.) By the time the novel reaches its comically bizarre final chapters, Queneau has engaged in a fair amount of his usual literary hijinks. Queneau wanted the narration of The Sunday of Life to be written in the “language of the ordinary man”--using the syntax of spoken French, rather than the formal language in which most French texts were written at the time the novel was published. Hence, in Barbara Wright’s English translation, we get such passages as the following:

A gravedigger came up and asked them if they were going to stay there much longer. Not that they, the family, were in their way, but it was time for them, the gravediggers, to go to lunch, and they, the gravediggers, would only finish filling it, the hole, in, after they had had it, their lunch.

It’s perversely satisfying to be reading a famous novel by a great and influential author and to discover passages so awkwardly written that they would probably result in a grade-schooler’s demotion to a lower English class. But this simultaneity of brilliance and stupidity is exactly what makes reading Queneau such an enjoyable experience.

Amidst the comedy there’s also tragedy, but the novel is ultimately life affirming, in a myth-of-Sisyphus kind of way. Even the title suggests taking the worldview that one’s life is just a long holiday, and that hardships and frustrations ought to be brushed off in favor of a lighthearted attitude. (One passage finds a husband and wife laughing about the day the wife had a stroke and became paralyzed, with the husband calling it a “great day.”) The novel ends perfectly with a final sentence/punchline that is banal and revelatory in equal measure.

[flaminia · Rating 3 out of 5]

il titolo è spettacolare, il libro no.

[Katie Dowd · Rating 5 out of 5]

My sister came to visit a few weeks ago. She got drunk and I got stoned and we sat on my couch eating spinach artichoke dip and hate-watching the Chiefs-Giants game. It was like watching Division III football, it was so bad. And my sister and I kept cracking up over how awful the game was and how happy we were because we were watching it together. She and I are both more or less doomers, which is what happens when you develop clinical depression before you even hit your teen years. Maybe the world is ending, maybe it isn’t. There’s still plenty of time to text your loved ones about how much Cris Collinsworth sucks.

That is the general vibe of this novel. I love Raymond Queneau so much. Go Bills.

[Delphine · Rating 2 out of 5]

Ludiek verslag van het wedervaren van Valentin Brû, een sympathieke idioot die aan de haak geslagen wordt door een dorpsjuffrouw die twee keer zo oud is. De roman blinkt uit in taalspel en humor maar die kunnen niet verhullen dat het verhaal van een ondraaglijke lichtheid is. Weinig karakterontwikkeling, weinig narratieve push.

[Robert · Rating 4 out of 5]

There are many things that could be written about the French novelist, Raymond Queneu, who died in 1976, but that would detract from the things I want to write about The Sunday of Life.

The Sunday of Life is a silly, penetrating, witty novel about nothing much colliding with nothing much and yet retaining the reader's interest because the characters are so salty, impassive, greedy, envious, clever, and dotty.

A middle-aged woman sees a soldier pass her shop every day. The soldier, Valentin, is about twenty-five years younger than the woman. But the woman, Julia, tells her sister, Chantal, that she's going to marry the guy…and she does.

Valentin is utterly without ambition and doesn't know what he's going to do with himself when he leaves the army. Yes, WWII overhangs everything, but in the meantime, there's life to live, isn't there? So he goes along with it, transforming Julia's thread and oddities shop into a framing shop, and then becoming a fortune-teller in drag. Meanwhile Chantal and her husband Paul strike it rich in the armaments business, where Paul goes into business making rifle stocks.

This inconsequential bit of writing, wherein Queneau deliberately messes around with people's names and backgrounds, is simply charming, and it falls into a category.

First, if you like films by François Trauffaut or Éric Roemer, you'll recognize a certain French artistic gift for exploring the uniquely intriguing characteristics of "nobodies." These characters have relatively eventless vacations, chase balloons, watch the sun turn green when it settles into the ocean at twilight, tease one another, flirt, obsess about a girl's knee, and it's all interesting. They take themselves seriously, but not too seriously. They develop, but they sometimes just give up.

Second, in literary terms, the novels of Henry Greene (British) are like this and Laurence Sterne (also British) are like this. These are novels that play with words and perspectives and capture every imaginable ironic twist, joke, reversal, and utter impossibility. How many people are going to talk to a woman who hostesses her party, which she refuses to attend, from her bathtub? What is Tristram Shandy going to say next with respect to the concept of "homunculus"?

The American TV show Seinfeld was all about funny things that didn't matter but were situationally desperately important.

Queneau was a serious writer, an aesthetician, an experimentalist, and a joker. In The Sunday of Life, he has fun. You will too.

[elisa · Rating 4 out of 5]

Il titolo “La Domenica della Vita” è dovuto all’espressione usata da Hegel per parlare della pittura fiamminga: scene di un’umanità allegra immersa nella più insignificante quotidianità. Ma nulla lascia presagire la tranquillità associata all’immagine della domenica, anzi questo contribuisce ad imbastire un senso di inquietudine in cui si è consapevoli che il lunedì arriverà comunque riportando la vita nel grigiore. I personaggi sono ritratti di antieroi svagati, Julia è una merciaia borghese “né in tutto giovane né in tutto signorina” e il soldato Brû, di estrazione sociale più bassa, è reduce del Madagascar. Valentin è senza dubbio il personaggio più interessante, è proprio lui con il suo essere dentro e fuori la storia “non si sente attratto da niente di particolare” che riesce a pre-vedere grazie al suo dono profetico lo “Spirito del tempo”. Di gusto surrealista con una scrittura sperimentale, Raymond Queneau non scrive solo un romanzo grottesco, cinico e pieno di wit ma prova anche a innovare la lingua, l’accento è posto sulla soggettività lessicale e sintattica e mette in crisi la nozione del romanzo stesso.

“Siccome i personaggi di questo romanzo sono reali, ogni rassomiglianza con figure immaginarie verrebbe ad essere fortuita”

“Che cos'è che hai dietro la testa? - le chiese Valentin. Lo schienale della mia sedia, - rispose Julia che non era molto alta e che era seduta su una poltrona.”

Infine “Uomini dotati di una così buona indole non possono essere nel fondo malvagi o vili” scrive Queneau nell’epigrafe del libro, anticipando quello che poi sarà l’epilogo: il secondo conflitto mondiale.

[S̶e̶a̶n̶ · Rating 4 out of 5]

Appropriately named, this novel unfurls like a lazy Sunday afternoon as it follows the domestic life of former army private Valentin Brû. The confidence of Queneau's storytelling always impresses me. He makes his craft seem effortless, and as such I never feel any qualms about immediately abandoning myself into his capable hands. Queneau is also good for cleansing the reading palate once it's become sullied by lesser prose. There's not much point in discussing the finer details of this book here, though. I think it's best to go in with little introduction. Suffice it to say that the book is light and clever, leaving discerning readers much to consider, and it's very much a joy to read.

[the modisher · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5

[Lysergius · Rating 4 out of 5]

A wonderful book! Drole and funny by turns; this is a gem guaranteed to raise a chuckle. Thoroughly enjoyable.

[None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel · Rating 5 out of 5]

When shopkeeper Julia Segovia decides to marry the handsome yet remarkably young and inexperienced soldier Valentin Bru, he agrees to her plan without hesitation. Unaware of what awaits him, Valentin finds himself dealing with dissatisfied relatives, quirky locals, a clever spouse, a dubious career in fortune-telling, the looming threat of war with Germany, and the enigmas of Parisian public transportation. The novel, titled "The Sunday of Life" as a playful nod to Hegel's historical theory, boasts a vibrant narrative filled with eccentric characters, entertaining incidents, and an optimistic tone, showcasing Queneau's characteristic wordplay, subtle humor, and appreciation for the absurdities of human nature and circumstance.

Set against the backdrop of one of history's most harrowing events, this apparently ordinary narrative unfolds within an extraordinary historical reality. While millions perish or endure unimaginable suffering, Europe lies devastated, yet Queneau's narrative focuses on small anecdotes and episodes that only tangentially intersect with the larger historical context. These are the ordinary individuals during wartime, either unaware or deliberately oblivious to the impending catastrophes. This is the true strength of this absurdist narrative—a distinct blend of minor and major escapades, humor juxtaposed with the grotesque, sadness mingled with melancholy, and surprises intertwined with mysteries emerging from everyday scenarios: whether on buses or trains, in barracks or homes, stores or fortune tellers, bars or restaurants, or during holiday festivities. Queneau's unforgettable characters effortlessly navigate through these scenarios, charming readers with their distinct vernacular and leaving an indelible impression. Simply sublime!

[Rita · Rating 4 out of 5]

I have always liked funny books (I know, very subjective, my fun, your frown), and this was a fun enjoyable read these lazy summer days. Absurd, vaudeville or burlesque, slightly grotesque, vulgar langauge (from Julia or Julie if you prefer). Valentin Brû takes life as it comes and never loses heart, not even when he has to go on honeymoon alone. He is thinking about becoming a street-sweeper, but Julie, eyeing him lustily from her haberdashery, has other plans for him. I don’t know the philosophy of Hegel (I only associate his name with Breton and the surrealists), so I was not clever enough to see the full Hegelian aspect of Valentin’s (mis)adventures as among other things a frame salesman and fortune-teller.

[Sini · Rating 4 out of 5]

"De zondag des leven"s is volgens sommigen het meesterwerk van de heerlijk lichtvoetige Raymond Queneau (1903- 1976). Of dat zo is weet ik niet, maar door zijn lichtheid, zijn amusante taalspel en zijn altijd verrassende humor is het wel een heel opmonterend boek. Zoals al zijn boeken. Terwijl het vrij kort na de Tweede Wereldoorlog verscheen (in 1955), en deels in de oorlogsjaren speelt.

De aan Hegel ontleende titel van deze roman duidt op een toestand van opperste zorgeloosheid, van naïeve vrolijkheid, van paradijselijke gelukzaligheid, en van volkomen onbekommerde levenslust. En op een eeuwig heden dat niet wordt verstoord door klemmende zorgen voor morgen of door slechtheid en gemeenheid. Dat zondagse levensgevoel wordt belichaamd door de soldaat tweede klasse Valentin Brû: een benijdenswaardig onbestemde en ongrijpbare anti- held, die volmaakt onbestemde en ongrijpbare avonturen beleeft. In een al even onbestemde, maar helaas ook zeer dreigende wereld: de mobilisatie in Frankrijk neemt toe, de Tweede Wereldoorlog nadert, en ook Valentin wordt onder de wapenen geroepen. Maar hij ontsnapt aan die dreigingen, aan al die rap toenemende slechtheid en gemeenheid om hem heen. Want precies door zijn ongrijpbaarheid en onbestemdheid krijgt de Grote Geschiedenis van die tijd nauwelijks vat op Valentin. Bovendien – en dat is het allerbelangrijkste- neemt hij gewoon niet deel aan die Grote Geschiedenis. Want hij doet niets, hij wil niets, hij streeft niets na. Sterker nog, hij ís zelfs bijna niets. Precies daardoor behoudt hij zijn merkwaardig onthechte onbekommerdheid. En een bijna naïef goed humeur.

De roman begint met de bewonderende blikken van Julia, een weduwe die de veel jongere Valentin aan de haak zal slaan. Maar dat weet de onbevangen en naïeve Valentin nog niet. Hij heeft zelfs geen idee dat hij wordt bekeken. Want hij staat onwetend in de wereld: “Niet bevroedend dat hij elke dag door een bewonderend oog werd vastgepind op de weg die hem van de kazerne naar het bureel voerde stapte soldaat Brû, die in het algemeen nergens aan dacht, [….] voort met de onbevangenheid van een niet- bewuste. Met zijn niet bewust grijsblauwe ogen en zijn niet bewust elegant omwikkelde beenkappen droeg soldaat Brû heel naïef al het nodige met zich mee om in de smaak te vallen bij een jongejuffrouw die niet helemaal jong meer was en ook niet helemaal juffrouw”.

Alles wat Valentin Brû daarna doet of overkomt ademt diezelfde onbevangenheid, ongrijpbaarheid en onbewustheid. Bijvoorbeeld zijn huwelijk, dat zomaar ineens voltrokken is, en daardoor zo vluchtig is als de wind. Te meer omdat het hem eigenlijk “geen sodemieter” kon schelen dat hij “sjans heeft”. Bovendien verdwaalt hij tijdens zijn huwelijksreis voortdurend, en raakt hij zelfs zijn koffer steeds kwijt omdat hij het bagagedepot niet terug kan vinden. In de lijst van soldaten van zijn regiment is zijn naam niet geregistreerd, zodat hij niet op de gebruikelijke manier kan afzwaaien. En als hij afzwaait doet hij in het burgerleven vooral helemaal niets. Dat is ook aan hem te zien: “In de buizen van zijn hoofd was het een beetje warm en zijn gezicht drukte een totaal gebrek aan uitdrukking uit”. Dat verandert niet als hij later weer gemobiliseerd wordt vanwege de oorlog, want dan wordt zijn hele regiment vergeten door bureaucratische toevalligheden. Zodat Valentin gewoon doorgaat met nietsdoen en mijmeren in de leegte. En met niet- deelnemen aan de geschiedenis. Zonder een schot te lossen.

Valentin dompelt zich bovendien meer en meer onder in “de pure leegheid van de tijd”. Met een bijna meditatieve aandacht volgt hij de grote wijzer van de klok, zich half- bewust en naïef verwonderend over hoe ongrijpbaar de tijd is die verstrijkt en hoe vluchtig en bijna niet- bestaand elk moment lijkt dat zonet verstreken is. En hoe leeg en ongrijpbaar de wereld is als je ‘de tijd doodt’, en die tijd halfbewust of zelfs onbewust laat verstrijken. Dat leidt tot veel maffe en droogkomische passages, waar ik hardop om moest grinniken. Maar ook tot schitterende meditaties en bespiegelingen. Bijvoorbeeld: “In tegenstelling tot het weer is de verstrijkende tijd niet mooi of lelijk maar altijd aan zichzelf gelijk. Mogelijk regent het soms seconden of houdt de zon van vier uur enkele minuten als steigerende paarden in bedwang. Mogelijk bewaart het verleden niet altijd de fraaie ordening die de klokken aan het heden geven, en mogelijk stormt de toekomst ordeloos op je af, waarbij alle momenten elkaar verdringen om als eerste in plakjes gesneden te worden. En mogelijk schuilt er verrukking, afschuw, elegantie of perfiditeit in de krampachtige bewegingen van wat zal zijn en wat is geweest. Maar Valentin had zich nog nooit verlustigd in dergelijke hypothesen. Daarvoor wist hij er nog te weinig van. Hij wilde genoegen nemen met een identiteit die duidelijk verdeeld was in stukken van verschillende lengte maar onveranderlijk van karakter, zonder die identiteit herfstkleuren te geven, door maartse buien te laten doordrenken of te marmeren met de onbestendigheden van wolken”.

Identiteit zonder herfstkleuren, maartse buien, onbestendige wolken of andere veranderingen. Tijd zonder de ordeloosheid van de toekomst of de wanorde van het verleden. Pure leegte die altijd aan zichzelf gelijk is. Dat is waar Valentin van droomt. En dat is waar hij, in al zijn niet- bewuste niets- doen, ook naar lijkt te verlangen. Zij het met het gedempte verlangen van iemand die nooit actief naar iets streeft. Zelfs niet naar het Niets.

Hoe dit gedempte verlangen naar pure leegte te verklaren? Misschien als verwijzing naar de beroemde colleges over Hegel van Alexandre Kojève. Die immers benadrukte dat Hegel op 18 oktober 1806, toen Napoleon het Pruisische leger bij Jena verpulverend versloeg, ‘het einde van de geschiedenis’ zag aanbreken. Dus het einde van grote historische veranderingen en de significante historische omwentelingen. En na dit einde zou van de filosofie alleen de wijsheid overblijven. Aldus Hegel, althans in de interpretatie van Kojève. Bekend is dat Queneau deze colleges van Kojève bewonderde. En in "De zondag des levens" laat hij Valentin opvallend vaak onbestemd mijmeren over de slag bij Jena, die volgens Kojève dus het einde van de geschiedenis inluidt, en het begin van filosofie als loutere wijsheid. Suggereert Queneau nu dat Valentin een wijze filosoof is? Juist omdat Valentin zich onderdompelt in de pure leegte, en zich aan de zo chaotische geschiedenis onttrekt?

Hegel zag de geschiedenis overigens als een dialectische voortgang, die uitmondt in het Absolute Weten. Maar Queneau lijkt dat heel anders te zien. Want in "De zondag des levens" draait de geschiedenis rond in doelloze cirkels. Zoals Napoleon de Duitsers in de pan hakte, zo hakt Hitler nu de Fransen in de pan, zo merkt een van de personages op: de geschiedenis herhaalt zich dus, zonder vooruitgang. En iets dergelijks geldt ook voor de roman als geheel: hij begint met een passage waarin Julia bewonderend kijkt naar haar Valentin, en eindigt met een passage waarin zij opnieuw naar Valentin kijkt, nu stikkend van het lachen. Alsof de geschiedenis zich herhaalt, maar dan als farce. Alsof het einde van de roman-geschiedenis het begin van de roman-geschiedenis spiegelt, maar dan in een lachspiegel. En misschien kan een wijze filosoof daarin alleen met een glimlach berusten. Zoals ook wij misschien doen, als we "De zondag des levens" lezen.

Bovendien, in "De zondag des levens" staat ook dit: “[D]e mensen uit de wijk, die [Valentin] geen nieuwe verhalen te vertellen hadden behalve voorzover ze deel uitmaakten van het grote verhaal van de geschiedenis, kwamen nog maar zelden naar hem toe om hem de steeds kleinere details toe te vertrouwen van een leven dat werd vermalen tussen de vette krantenkoppen”. Dergelijke uitspraken getuigen nou niet direct van een geloof in Geschiedenis als vorm van vooruitgang. Integendeel, zelfs. Van dit soort chaos zouden we ons het liefst onthechten. Zoals Valentin Brû doet, zonder dat zelf echt ten volle te beseffen.

Misschien zag Queneau Valentins onthechting dus als einde van de geschiedenis, en als begin van filosofische wijsheid. Ook al zou Valentin daar zelf om hebben moeten grinniken. Hoe dit ook zij: Valentin valt, door zijn niet- deelnemen, niet- zijn en niet- streven, buiten de zo verwarrende loop van de grote geschiedenis. In het begin van de roman komt dat onthechte niet- deelnemen onder meer tot uiting in zijn wens om, na zijn nederig bestaan als soldaat tweede klas, een bescheiden straatveger te worden. Maar later wil hij zelfs straatveger worden in meer symbolische zin: “Hem bleef absoluut niets anders over dan de tijd te doden en in zichzelf de beelden weg te bezemen van een wereld die door de geschiedenis uitgewist zou worden”. Met andere woorden: hij wendt zich bijna ascetisch af van de contemporaine geschiedenis met al zijn noodlottige chaos. Zodat hij eindelijk gewoon de wijzers van de klok kan volgen, en zich kan onderdompelen in de pure leegte van de tijd, zonder door enig straatrumoer te worden gestoord. En dat zou ik zelf ook wel willen kunnen.

Ik denk niet dat ik ooit iemand als Valentin Brû zal tegenkomen in de werkelijke wereld. Bovendien zou ik een zo ongrijpbare persoon niet eens herkennen. Maar ik vind het troostrijk en vooral opvrolijkend dat Queneau dit zo onbekommerde en onthechte personage heeft weten te verzinnen. In een zo onderhoudend, humorvol en speels boek bovendien. Want ik kreeg een zorgeloos zondagsgevoel van dit boek, ondanks de zo barre en beklemmende tijden waarin het speelt. En ik bewonder de geniale lichtvoetigheid van Raymond Queneau.

[Alan · Rating 5 out of 5]

I adore Raymond Queneau, I am scared of the day I wont have any more of his books to read. I’ll have to learn french and read them all again.

[Świętosław Brzenczyszczykiewicz · Rating 5 out of 5]

The question of the key to the Sunday of Life. Is it a roman à clef?
Upon finishing it an hour ago, and supposing 1951 at least a few years before Oulipo, I want to think there is a trick going on under the prose.
First bet: is it's a to-do about Hegelian triads and syntheses.
The glum inspector Torinoli (Torinini?) questions Valentin whether 2 couldn't be 3, in the half-remembered style of things Queneau so clinches with the Bretougats (Rratogas? Brutegas?). Of course the antithesis, 2, merges with the thesis, 2, and hence conurbates with the synthesis, 3, much in the way Julia and Valentin do, before occupying the role of Madame Seraphine (Supherine?).
Examples of mergers, triads, and pairs abound in the novel.
Prussia - Napoleon - Clemenceau - Hitler - Vichy - Allied Europe, and all the historical ephemera caught beneath. Morocco, Bourdeaux, Paris. The pairs of women and men paired off, killed and died.
Messy, and better in the reading of the novel, than in extricating such a juicy morsel for puzzle-finders and Joyceans alike. I think Queneau played with the idea of a hidden structure, much as he did in Witch Grass with the Meditations.
You could see a gradual diminution, nihilation, reformation, plying and reapplying predicates and categories to the man, the tabula rasa, and the narrative subject. But it wouldn't really, per-se [sic], be reading a novel would it?
I don't think anything's been found here, just an added bit of enjoyment, perhaps a tinge and a helpful simulation of knowledge as the eyes pass paragraphs and reverberative words.
Different when we, on the other hand, do get to Oulipo. See the Warren Motte book, or check your dates for books which fall in that purview.
Still, I'll be looking out for more pretentious quiddities and trivia to pepper my readings of Queneau. The taste for obscurities, for phonologic and lexicographic games is done so tastefully in his work, a fine line to cut. And to boot, at least it's not Finnegan's wake.

[Rand · Rating 3 out of 5]

Book sat on my shelf for over ten years so I decided to give it a second chance, after giving up maybe eight years ago because it starts slow. Guess I started slow instead?

Book was funny when linguistic fuddy-duddies are referred to as "cunts" and there were other, more developed situations of funny business that I shan't spoil here.

My favorite part is the inscription (after the copyright page) which states that "The characters of this novel being real, any resemblance they may bear to imaginary individuals must be purely fortuitous."

There's a second inscription from half-a-Hegel too: ". . . it is the Sunday of life, which levels everything, and rejects everything bad; men gifted with such good humor cannot be fundamentally bad or base." (sic)

An entertaining, airy read on some heavy times. Translator Wright's convention of indicating the tu/vous irked me at first but not for long.

'salright

[mi.terapia.alternativa · Rating 5 out of 5]

Un libro  delicioso para disfrutar cada palabra, cada párrafo. Un libro muy fácil de leer, muy divertido .


Valentín Brû,  se ha licenciado tras cinco años en el ejército como soldado raso. No tiene aspiraciones, no es ambicioso, sólo quiere vivir tranquilo.  Así que cuando le proponen casarse con Julia, solterona, dueña de una mercería y 20 años mayor que se ha encaprichado de él y quiere casarse, Valentín  acepta.
Y esto es lo que nos vamos a encontrar, el día a día de esta pareja sin igual, y la gente a su alrededor. Lo que ocurre unos años antes del comienzo de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, cuando la gente quería vivir y ser feliz.
Me han encantado los personajes, he disfrutado con todos, Julia que quiere disfrutar de la vida, su hermana Chantal,  Paul, su serio cuñado funcionario pero sobre todo Valentín Brû.

Una novela con un gran sentido del humor,un lenguaje sencillo y directo. Repleta de diálogos con frases hechas, salidas de tono y palabrotas que lo hacen más real todavía,os digo algunas: rajar, palmarla, manducatoria, pegar la hebra....
Y situaciones disparatadas,  o no me digáis que no lo es un viaje de novios solo con el novio porque no se puede  cerrar la mercería .
Leerlo, se lee muy fácil, se lee muy rápido, os atrapará desde el primer momento , os encantarán Julia y Valentín, os encantará su historia y os vais a reír. No se puede pedir más.

[Gijs Grob · Rating 5 out of 5]

Lichtvoetige en blijmoedige roman over de simpele soldaat Valentin Brû, en zijn vrouw, de oude vrijster Julia, in een achtergrond van de naderende tweede wereldoorlog. De roman bevat enkele komische situaties, maar draait vooral om de gesprekken van simpele mensen, met veel fonetisch opgeschreven spreektaal. Jammergenoeg eindigt de roman nogal abrupt, wanneer de oorlog daadwerkelijk uitbreekt.

[Nora · Rating 4 out of 5]

such fun. Queneau is rapidly becoming one of my favorites.

[Lianna]

more french stuff

[David · Rating 3 out of 5]

Some genuinely funny/witty Queneau-isms here, but overall perhaps just more of the same from Ray. Always impressed with good translations of the Oulipo crew.

[Krzysztof · Rating 3 out of 5]

Bardzo dobry przekład (o ile umiem ocenić) i mnóstwo świetnych (zabawnych / makabrycznych) fragmentów, które nie za bardzo chcą się w cokolwiek złożyć.

[Mojtaba R · Rating 3 out of 5]

داستان با زاویه دید سوم شخص روایت می شود. نخست توصیفی از سرباز برو را می بینیم؛ جوانی آراسته و خوش تیپ و جذاب که هر بار از کنار مغازه ای رد می شود، متوجه نگاه های خیره ای می گردد. ژولیا زنی بیوه و چهل و اندی ساله و شیرین عقل است که با خواهرش شانتال، جوان را زیر نظر می گیرند و هربار ژولیا با اشتیاق، آمدن سرباز را به نظاره می نشیند. از خواهرش که متأهل است، می خواهد تا مقدمات رسیدن او به سرباز را مهیا کند. خواهرش مخالفت می کند و تفاوت سنی را به او گوشزد می کند، اما ژولیا دست بردار نیست و شانتال مجبور می شود اطلاعات سرباز را از فرمانده او بگیرد. فرمانده نیز که از جمال شانتال به وجد آمده، به او کمک می کند. مطلب به گوش برو نیز می رسد و با توجه به اینکه برو هیچ کسی در این دنیا ندارد، با وجود فاصله سنی زیاد و مخالفت باجناقش که پل نام دارد، با ژولیا ازدواج می کند. ژولیا مغازه ای را اداره می کند و برو نیز به او ملحق می شود. نکته جالب و طنز داستان اینجا رقم می خورد و ژولیای کم عقل به خاطر کار مغازه، برو را تنها به ماه عسل می فرستد. بعد از بازگشت از سفر، نانت مادر ژولیا نیز پایش به مغازه باز می شود، اما مدتی بعد می میرد و اینجا مسئله ارث به میان می آید و کشمکش های بعدی داستان پایه ریزی می شود.
پل باجناق برو درصدد است مغازه را از چنگ ژولیا دربیاورد و آن را حق دختر سلیطه خود مارینت می داند، اما رفتارهای سخیف هر دو طرف کفه ترازو را به نفع هیچ کدام سنگین نمی کند و وضعیت همچنان به صورت قبل پیش می رود. موضوعات دیگری نیز در این بین مطرح می شود؛ مثل احتمال رابطه برو با شانتال و شک پل و ژولیا در این باره، و روابط گسیخته ای که همگی بیهودگی و زندگی بی معنای آن خانواده را نشان می دهد. البته بعدها معلوم می شود که برو با شانتال رابطه اندکی هم داشته است، اما برای ژولیا چندان اهمیتی ندارد و او همچنان برو را دوست دارد. برو سعی می کند امور مغازه را به خوبی پیش ببرد و هر روز پیشگویی جنگ می کند. از آنجا که مردم از جنگ بیزار هستند، از او فاصله می گیرند و روز به روز مشتریانش کم می شود و مجبور می شود مغازه را ببندد. به پیشنهاد ژولیا لباس زنانه می پوشد و از غیاب سافیر زن فالگیر که به تازگی مرده است، استفاده می کند و مدتی فالگیری می کند، اما پس از چندی برگه اعزام به جنگ به دستش می رسد و راهی جبهه می شود. ژولیا نیز که در اثر سکته فلج شده است، به خانه خواهرش نقل مکان می کند. اما بعد از جنگ در طلب برو دست به پرس و جو می زند و بالأخره او را در ایستگاه راه آهن پاریس می بیند.

[Steven · Rating 5 out of 5]

in this current burst of Queneau, not the more known works (ie Zazie and exercises), I have found a writer who is...Let me talk about poets. There are those one loves because they are like close relations and you can talk with them and it feels (italics) that you are alike (key word: feels). for me those are, say, Williams, O'Hara, Schuyler..."own thoughts returned to you with an alienated majesty..." Emerson on a type of genius that I subscribe to. Then there are those that sit stone-faced in the distance: oracles like Stevens, Crane, Ashbery, etc..I can't figure them out yet I revisit them for the feeling I can only get WHILE im in the midst of reading them...there is no residual comfort or later explanation I can give of them; they do no validate me or invite me in. I read them for the spark of reading: of understanding momentarily what it is to be of so markéd (Im truly only at home as a 18th century man apparently) a different sensibility as to seem in certain ways a different species with concerns I am mere (ugh) to. In Queneau as in few others, I find the writer who splits the difference: a fun, playful, gossipy, god of language and the serious proposition that is existence and paying extreme attention. It's ALL there and I am probably missing 50% at least. I suspect that his unwillingness to distance himself (beyond being clever and allusive and maybe even 'difficult'-I don't believe in that dichotomy though) is why he is so often boiled down to exercises and Zazie, the former shows off and DOES distance in play and the later is very fun. So, why read the works that do both at the same time? (This question is reductive to those two works, I know, but I have a point. Do you, though? Who are you? Who is now speaking? Fuck!)

Pierrot, Icarus, Sunday of life seem to me truly towering and unique works of the twentieth century. I'm glad I have more of them to read. If you don't fall in love with Valentin a bit then I don't know what to say: we read for different reasons.

[Marco Sán Sán]

Hace mucho que una novela no me divierte tanto, es maravillosa la sutileza que logra Queneau sin cortarse un poco al devastar a los compañeros de la época, hay que ser muy elegante para que la dicha no se convierta en burla.

Por lo demás debió ser entrañable ser amigo de Ko... Brû, siempre quise leer una biografía del ruso que leía a Hegel como quién lee a Tintín de una fuente intima, fraternal, las vivencias mundanas de este prodigio. Maravillosas sus andanzas como era de suponer.

"Acostado boca arriba, trataba ahora de descubrir la diferencia que hay entre no pensar en nada con los ojos cerrados y dormir sin sueños."