Wiek męski

by Michel Leiris, Teresa Błońska (Translator), Jan Błoński (Translator)

Może ta książka drażnić. Zbuntowany mieszczuch, anarchiczny intelektualista roztacza jak paw wachlarz swoich wierzeń, urojeń, gustów, przeświadczeń na poły religijnych. Jest cyniczny i naiwny, przenikliwy i sentymentalny, trzeźwy do szpiku kości i rozmarzony jak siedemnastolatek; umie liczyć grosze i marzy o rewolucji; zajmuje się tylko sobą i oświadcza poważnie, że przygotowuje wyzwolenie wszystkich; swoje natręctwa seksualne obnosi niczym czerwony sztandar, mistyczne zaś nostalgie maskuje poetyckimi marzeniami; uwielbia to, co czyste, dziecinne, pierwotne, a więc Afrykę, burdel, linoskoków: po namyśle dodaje także Racine’a. Upaja się i bawi mitologiami, które bada i rozkłada jak szyfr… Jeśli chcecie poznać paryskiego intellectuel de gauche od środka, nie nadętych „mandarynów”, czytajcie Wiek męski… bo złapany tam został in statu nascendi i na poziomie najszczerzej intymnym.

Genres: Memoir, France, French Literature, Biography, Nonfiction, Autobiography, Philosophy

216 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1939

About the author

Born in Paris in 1901, Michel Leiris was a French surrealist writer and ethnographer. In the 1920s he became a member of the surrealist movement and contributed to La révolution surréaliste. In those years, he wrote a surrealist novel: Aurora.

After his exit from the surrealist group, he teamed up with Georges Bataille in the magazine Documents.

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Michel Leiris recounts the story of his childhood, adolescence and youth as if he writes an anamnesis – the case history of a patient – and he does it very inventively and analytically.

I attach no excessive importance to these recollections from various stages of my childhood, but it is convenient for me to collect them here at this moment, for they are the frame – or the fragments of the frame – within which everything else has been set. Much more decisive, it seems to me, were certain precise facts, some whose influence I have never doubted (those relating to the theater and particularly to the opera), others whose more secret significance has been revealed to me only fortuitously, in the light of a painting by Cranach representing two particularly alluring female figures: Lucrece and Judith.

Immersed since his early childhood in the culture and various arts the boy was full of childish fears and illusions so his phantasmagoric visions and dreams implicitly shaped his future psychology and personality of a man.

As for The Tales of Hoffmann, I was fascinated because there was something to “understand” about the story, pretty much as with Parsifal. Three heroines – the doll Olympia, the courtesan Giulietta, the singer Antonia – are presented in three independent tales each of which constitutes an act; at the end, all three, products of Hoffmann’s imagination which, under the power of alcohol, has invented all three tales, turn out to be only three images of one and the same woman: the actress Stella, with whom Hoffmann is hopelessly in love. Just before the curtain falls, a huge cask lights up, and in it appears the Muse who sweetly consoles Hoffmann, asleep with his head on the table. This triple incarnation, in various aspects, of an inaccessible woman – in all three cases as well as in reality – must have been one of the first molds in which my notion of the femme fatale was formed. An automaton that is broken, a courtesan who betrays, a singer who dies of tuberculosis, such are the avatars through which the contemptuous creature passes in Hoffmann’s reverie, changing shape like the Medusa in whom each man believes he recognizes the woman he loves.

The boy grows up and he finds himself between Scylla and Charybdis, between two types of female mentality – between Lucrece, who, in order to flee disgrace, took her own life and Judith, who, in order to win, readily passed through disgrace…

Nothing seems more like a whorehouse to me than a museum. In it you find the same equivocal aspect, the same frozen quality. In one, beautiful, frozen images of Venus, Judith, Susanna, Juno, Lucrece, Salome, and other heroines; in the other, living women in their traditional garb, with their stereotyped gestures and phrases. In both, you are in a sense under the sign of archeology; and if I have always loved whorehouses it is because they, too, participate in antiquity by their slave-market aspect, a ritual prostitution.

Milieu influences the development of our consciousness the same way soil influences the growth of plants.

[Miriam Cihodariu · Rating 2 out of 5]

I cannot help but feel a little disappointed whenever reading something authored by a fellow anthropologist that strikes me as being crass, non-empathetic, and callous in the end.

Then again, the beginning of the 20th century was a different time, when exploring the darker recesses of the soul was considered to be more 'true' than anything. So I guess Michel Leiris is a product of his times and intellectual circles (though there are still some surrealists I love).

The author's brutal honesty (I detected no amount of self-serving or self-gratifying disclosures) and his willingness to be scrutinized not in the best light are worthy of a nod, as well.

But the rest of this collection of essays, focusing on appalling female archetypes and the way he sees them, his violent fantasies and urgings - it's all not just unsavory, but signaling a dire need for therapy.

[Farren]

I am too tired of Leiris' sexually charged self-analysis to say much here. The author's intellect is on ravaging display throughout--but so is his sexism, his narcissism, his fascination with really fucked up female archetypes and the romance of self-annihilation. Insofar as being terrifically, HORRIFICALLY exposed, Leiris' book is a beautiful accomplishment. But also I am exhausted and I sort of never want to encounter this dude again.

[WillemC · Rating 5 out of 5]

Etnoloog Michel Leiris schreef deze bekentenisliteratuur met als doel de volledige waarheid over zichzelf, hoe beschamend die ook is, bloot te leggen. De auteur neemt ons mee langs enkele beslissende momenten uit zijn kindertijd, jeugd en vroege volwassenheid die aan elkaar hangen door steeds terugkerende motieven: angst, moord, bloed, mythe, verwonding, liefde, schaamte, ... Los van een stukje stierengevechtapologie was "L'âge d'homme" - zoals de Franse titel van "Arena" luidt - een leeservaring zoals ik ze graag heb: verrassend, macaber, eerlijk en obsessief. Eén van de meest intrigerende werken in de schitterende Privé-domein-reeks. Freud zou zich trouwens serieus geamuseerd hebben met Leiris op zijn sofa. 4.75/5

"Ik leg mijn vriendin uit hoe nodig het is zich met behulp van zijn kleding door een muur te omringen."

"In 1933 keerde ik terug, één mythe had ik in ieder geval de nek omgedraaid: dat reizen een uitweg kon zijn."

"Zoals al mijn vrienden weten ben ik een specialist, een maniak van de bekentenis."

"Als ik op straat loop mijd ik samenscholingen, het zien van menselijk bloed op klaarlichte dag maakt me panisch."

[Caner Sahin · Rating 3 out of 5]

Üç yıldızı çevirmen ve yayınevi emekçileri için verdim. İnsan kendi özgeçmişini yazarken böyle yazmamalı kanaatindeyim. Kitap, yazarın otobiyografi ve itirafları konularını içeriyor.

[Sarahpelle · Rating 2 out of 5]

1,5 stars.

[Andrew]

Who knew the ultimately Cluster B art-ho writer was a dude?

Michel Leiris was years before his time. I rarely see him mentioned, and indeed I only know him from a Sontag essay I read years ago (in Against Interpretation, I think?). But the no-holds-barred confessionalism would let him slot right in with all the “autofiction” devotees of the present moment, flaccid penises and all the rest. Although many of the autofiction devotees would automatically despise him – he gives voice to every dark thought that is inculcated in the male brain, every socially unacceptable impulse that you shut away, every inclination towards sex and violence. And every vision of transcendence, every moment when you can actually look yourself in the eyes in the mirror. And I hope that convinces you to read him too.

[nika · Rating 4 out of 5]

Boże, polskie wydanie jest tak okropnie złożone, tyle błędów. Stanisław Salij i Joanna Kwiatkowska – niech was szlag trafi.

"Wiek męski [...] z nadmiaru szczerości – na psychoanalitycznych skrzydłach ulatuje w mitologiczną bajkę..."

[Ismérie · Rating 4 out of 5]

Je n’aime pas les autobiographies, mais j’ai aimé ce livre.
Pour ses images, ses associations, ses références, son cynisme aussi.
Mais surtout pour la phrase : Leiris pourrait parler de tout et son contraire, je le lirai quand même, tant il écrit bien.

Bémol pour le côté bourgeois blanc privilégier, ntm Michel j’enlève une étoile

[Emily-rose Guillebeau · Rating 1 out of 5]

The author is something of a misogynist pig/ egomaniac, and I despise him. Period. Ugh. I hate this class on French autobiographies.

[Shelley · Rating 1 out of 5]

"I resembled a clown more than a tragic actor" encapsulates this perfectly. I can't believe how many books about men talking about sex are considered "literature"

[نیکزاد نورپناه · Rating 5 out of 5]

A must read if you're obsessed with analysing your "self", your love life, or just enjoy a masterful autobiography.

[louise ☆ · Rating 1 out of 5]

l'ancêtre des incels avec des podcasts mais en 200 pages d'introspection bidon...
Il s'agirait d'arrêter de mettre en avant des romans juste parce qu'ils sont écrits par des hommes blancs bourgeois "déconstruits" quant à leur sexualité et qui se croient poètes parce qu'ils ont écrits 2 vers dans leur vie sérieux
Michel Leiris est littéralement l'incarnation des incels actuels (se décrit comme ayant peur de parler aux femmes ?????), pick me à souhait, toujours dans la position du passif & du faible qui subit (mais ça lui convient très bien puisqu'il peut ensuite soit se victimiser soit attirer l'attention de par sa "vulnérabilité"), sexiste & homophobe sans scrupules...
il catégorise les femmes dans 2 catégories, selon s'il les trouve intimidantes (dans quel cas elles sont agressives, animales, et j'en passe) ou si elles lui permettent de se positionner comme une victime: misogynie sans aucune nuance qui m'a fait lever les yeux au ciel toutes les 2 pages

au final ça démontre juste d'un sadomasochisme refoulé voire d'une homosexualité pas assumée enrobés dans un syndrome d'Œdipe bien puissant..
il faudrait que les hommes aillent plus souvent voir des psys au lieu d'écrire des torchons comme ça mon dieu

[Mark · Rating 5 out of 5]

Leiris' best book! Fascinating, sometimes very funny, and ultimately moving in its own peculiar fashion. I read this book first when I was in my early 20s, again a decade later, and now, at 42, I've read it again, and each time I've discovered new truths (and new sadnesses) in it that only my own aging could have disclosed...

[El-Jahiz · Rating 5 out of 5]

If autobiographies are to be written at all, thus should those be written!

[Stéphane · Rating 1 out of 5]

Les lamentations d'un homme sur son enfance... Une sorte d'auto analyse sans recul ni magie littéraire.
J'ai dû passer à côté !

[Hagar]

An honest confessional of Leiris' deprave obsessions, the darkness in masculine sexuality. It's obscenely, compulsively interesting to get inside his head. I would recommend measured steps.

[Adam · Rating 3 out of 5]

glimmers of brilliance here and there, but my main takeaway is that this guy needs cognitive behavioural therapy.

[Łucja Mlotkowska · Rating 4 out of 5]

pięknie napisana introspekcja

[Houry Yann · Rating 2 out of 5]

Très déçu par cette lecture. Est-ce que je suis déçu dans mes attentes ? Est-ce que la préface (intitulée "De la littérature considérée comme une tauromachie") place la barre trop haut ? À prétendre introduire dans la littérature un équivalent de la menace de la corne du taureau et empêcher ainsi le livre "d'être autre chose que grâces vaines de ballerine", Leiris prend des risques. Il va falloir apporter du contenu, faire danser esthétique et danger. C'est ce que compte faire l'auteur en mettant "à nu certaines obsessions d'ordre sentimental ou sexuel, confesser publiquement certaines des déficiences ou des lâchetés qui font le plus honte". Malheureusement, les tracas sexuels de l'auteur m'indiffèrent totalement ; apprendre qu'il ait souffert d'un testicule me laisse de marbre ; qu'il ne pouvait pas sacquer tel frère aussi. Sa répartition des femmes en Lucrèce d'une part et en Judith d'autre part également. Je crois que cela tient à l'absence de grâce littéraire (tauromachique ?). Je trouve l'écriture de Leiris lourde, loin du style envisagé qui devrait pourtant à ce titre s'apparenter à la petite musique chère à Céline, à son goût pour la danse. Or Leiris le dit : "Je n'ai jamais eu de facilité pour écrire ; à tel point que, pendant longtemps, l'idée ne me serait pas même venue que je puisse être un jour ce qu'on appelle un écrivain".
Enfin, il faut ajouter que l'édition numérique de ce livre est un désastre. C'est plein d'erreurs, de coquilles, de fautes de frappe, etc. Ça n'aide pas à prendre du plaisir littéraire.

[DonJulio · Rating 3 out of 5]

Quelle lecture particulière... ce livre est un autobiographie mais rien à voir ici avec le travail d'un Sartre ou d'un Rousseau, qui met en perspective toute une vie. C'est somme toute logique puisque Leiris a 34 ans lorsqu'il écrit cet essai sur sa vie.

L'exercice se veut avant tout d'introspection et d'analyse et en cela, je le trouve plutôt réussi : l'écriture est agréable, clairement lettrée et l'auteur atteint -d'après moi- son objectif d'authenticité en livrant ses états d'âmes, ses hontes et ses faiblesses au lecteur. C'est d'ailleurs le parti pris du texte, qui n'a de valeur que dans la mesure où, comme le torero, il y a une mise en danger vital.

Point de nombrilisme gratuit ici à mon goût car les réflexions et les vécus relatés touchent à l'universel et font écho à ces expériences qui forment nos vies. En ce sens, cet essai constitue un élément de compréhension de la manière dont une vie, une personnalité, une conscience se construisent. Ainsi que nos limites... et de conclure que "même à travers les manifestations à première vue les plus hétéroclites, l'on se retrouve toujours identique à soi-même, [...] il y a toujours une unité dans une vie et [ ...] tout se ramène, quoiqu'on fasse, à une petite constellation de choses qu'on tend à reproduire, sous des formes diverses, un nombre illimité de fois."

Bon après, on sait depuis Raymond Queneau que les exercices de style ne sont pas toujours ce qu'il y a de plus passionnant à lire ;)

[Ulysse · Rating 3 out of 5]

Portrait sans complaisance (une fois écarté le plaisir de l'exhibitionnisme) d'un homme victime de ses petites névroses mythologiques.

Un éloge :

Le courage de montrer sa bassesse sans mensonges, ou du moins le plus honnêtement possible, dans un style froid de table d'opération. Chose d'autant plus remarquable que Leiris est porté, de son propre aveu, à la sublimation et au tragique

Une critique :

Peut-être pouvait-il y avoir encore quelque chose de décisif dans la mise en récit de sa vie sexuelle au début du XXe siècle. Aujourd'hui rien de moins surprenant, de moins risqué que de cette "prise de risque" là. A cet égard ce livre a mal vieilli.

[Bruno Guerreiro]

A pleasant read. Self-exposure, emotional analysis, memoirs and introspection about sexuality come together in a flowing and frankly charming way. Back when I had only read a few dozen pages I was feeling already quite taken by his writing. A small manifesto of the "own" and it just got better and better and better.

[Oier Quincoces · Rating 3 out of 5]

3,5. Puedo entender por qué es posible que este libro genere rechazo y siento que va decayendo, pero el planteamiento inicial me ha parecido muy interesante. Puede resultar repetitivo y sus acercamientos al psicoanálisis y a ciertos arquetipos de lo femenino no me han entusiasmado, pero está claro que no es un libro (auto)complaciente.

[Madame Miou-Miou · Rating 1 out of 5]

Nul. Un littérateur qui se regarde le nombril. Prétentieux et sans intérêt .

[Marine · Rating 3 out of 5]

Un drama boy qui s'écoute trop penser

[Gabriella Gallagher · Rating 2 out of 5]

Didn't get it. Very egotistic.

[marianne · Rating 1 out of 5]

leiris va te faire foutre !!!! pire livre que j'ai du étudier pour les cours (avec bel ami)

[Sarah ✨ · Rating 4 out of 5]

les problèmes de bite being like:

[Ingrid Backman · Rating 3 out of 5]

Manhood is one of those strange novels that, presumably at one point, were culturally significant and emotionally resonant, but are just too contemporary to survive the passage of time and the changing of culture. When I read Susan Sontag's review of the novel, I had the impression of reading something 'shocking,' something that would amaze me by its rawness and honesty and whatever else. This was not the case.

Manhood is the ramblings of a certain Frenchman, Michel Leiris, born rather privileged in the early 20th century, who seemed to float around aimlessly until eventually settling in the new occupation of anthropologist. Much of the ramblings center around him making narrative of his fixations, sexual or otherwise (but mostly sexual), and tying them all with ribbons into one cohesive, rather convenient whole. Added on top of all that is some self-flagellation of the 'shocking' kind, where Leiris mocks himself without really outright defending himself.

As far as I understood, what is intended to be shocking is the self-flagellation without defense and the frank, somewhat degenerate presentation of his sexual obsessions, as well as his failures with women and the impotence he struggles from.

Problem is, the degeneracy he displays is simply not shocking enough for me to really care; thanks to the internet, I've long since accepted that sexual degeneracy and failure exists in the world, and his kind is uninteresting to me. His obsession with making narrative, tying every single aspect of him into neat little boxes, is also unappealing and unrelatable to me, and that is what he mostly engages with when it comes to his sexuality, bringing everything back to his beloved Lucrece and Judith. That said, someone finding their sexual 'awakening' and fixations in stories of antiquity is kind of interesting; it's certainly one of those things that wouldn't happen much nowadays.

As for the self-flagellation, I could not take it seriously. With how self-obsessed and unaware he seemed, it never came across as 'genuine': it always seemed like he was simply playing up a trope he felt appropriate for the moment and himself; it seemed vain and uninteresting, just like the rest of him.

What really stuck out to me most was his view on women, the core of which he never challenged despite spending much of the novel harping on the women in his life. While not specifically uncommon for his time—or even that shocking—it really did strike me just how much he glorified women without ever being able to reconcile with the fact that, just like him, they were human beings.

Still, it was pretty well written, and some of the lines got a laugh out of me with just how blunt and absurd they were.