Selbstporträt

by Édouard Levé

In this brilliant and sobering self-portrait, Edouard Levé hides nothing from his readers, setting out his entire life, more or less at random, in a string of declarative sentences. Autoportrait is a physical, psychological, sexual, political, and philosophical triumph. Beyond "sincerity," Levé works toward an objectivity so radical it could pass for crudeness, triviality, even banality: the author has stripped himself bare. With the force of a set of maxims or morals, Levé's prose seems at first to be an autobiography without sentiment, as though written by a machine—until, through the accumulation of detail, and the author's dry, quizzical tone, we find ourselves disarmed, enthralled, and enraptured by nothing less than the perfect fiction . . . made entirely of facts.

Genres: France, Fiction, French Literature, Literature, Novels, Poetry, Art

111 pages, Paperback

First published March 10, 2005

About the author

Levé was self-taught as an artist and studied business at the elite École supérieure des sciences économiques et commerciales. He began painting in 1991. Levé made abstract paintings but abandoned the field (claiming to have burned most of his paintings) and took up color photography upon his return from an influential two-month trip to India in 1995.

Levé's first book, Oeuvres (2002), is an imaginary list of more than 500 books by the author, not actually written, although some of the items were taken up as the premisses of later books actually written and published by Levé (for example the photography books Amérique and Pornographie).

Levé traveled in the United States in 2002, writing Autoportrait and taking the photographs for the series Amérique, which pictures small American towns named after cities in other countries. Autoportrait consists entirely of disconnected, unparagraphed sentences of the authorial speaker's assertions and self-description, a "collection of fragments" by a "literary cubist." Zadie Smith has admired the "adolescent aesthetic" of this work, its "mixture of thoughtfulness and self-regard, honest interrogation and mere posing."

His final book, Suicide, although fictional, evokes the suicide of his childhood friend 20 years earlier, which he had also mentioned in "a shocking little addendum, tucked nonchalantly...into Autoportrait." He delivered the manuscript to his editor ten days before he took his own life at 42 years old.

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Some lives are sad… And some lives are yet sadder…

To describe my life precisely would take longer than to live it.

Autoportrait is a book of only one paragraph.

I take no pleasure in others’ misfortunes. I do not bow down before a metal idol. I am not horrified by my heritage. I do not till the earth. I do not expect to discover new marvels in classical music, but I’m sure of taking pleasure until I die in the ones I already know.

The book is a lengthy list of what the author likes and dislikes; what he does and doesn’t; what did and didn’t happened to him; what he is and isn’t…

I have deeper to dig in myself. I see art where others see things. Between the solitude of the womb and the solitude of the tomb I will have hung out with lots of people.

Some things make Édouard Levé resemble the others and some things make him unique.
And so it is with everyone of us: some of our features make us similar to the others and some of our features make us unique.

[Matthieu · Rating 5 out of 5]

When I was three, I cut my toe very badly with a garden spade; I entered a perfectly white space, and felt no pain. I used to purchase sports equipment from a man who was later convicted of molesting several boys. I have slept with exactly four people. I take inventory of my possessions twice a year. I am very neat (obsessively so). The smell of wet earth soothes me. I remember everything, though I've learned to forget things as well. I once fell asleep on a bus (ten minutes away from my house), and wound up back at the station (an hour and a half away from my house). I have not had phone sex. I would not like to see my parents naked. My right leg is half a centimeter longer than my left leg. The fingers on my left hand are slightly longer than the fingers on my right. I am afraid of fungal growths. As a result of injuries sustained in a car accident, I am two inches shorter than I was at eighteen. I do not love chocolate. I have never jumped from an airplane. I have never masturbated in public. The texture of sawdust delights me. I have lived in Switzerland (for three months), and in Poland (for two months). From 12 to 13, I fell asleep to Bill Evans' Alone every night. My face and body have changed so much over the past seven years, that I am now unrecognizable to most of my childhood acquaintances. The winter of 2011 was the happiest time of my life. I have never cheated on a woman. The music of Wagner and Strauss leaves me cold, but I do not dislike them. From 12 to 14, I played the piano for eight hours every day. My hands, from the base of my palm to the tip of my middle finger, measure 8.26 inches. Excluding my family, I have told five women that I loved them; I believe I was often insincere. A friend and I once dressed up like sailors in third grade, and then again in sixth grade. I grew three inches between 15 and 16, and another three between 17 and 18. I have never smoked a cigarette. I don't think that I could live underground. I have smoked marijuana three or four times. I do not like to drink very much. I am not afraid to die. I once ran away from school in seventh grade, and rode a series of trains as far as Somerset (NJ). If I had to pick a number, I would say that I've had sex 104 times. I do not consider myself mature. I had a brother who died in the womb. When I was 17, I read Maldoror; I would often read parts of it aloud to a conservative Christian girl in the library because her reactions amused me. My memory is my most important faculty. Twice I have downed a bottle of cough syrup to get high. I have never attended a Sweet Sixteen or a homecoming dance. I made out with someone in the high school drawing room. I like the taste of envelope adhesive. I used to carve wooden birds and kitchen spoons. I am not afraid of heights. I have never eaten veal. I do not like it when strangers touch me. I have never been cited or arrested. I lie by omission (I will deliberately leave out details if questioned). I enjoy being in small spaces. Fireworks displays excite me. I own a cello case, but not a cello. I have owned an ammonite fossil (used as a paperweight) for ten years. I was one of the few who actually enjoyed learning Greek and Latin in middle school. My mother gave me the middle name of Thomas after Dylan Thomas. I prefer even numbers. I was first kissed by a girl named Danielle (who was thirteen) on a dare while we were sitting with a group of people that I actively disliked on a playground (I was fourteen). I think that I am often indecisive. The twenty-third of December (2010) changed everything. My father and I share a very similar taste in books, whereas my mother and I share a very similar taste in art and music. When I was 10-years-old, I obsessively washed my hands until they bled; I was afraid of everything. I find the word cellar to be the most beautiful. I have dated three people. I do not believe that there is a single direction of time (David Lewis). For a time, I cared very much about the Putnam competition. I have been mistaken for a woman several times. The idea of walking with my eyes closed excites me. I wear size 12 shoes, sometimes 13. I have never tried LSD. Elise is the middle name of the first two girls that I dated. I have never tried ecstasy. I consider myself to be rather handsome. I have a particular disdain for habitual marijuana users. I am on the downslide. I have trouble sleeping. I am quite fond of strawberry milkshakes. When I die, I wonder how many people will attend my funeral. I have translated three erotic novels. I do not like people who go to tanning salons. I have seen Mouchette twenty times. I once ran shoeless through the Princeton Art Museum when I was fourteen with two siblings who I went to school with, and who meant a lot to me at the time. I have two vials containing the ashes of a childhood friend. Despite the praise heaped on it by friends and family members, I found The Bell Jar to be irritating. André Masson terrifies me, but is still one of my favourite artists. Louis Aragon and Paul Celan take me out of this world. I used to be able to read a novel a day. My father has read Ulysses over forty times. I have never deliberately burned myself. I am often guilty of self-sabotage. I once tried to break up with a girl over gchat, and earlier, over the phone. I look a lot like my father, but more like my mother. I own twenty-six sweaters. I catalogued all 1,248 books in my bedroom (at home) by the Dewey Decimal System. I almost went to school to study architecture. I like the way that certain books smell. I have never smoked opium, nor have I tried cocaine. I think that I would like heroin too much. I once saw an obese couple greedily kissing each other against a white Chevy Blazer in the parking lot of a family restaurant in Easton, PA. I would not like to stumble upon a corpse. I would not like to be an accountant. I am uneasy in rooms with windows that are either too small or too large. I like to sit with my back against a wall so that I know that nothing can sneak up on me. Cannibalism fascinates me, but I don't think that I'd want to eat another person. I have never gotten a woman pregnant. I am looking for the lost domain. Once, during the summer that I lived in New York, I met a woman from New Zealand (in the early afternoon), and we spoke until dusk about art and France and Walter Benjamin. I have never fainted. I kick open doors so that I won't have to touch them. I have purchased codeine tablets from law students. I have been told that I am emotionally distant. I have a few grey hairs, but most probably wouldn't be able to see them. I once had a dream that there was a lemon tree growing in my left lung. I do not often read or think about Plato; there was a time when I did, though. I would say that Good & Plenty is my favourite candy. I would not like to live in a desert. I neither like or dislike Jane Austen. I have never had a cavity. I would like to walk on the moon. I do not like to lie down after drinking a glass of water. Pills often scrape my throat. I'm not sure I can be psychoanalyzed. I enjoy brutalist architecture, but not always. I whistle when I'm anxious. The one and only time I visited Anaheim was with my mother on the first of July in 1993. I do not read many biographies. Ever since I turned eighteen, my intelligence has been uneven. I have never been on a yacht. I may be an asexual. I do not like the summer. Removing a splinter gives me chills. I chew ice. Robbe-Grillet is a brilliant theorist, but a drag to read. I once stole a book from Firestone Library, but never from Widener. I have never smoked a cigar, but I've purchased one. I have never had a gun pointed at me. When I was five, I almost drowned in Bolinas Bay. I dream of a perfectly objective prose, but I know that it's an impossibility, just as a perfectly symbolic (universal) language is an impossibility. I do not believe that there is a Promised Land. I am the least successful member of my family. I have never been institutionalized. Freshly mown grass reminds me of gentle childhood days. I regret many things. I have eaten duck just once. I like to flip coffee creamers. I do not believe in God. When I was a child, I used to watch the windshield wipers with a sense of terror and astonishment: I saw a black rat spitting at the blades, causing them to fall. I tend to italicize dialogue. I think of sex when I hear the word cathedral. I was once the third ranked sprinter in the 100-meter dash (in the state). I would like to be an Actionist. I do not like the south, just as I do not like most people from the south. I have a friend from Bordeaux. My life (and death) will change nothing. My house was built in 1842. I bite my nails. The word fecund makes me think of early August. I have never punched anyone. When I was thirteen, I went for a run on a 104 degree day, and got heatstroke; I threw up on the kitchen floor. I have read two Stendhal novels. I've had a good life, but I am unable to see or feel that; I only notice things that I've lost or missed out on. I am almost always disappointed. I look at topographical maps for pleasure. I sometimes don't respond when I'm spoken to; I am lost in my thoughts. I drink cold milk with cinnamon on top. I have slept in several NYC alleys, but have slept in the subway only once. The crust on snow is delightful, especially when it carries you for more than three steps. I think my mother's handwriting is beautiful; it's small and neat like mine. I collect bits of coloured ocean glass. The best day of my life is probably already behind me.

[Ken]

I like to read. I read literary fiction, poetry, essays, history, philosophy, spiritual books, translations. I might have read autofiction without realizing. I enjoy sentences. I am tolerant of books that break accepted rules like organizing writing with paragraphs. I just read Autoportrait, a 117-page paragraph of autofiction (I auto-guess) that simply strings together declarative sentences. The author, Edouard Levé, writes sentences that often appear to be random non sequiturs, but what is life if not random non sequiturs? I thought the book, in its way, the height of vanity. I thought of counting the number of sentences that started with "I" but am weak at math so could never keep track. I chuckled at some of Levé's frank admissions, as if nothing were sacred, right down to the parts of his body he likes and the parts of his body he dislikes. Safe to say, I will never emulate Levé on this count. At times Levé's Autoportrait is sad, too. On the one hand, he describes himself as a terrific hypochondriac. On the other, he admits to attempting suicide many times (and succeeded in 2007 at the age of 42). I find it ironic that a man who fretted about his health wanted to kill himself and ultimately did so. Ironic and very sad. I feet bad for him because I came to identify with him the more he wrote "I.., I..., I..." (in the plaintive tone of "Aye...aye...aye!"). At least I have gained from his example. I now know I can string sentences, too, and while some might tag them #whocares!, others might follow along and nod sympathetically. I like kombucha and once tried to make my own but the mother in the bottle looked like a jar from a mad scientist's lab. I prefer ginger kombucha. I like many sour tastes, including buttermilk straight up and certain crabapples that make your eyes squint. I do not like liver and onions or lobster or black licorice. I do not drink alcoholic beverages but have no problem with those who do. I'm not very good at swearing in general and have never sworn in front of my parents. I go to bed at 9 o'clock. My kids call it "Dad O'Clock." I wake up at "bird o'clock," which is to say when the first birds sing, typically between 4 and 4:30 in the morning. I much prefer the countryside to cities, but enjoyed Levé's descriptions of his travels and the cities he has visited. He was better traveled than I am, despite being much younger. Perhaps he had more time because he did not marry, though he gave the number of women he slept with, which I forget, but think to be somewhere in the 40s. He wondered if that was a lot of women or not so many women. Given the chance, I would have been frank and said, "That's a lot of women," but then again, he was French and in no way infected with the Puritanism I grew up around in New England. In any event, you might try this book so you can say, "I read outside of the box" as if we live in a box. Is a house a box? Certainly a coffin is, but we won't get much reading done once we're not thinking inside that box. I don't like to think about death. I know it's easy for humans to do, though. Dying may be hard, but being dead has proven a cinch for everyone, by my estimation. OK, I don't have 117 more pages for my autopilot pen to continue, so I'll stop here. This, then, ends my Autoreview.

[Rana Heshmati · Rating 4 out of 5]

یک اتوپرتره واقعی!
کتاب تک جمله‌هاییه که ادوارد لووه درمورد خودش نوشته. از عادت‌های مختلفش، احساساتش… نمی‌دونم چطوری بگم که چطوریه :)) کتاب عجیب غریبیه و مناسب کسایی که می‌خوان یه چیز متفاوت بخونن. و بعیده «ارزش ادبی» خاصی داشته باشه، اما خب موجود جالبیه این کتاب… با یه حالت بی‌احساس درمورد خودش هی حرف می‌زنه و شما رو به فکر وامی‌داره که به خودتون فکر کنید. ببینید می‌تونید اینقدر دقیق خودتون رو توصیف کنید؟ اصلا خودتون رو می‌شناسید؟
+ کتاب تقریبا هیچ آغاز و میانه و پایانی نداره. می‌تونی از وسط هر صفحه‌ای شروع به خوندن کنید. که یه جورایی دقیقا شبیه آشنا شدن با یه آدمه. از وسط زندگیش :)

اما ضربهٔ اصلی کتاب برای من یکی از جمله‌های پایانیش بود. خیلی برام عجیب بود که یک نفر اینقدر دقیق همون احساسی رو داشته باشه که من داشتم.
«هر قدر عمر کنم پانزده سالگی وسط زندگی من است.»
یادمه تولد پونزده سالگیم احساس کردم زندگیم نصف شد. برام معنای از نیمه عبور کردن بود ۱۵. اینکه چطور همچین احساسی داشتم رو نمی‌دونم. اما اون موقع فکر می‌کردم شاید سی سال عمر خواهم کرد. و برای همین این احساس رو دارم. هنوز سه چهار سالی مونده که به سی برسم، در نتیجه نمی‌دونم که واقعا بعدشم زنده خواهم بود یا نه، ولی وقتی این جمله رو خوندم، چندین دقیقه مکث کردم، بهش خیره شدم و با خودم گفتم: هرقدر عمر کنم، پانزده سالگی وسط زندگی من است.

[Alan · Rating 5 out of 5]

When I read books that I resonate with so much, there is a hesitation to dive in and begin marking the sentences and passages that mean a lot to me. I see the first read as a religious, phenomenological festivity. That and the fact that I couldn’t really mark this one, seeing as it doesn’t belong to me - I’m not sure the library would be thrilled to see every other sentence underlined (and I’m not a psychopath). A more than enjoyable ride - a meditation on a life, and a meditation on life. A paragraph in 117 pages, one that has sentence upon sentence that carves at the joint of the self. Édouard Levé gets a lot of mileage out of his personality and his memories, more than I thought possible. It’s always fascinating to sit down and read someone’s “autoportrait”, but it’s often a narrative that is linear, focusing on 5-10 memorable hamlets in thought, connected by things they did right and the wrong things they avoided (yeah yeah, it was all under control). Autoportrait is not like that. Rarely ordered, all intimate, single snapshots.

I was and was not surprised at how many things I shared with Levé. The things he discusses about family, friends, love, romance, work, education, reading - lots of them can be said to be general, fitting a certain cohort. But at the same time, there are idiosyncrasies that fit too. Eerie at times, seeing as he eventually ended his life. There were moments where I was being taken for a ride, chuckling at his observations about himself, keeping it surface level and enjoying the series of ideas put together, when WHOAH. There it is. That sentence… that came from the bottom of his soul. The very depths of it. That’s telling. That’s not something you just utter out loud, or even commit to print. Alrighty then.

Now to find a copy of this for a reasonable price. I may have to splurge on a new copy though.

[MJ Nicholls · Rating 4 out of 5]

A charming and revealing series of sentences on selfhood. The sort of thing that if not performed by a respected artist and photographer might seem banal and inconsequential and unpublishable. But these unvarnished burps of candour are more illuminating than the self-inflating piffle found in most autobifographies, so kudos to the enigmatic Levé for another listicle of pleasure, the world of French letters is sadder without him around.

[Solange te parle · Rating 5 out of 5]

J'avais très envie de ce livre après avoir lu "Suicide". La quatrième de couverture a décuplé cette envie. J'ai dû attendre le moment opportun avant de me jeter dedans parce que je savais que le plaisir serait bref. Je ne suis pas déçue, je suis sous le choc. Au premier abord, ce livre est un peu une version littéraire des "50 facts about me" que l'on trouve sur YouTube. En beaucoup plus radical. La phrase d'Édouard Levé est impeccable. Le principe de rupture force l'émotion et le respect. Humour... désespoir. J'aurais pu en lire 500 pages comme ça.

[Jeff Jackson · Rating 4 out of 5]

Drawing direct inspiration from Joe Brainard's I REMEMBER, a cousin to David Markson's author tetralogy, a personalized variant on the world historical sentence-long riffs in Patrik Ourednik's EUROPEANA. Edouard Leve's AUTOPORTRAIT is an unconnected series of single sentences about his life. Preferences, memories, allergies, turn-offs, proclivities, escapades, travels, loves, sexual positions, musical favorites, observations. Wisely, the book's title was not translated as "Self Portrait" - the automatic quality of the construction, of the mind remembering, is key here. The first pages of these fragments will probably strike most readers as narcissistic to the max, but the deeper you read the more you realize Leve is simply using himself as material, that the larger point isn't how these particular observations are attached to him but how they could be attached to anyone, a sort of simultaneous knitting and unraveling of identity, an invitation to imagine your own Autoportrait. Deeply compelling and compulsive reading.

[Katia N · Rating 4 out of 5]

“I do not write memoirs. I do not write novels. I do not write short stories. I do not write plays. I do not write poems. I do not write mysteries. I do not write science fiction. I write fragments. I do not tell stories from things I’ve read or movies I’ve seen, I describe impressions, I make judgments.”

[Magdalen · Rating 5 out of 5]

τόσο ιδιαίτερο και διαφορετικό απ' όσα βιβλία έχω διαβάσει. Αδιαμφισβήτητα ξεχωριστό χωρίς κεφάλαια, παραγράφους, πυκνογραμμένο και παρ' όλα αυτά δεν κουράζει καθόλου. Ανάλαφρο ύφος και γραφή, όμως, μεταδίδει έντονα συναισθήματα.

Είναι κυριολεκτικά μια αυτοπροσωπογραφία όπου μερικές φορές έβρισκα τον εαυτό μου να ταυτίζεται.
Πραγματικά υπέροχο.

ΥΓ: ΘΕΛΩ ΤΟ SUICIDE ΧΘΕΣ και δεν το βρίσκω πουθενά :(

[Laurent De Maertelaer · Rating 4 out of 5]

Hypnotiserende, postmoderne mantra waarin Levé een niets verhullend, paragraafloos portret van zichzelf ophangt door op een koele, afstandelijke manier zijn voorkeuren, trekjes, gewoontes, manieën en obsessies in los van elkaar staande, korte zinnen te scanderen. Doordringend proza dat meteen aan je vel kleeft en naar de keel grijpt, de bezwerende cadans blijft nog uren na een leessessie in je hoofd naklinken. Beklemmend, dus traag en fragmentarisch te lezen.

In 2016 de Franse tekst gelezen, in 2024 de uitstekende vertaling van Katrien Vandenberghe gelezen. Blijft meer dan overeind in het Nederlands.

[Proustitute (on hiatus) · Rating 5 out of 5]

Levé has a unique way of inviting his readers into his melancholy; reading this, I was reminded of Suicide and what I can only term—and this is a project on which I'm currently working as well—Levé's performance of melancholy. While many people feel that depression, melancholy, and despair are highly individualized emotional states that the majority do not speak about, Levé channels some of the confessional school in his work (both photographic and literary) but suggests that he needs an interlocutor in order to fully feel his way through the anguish.

Which is not to say that Autoportrait is a depressing read; like Suicide, it is full of a macabre humor and a very dry wit. I think it was wise on the part of Lorin Stein to render the title in the original French rather than as "self-portrait": the quick, declarative sentences here are almost machine-like in their monotony at first. It is almost as if Levé is confessing mechanically and automatically rather than organically, but as the confessions continue we see some repetitions (we even see a few places where Levé contradicts himself while still insisting on speaking only the truth) and we acclimate ourselves to Levé's confession.

We get to know him inside and out through this short 120-page book, in fragments and at random. One comes away from Autoportrait feeling as though one has learned all there is to know about this man's life, his thoughts, his views on art and his work, his obsessive meanderings about his body, his childhood memories, his sex live, his hatred for the color green in interior design, and a host of other desires, worries, joys, and regrets that make Levé who he is. It also makes one wonder, as a reader, what this strange yet intimate relationship is between Levé and his reader, what is this insistent need for company in the midst of chaos.

[Wim Oosterlinck]

Dit boekje ligt al enkele maanden naar mij te lonken. Nu heb ik het eindelijk gekocht (in boekhandel De Drvkkerij in Middelburg) en meteen gelezen. Zelfportret van Édouard Levé is vreemd. En vreemd is interessant, toch? In het boek beschrijft de ik-figuur (de schrijver) zichzelf, in een eindeloze reeks korte zinnen. Er is geen verhaal, geen lijn, enkel een opsomming van feiten en gedachten over zichzelf, meer dan 100 bladzijden lang:

“Ik zeg niet ‘bolide’ maar ‘auto’. Ik hoef een liefdesrelatie niet per se door derden te laten erkennen. Ik maak me geen voorstelling van mijn huwelijk. Ik verkies honden boven katten. Ik heb geen huispersoneel. Ik noem niets ‘zalig’. Ik vind onverwacht bezoek niet fijn. ’s Ochtends doe ik zestig push-ups en honderd beenkicks. Ik eet het vruchtvlees van druiven, spuug sommige pitten uit. Het dons op een perzikschil ritselt tegen mijn tanden. Ik tel niet hoeveel kersen ik eet. Feest kan een beproeving zijn. Het woord ‘machinatie’ activeert mijn paranoia. Ik voel geen haat.” (p. 102)

Soms gaat hij enkele zinnen door op een onderwerp, meestal springt hij van het één op het ander. Het gaat over zijn lichaam, over hotels, het verleden, tv, seks, over een ontmoeting met een SS’er, over zijn gewoonten, wat hij denkt, wat hij leest, motoren, fotografie. En over een vrouw die zwanger van hem was; ze beslisten om een abortus te laten doen.

Édouard Levé is duidelijk een unieke stem, die alles wat moet aan zijn laars lapte en volstrekt zijn eigen zin deed, ook in de literatuur. Maar als je een verhaal wil lezen, kies dan liefst een ander boek.

Édouard Levé stierf in 2007. Tien dagen nadat hij het manuscript van zijn laatste boek Zelfmoord aan zijn uitgever had gegeven, pleegde hij zelfmoord. Hij was 42 jaar.

[Uroš Đurković · Rating 5 out of 5]

Levea sam spomenuo pišući o istoimenoj knjizi Džesija Bola, koja svoj nastanak doslovce duguje ovom delu. Bol je bio fasciniran Leveovim naizgled nasumičnim nizom rečenica koje, u protivrečnosti, direktnosti i duhovitoj ogoljenosti ispituju domete samoosvedočenja, ali više od toga su, zapravo, jedan unikatni književni performans. Tako je ova cela knjiga jedan ogroman pasus, autofikcionalni tok svesti, koji je u ovom svom neobičnom vidu snažniji i istinitiji od tomova memoarske proze. Ima nečeg sasvim rasterećujućeg i otrežnjujućeg u onome što Leve radi, ali i suštinske, radikalne slobode, koja je danas sasvim retka, kao što je redak i rizik, ne eksperiment radi eksperimenta, već svest da su veliki književni pomaci često uporedivi sa kockanjem, samo ako pođete od toga da mo��ete izgubiti sve, možete sve i dobiti. Leveov „Autoportretˮ knjiga je koja šarmira i šamara, koja golica, pršti, vrpolji se, u kojoj rečenice pulsiraju i gde je najsnažnije ono što je doslovno, jasno, neudobno jasno i nedvosmisleno. Ona umara, uznemiruje i umiruje, kao razodevajuća i nesentimentalna akumulacija, kao gnezdo misli u roju. Leveova metafizika je zaobilazna, politika je vijugava, a poetika inokosna – trasiram sebe, sebe u pokretu, sebe u telu, u mašini sećanja, u nagomilanim detaljima, netrivijalnim trivijalnostima. Ovo je suštinski realizam, bez trikova podražavanja, program blizak automatskom pisanju koje to nikad, zapravo, nije. Ako bismo se igrali grafičkim oblikovanjem teksta, ovo bi mogla da bude i knjiga zapisa, ali bez ovakve slivenosti, efekat bi bio drukčiji. Leve mora da bude gust ili preplavljenost, odnosno, hipnotišuća groznica preplavljenosti nestaje. Natali Kentan, spomenuta u knjizi, ima drukčiji dah, a njeni zapisi su upravo u prazninama podsticajni, u pauzama i otrežnjujućim osmesima svakodnevne percepcije. Ipak, kao i kod Kentan, mnoge Leveove rečenice deluju kao tautologije ili dragulji efemernog, ali sa njima se uvek diše, sad i ovde, u njihovom neudobnom, a tako divnom, potrebnom i duboko ljudskom rusvaju. Leve ništa ne propagira, Leve jeste. A kako jeste? Pa, kroz tekst, koji ne upućuje ni na šta drugo, do sebe, do svoje jeke. A ko čuje tu jeku, ko je telesno oseti, može, kao i Džesi Bol, da uradi svoj popis, svoj otisak. Što je očiglednije, sopstvo je enigmatičnije i nema u tome tajne, tajna je za one koji prodaju maglu, a Leveova dovitljivost inspiriše na stvaranje, na dopisivanje.

[Hilda hasani · Rating 4 out of 5]

با خواندن خلاصۀ کتاب متوجه شدم که با اتوبیوگرافی ای معمولی مواجه نیستم. با شروع کتاب متوجه شدم شروعی در کار نیست و همچنین فصل بندی ای با خواندن یک صفحه به این نتیجه رسیدم که احتمالا پایان و روال خطی ای هم در کار نیست. بی تعارف شوکه شدم! تصور اینکه 100 صفحه بخواهی با جمله هایی کوتاه و پراکنده و بدون ربط به هم سعی در شناختن نویسنده کنی آزارم داد. اما هر چه بیشتر پیش رفتم خودم را فارق از قالب مرسوم بیوگرافی دیدم. انگار خود ادوارد لو هم همین قصد را داشته است. اینکه منِ خواننده خصوصیات و عادات و بعضا خاطراتش را بخوانم، جاهایی با خودم بگویم چقدر شبیه من یا جاهایی لبخندی بزنم که عجب همۀ ما همین شکلی هستیم و تا الان دقت نکرده ایم. گویی ادوارد لو سرگذشتش را در قالب اجرا (پرفورمنسی) به ما نشان می دهد. مجموع این سطور بیشتر شبیه اثری هنری هستند تا کتاب :)

[Elina · Rating 5 out of 5]

Χειμαρρώδες, προσωπικό, πρόστυχο, αληθινό, ανθρώπινο, ουσιαστικό, ζωντανό, σκοτεινό, φωτεινό....μοναδικό! Διαβάστε το.

[trestitia ⵊⵊⵊ deamorski · Rating 5 out of 5]

başlamadan önce bir şey diyeceğim, EN BOKTAN YAYINEVLERİNDEN BİRİSİN SEVGİLİ SEL*. iyi kitapları basıyor olman seni iyi yapmaz.
- bok gibi sayfa düzenin var.
- orjinalinde dipnot yoksa bile kahrolası fransızcaları, film, kitap isimlerini aşağıda dipnotla belirtmelisin ama yapmıyorsun.
- nedenini anlatsan bile anlayamayacağımı bildiğim şu huyun: cümlenin son kelimesinin son hecesini inatla çizgi çekip aşağı vermen, ya da bi sonraki sayfada başlatmak varken cümlenin ilk kelimesini ve hatta hecesini sayfa sonunda bırakman. nasıl sayfa editörleriniz var aq sizin? ÇEVİRİYİ COPY PASTE EDİP OTOMATİK HECELEME DEYİP MATBAAYA MI YOLLUYORSUNUZ?
- kitaplarınız genel boyuttan küçük, bunun üstüne kenar boşluklarınız daha da büyük, eşşoğlueşek kadar! sayfa değil çerçeve...

bence twitterda duyar ve siyaset kasmaktansa biraz bunlara dikkat edin, ki onu da beceremiyorsunuz, yanlı ve subjektifciler sizi.

sinirlendim bak. nys.

dönüp denilebilir ki, bir ve buçuk ay neden süründü bu kitap?
bi kere bu aralar edebi kitap okuyamam her ne türde veya hafiflikte olursa olsun, sınırdayım. (düşünmeye sevk etmemesi lazım)
ama asıl, kitap şey gibi, yüz yüze yeni tanıştığınız internet kankinizle kurtubaya falan gitmişsiniz (kitap-kafe), oturup muhabbet ediyorsunuz. muhabbetiniz, hem zaten birbiriniz hakkında bildiğiniz şeylerden oluşuyor hem geçmişinizden hem de bilinmeyen sırlardan ve hatta en gereksiz bilgilerden havadan, sudan, gündemden... aynen böyle bir his veriyor size. o yüzden mümkün olduğunca uzattım sayın leve ile olan muhabbetimi.

cümle yapısı basit, kurallı ve bitişi hep 'yaptım, yapardım, yaparım, yapmam, yapıyordum'larla oluşan cümleler (yap fiili örnek)

yalnız şunu belirteyim sohbet kitabı değil bu. içinde bir gram siz yoksunuz. ama hissiyatı kesinlikle veriyor, siz susmuş onu dinliyorsunuz yani, ve adam karşınızda çırılçıplak, utanmıyor ve tamamen yalın samimiyet.

aşağıda yazacaklarımı kasti mi yaptı bi fikrim yok. çünkü zaten manyak herifin teki leve ve ben bayılıyorum. neyse.

1. en dikkat çekici şeyi, konudan konuya atlaması, bir düzen veya sıra kaygısı gütmemesi (kronolojik, konu, kavram vesaire) bu şuna yol açıyor (yaptığı oluyor tabi), aklınızda daha çok kalıyor. mesela siyasi şeylerden bahsederken pat diye 'muz sevmem' diyor, sonra da yeniden siyasi şeylere devam ediyor (ya da yine değişiyor) işte dolayısıyla benim aklımda muzu sevmediği kaldı.

2. öyle bir anlatıyor ki bazı şeyleri siz çıkarıyorsunuz, bu tıpkı karşınızdaki insan hakkında tahminlerde bulunmak ve onu tanımaya çalışmakla aynı. mesela, hazcı bir insan olduğunu size, sizin fark etmenizden sayfalar sonra söylüyor ama söylemeseydi de biliyor olurdunuz leve'nün hazcı olduğunu emin bir şekilde.

AYRICA;

1. bir konuyu, olguyu anlatırken asla 2 cümlede anlatmıyor. zaten cümleleri genelde kısa ama gerekirse bağlaç ve iki noktayı tercih ediyor. yani her "şey" kendi başına, başlı başına bir cümle. kesip çıkartmalık.

2. size bildiğiniz şeyleri söylüyor, mesela çok suda durunca buruşan parmaklar. "parmaklarım suda çok durursa buruşur." size güzel bir hatırlatma değil mi?

3. bir de hani biri diyene kadar fark etmediğimiz ama bildiğimiz şeyler vardır. mesela makine sesi. "bir makineden rahatsız olduğumu, ancak uğultusu kesilince anlarım." bunu biliyorsunuz. bunu en azından bir kere de olsa 'ayy nasıl da gürültülüymüş' olarak dile getirmişsinizdir, mesela difriz için.

4. ben zaten sürekli altını çizerek, notlar alarak okuyan biriyim. size kitabın muhabbet gibi olduğunu söylemiştim, sizin susup karşınızdakini dinlediğiniz tarzda. en başından ben, benimle birebir uyanların altını çizmeye başladım zaten. bi' süre sonra benle benzer olan cümlenin altını çizip ok çıkararak benden farklı olanını belirttim. yani sizi, kendiniz hakkında düşünmeye, siz olmasınız n'apardınız, sen ne düşünüyorsun, sen ne yapmıştın, sen nesin şu şu konuda diye sorgulamaya itiyor, ALIN SİZE KİŞİSEL GELİŞİM.

sel*, serseri ve gereksiz aykırı varoluşundan dolayı, kitap için intihara giden yol dese de bence bu kitap "nasıl bu hale geldim?" sorusunun cevabı. 'intihar bir hal değil midir?' diye sorabilirsiniz, hayır, Leve için değil, Leve çok daha fazlası. bunu bir Bukowski'nin Ekmek Arası için demiştim, bir de buna diyebilirim. çünkü öyle detay, öyle umulmadık şeyler ki, size kim olduğunuz sorulduğunda söyleceğiniz şeyler değil belki çoğu ama sizi siz yapanlar. bu yüzden adı otoportre.

Bu herifin fotoğraf çalışmalarına, özellikle Pornography(2002)'sine bakın derim. kitapları kadar sinir bozucu. :')

Leve eş değiştirmeye bayılıyor.
xoxo
iko

[Aslı Can]

Benliğimin oranını hesap edemeyeceğim bir kısmı Edouard Leve ile birlikte toprağın altında, solucanları ve böcekleri izliyormuş gibi hissediyorum ve bu his onu tanıdıkça giderek artıyor.

[ipsit · Rating 5 out of 5]

Among the most obnoxious things one person can ask of another is to “tell me something true about yourself.” Such a banal and breezily intrusive request drastically misunderstands the nature of self-disclosure; it calls for a sort of intimacy on demand, a statement of biographical fact that is expected to reveal, by mysterious inference, the truth about a life. It’s also a question that is close to impossible to answer. Reading Autoportrait, I found myself thinking of it as a fiendishly appropriate response to just such a question, as the logical comeuppance of a request for personal truth. The book (one paragraph spanning 112 pages) consists of one declarative sentence after another, each of which reveals some new fact about its author, the late French writer and conceptual photographer Edouard Levé. Here’s a sample, selected more or less at random:


"The higher the floor number, the better I feel. Sometimes I realize that what I’m in the middle of saying is boring, so I just stop talking. I used to think I worked better at night than in daytime until one day I bought black curtains. I use the shell of the first mussel to spoon out the rest. I can do without TV."


The vast majority of these statements do not acknowledge the presence of those on either side of them. You read from left to right, from top to bottom of each page, but Autoportrait doesn’t really reward this approach over any other. One could read it from last page to first and have a similar kind of experience with it. You could even read it from last sentence to first and still come out knowing as much about the author as you would from a conventionally oriented approach (whereas you wouldn’t get quite the same picture of, say, Nabokov or St. Augustine from a backwards reading of Speak, Memory or The Confessions as you would from a forwards one).

In this sense Autoportait is a work of extreme and uncompromising realism; it refuses to grant any credence to what Levé once described in an interview as the “fiction of identity.”It’s a sort of post-humanist version of self-exploration, for this is an obsessive work, a text that seems to present itself as a machine for the generation of truth. One of its more striking aspects, though, is the way in which its apparent designs on the absolute — its gestures toward the idea of saying everything there is to be said with certainty about oneself — underscore its hopeless incompletion.

The more Levé says, the more facts he sets down, the more you realize he hasn’t said. What remains, after 112 pages of statements, is an unnerving bewilderment, a haunting sense of having been spoken to at length by an absence. There are a number of facts revealed, but there is nothing left in the way of truth; which stands alone and unmoving. There is a feeling you still know nothing about the person who has told so many things about himself. As Levé himself puts it in the sole sentence that takes the form of a question, “Everything I write is true, but so what?”

I don’t think this is intended as a rhetorical question, or a slow Gallic shrug. It’s the philosophical core of the project itself, the source of the book’s torrent of assertions, and the question that lingers after that torrent has ceased. If Levé taken at his word (and there’s no reason why one shouldn’t), every sentence in this book is true, but what does all this truth add up to? Like Suicide, Levé's other extraordinary book, completed just days before he took his own life in 2007, Autoportrait is an oblique and stylized attempt to address a void of meaning. It is what a self-portrait looks like when there is nothing like a self there to portray; it’s an autobiography written by the cold, dead hand of the post-Barthesian author. Levé’s obsessively inward gaze finally yields only the haunting outline of his own absence. But he captures that absence, and the gaze itself, with a chilling precision.

[julieta · Rating 3 out of 5]

Tengo sentimientos encontrados con este libro.

Por un lado, me encanta que rompe con todo, entra directo, a enumerar características personales, en frases cortas, y de alguna manera me cae bien que no respete ninguna estructura, y que simplemente haga ese Autorretrato, como una selfie escrita. No tiene adornos de ningun tipo, es casi una lista, me hace pensar en Perec, quizás también porque lo menciona al abrir el libro. Igual y es un juego conceptual, esto de escribir desde una visión que no tiene nada que ver con el lenguaje, con la historia, sino que viene desde el YO. Igual y todo el escribir sea eso, el querer hablar de uno mismo, y listo.

Algunas frases me hicieron sonreír, algunas me gustaron, algunas me dieron como ternura, otras me parecieron deprimentes.

Cosas como: "Como soy gracioso, piensan que soy feliz."
o "Prefiero aburrirme solo a aburrirme de a dos"
"A veces sospecho"

Además como que te inspira a hablar de tí mismo, no se, comparativamente yo que pienso? Yo qué haría? Yo como soy? Por ese lado me gusta, es gracioso, y sin saber absolutamente nada de él ni de su vida, me cayó muy bien.

Ahora, por otro lado, se pasa de listo, deveras. Es una selfie. Una selfie! Es un tipo, hablando de sí mismo en frases cortas. Tiene algo de el exhibicionismo de estas épocas, en donde todo mundo quiere mostrar lo que come, lo que piensa, quiere vivir su intimidad en público, y en donde la intimidad casi está siendo re definida.

Quizás tiene algo de interesante si lo pones así, como algo que representa una época, pero no es ni una novela, ni una autobiografía. Y eso también es bueno, porque romper las estructuras siempre va a ser bueno. Y entonces vuelvo al principio, me quedo con que sí, sí me gustó este libro de Levé, es gracioso,y es extraño, y en estas épocas, que alguien todavía te pueda sorprender y sacar una sonrisa, aunque sea hablando de sí mismo no puede ser una cosa tan mala.

[George K. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ο τίτλος του μικρού αυτού βιβλίου περιγράφει επακριβώς το περιεχόμενό του. Ο Εντουάρ Λεβέ γράφει για τον εαυτό του, για πράγματα που έχει ζήσει και έχει νιώσει, γι'αυτά που του αρέσουν και αυτά που δεν του αρέσουν, όλες τις σημαντικές και τις ασήμαντες λεπτομέρειες που συνέθεσαν τη ζωή του. Όλο το βιβλίο είναι μια μεγάλη παράγραφος με πολλές μικρές και κάποιες μεγάλες προτάσεις, που είναι ατάκτως ερριμμένες, χωρίς κάποια συγκεκριμένη θεματολογική σειρά, στη μια πρόταση μπορεί να αναφέρεται στην έκτρωση που έκανε μια φίλη του και στην αμέσως επόμενη για ένα γεύμα που έφαγε. Μπορεί να πει κανείς ότι είναι κάπως χαοτικός και οπωσδήποτε ιδιόρρυθμος ο τρόπος παράθεσης των πληροφοριών -σαν ο Λεβέ να σπάει και λίγη πλάκα-, όμως αυτή είναι και η γοητεία του κειμένου. Πρόκειται για ένα βιβλίο γεμάτο σκέψεις, συναισθήματα και εικόνες, εξαιρετικά πυκνογραμμένο αλλά ταυτόχρονα ανάλαφρο και ιδιαίτερα ευκολοδιάβαστο. Σε πολλά σημεία ταυτίστηκα, σε άλλα διαφώνησα, πάντως νιώθω ότι γνώρισα έναν άνθρωπο, χωρίς να τον έχω συναντήσει ποτέ. Το μόνο σίγουρο είναι ότι πρόκειται για ένα από τα πιο ιδιαίτερα βιβλία που έχω διαβάσει τα τελευταία χρόνια. Αξίζει την προσοχή σας.

[david · Rating 2 out of 5]

Ah, good old ‘Suicide, ’ your previous novel. How I miss it.

Along comes Autoportrait, just before the skiff lands on the shores of Nod.

All the a priori research has been done before engaging in this new text.

Our only job now is to read it. And it is short.

'Autoportrait' (Self-portrait), is not a story, but an incoherent rambling. Although most would disagree with me, according the literati.

The only pro-Leve argument that could be used here is that he is a literary cubist. A Picasso of the written word.

But this reader is not buying into it.

Edouard, I would like to slap you on your behind, but you are dead. And I may hurt my hand.

If I see you in the afterlife, you stay underneath your cloud and I will remain on mine.

French and English do share one applicable word for this, whatever, and it is 'garbage.'

I wonder if can we die twice?

[Chris Via]

Initially, I suspected I would grow tired of this book's form: each page a wall of simple, declarative sentences wherein the author offers a little anecdote about himself, without any real pattern or structure. But, thankfully, this proved to be quite a treat! The book reads nicely, and I feel confident in Lorin Stein's (editor of The Paris Review) translations from the French. Most striking, though, are the similarities between the author and myself. Never has anther person's life so closely mirrored my own. After about 15 pages, I grabbed a highlighter and restarted the book. There are probably an average of 3-4 highlighted sentences per page. Were I to extract these sentences and compile them I would have a concise little autobiography of my own!

[cycads and ferns · Rating 4 out of 5]

I do not know the name of the color I see behind my eyelids.

[emily · Rating 4 out of 5]

‘I archive. I spoke to Salvador Dalí when I was two. Competition does not drive me. To describe my life precisely would take longer than to live it—.’

Oh, what the fuck, Levé. An (dis)array of gorgeous and intimate ‘fragments’/vignettes. The blurring of a serious thought against another (unserious?) one. Comes in waves and then it ends, abruptly. And without romanticising the melancholic threads of thought embedded in it, I thought the presentation of the muffled/suspended chaos to be sort of impressive. Overall, strangely mesmerising. Even parts of it that I was not able to sympathise/empathise with, I found to be so brilliantly written. A more thorough RTC later, maybe?

‘Swimming is like a kind of sleep: I go easily from a bed to a lake. If I swim for half an hour in the morning, I feel good all day. When I relax completely in a pool, I always end up in the same position, back to the sky, body bent at forty-five degrees, head underwater, arms stretched out in front as if to grab the void.’

‘When I hear the English word “god,” I think both of God and of a dildo (godemiché). When I want to make a friend laugh, I say apropos of nothing: “How immoral.” During a comic movie, the anticipatory laughter of the other viewers leaves me unable to laugh. At a dinner party, a girlfriend kissed me, took off her clothes, and ruined everything for half the guests, including three old lovers of mine. Playing ping-pong, the sound of the ball helps me more than its colour. I like living in a house that is freighted with the pasts of other people, I also like sleeping in anonymous hotels. I have left a woman because I didn’t love her anymore and didn’t like the way I was around her.’

‘Certain people wear me out in seconds because I can tell they are going to bore me—I wonder whether I admire faith or just people who have it—I am able to admire people who admire me. I do not embellish things or make them ugly either. I like serial music until the moment when, suddenly, I can’t stand it.’

‘I fetishise handwriting—I listen to Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane, Chet Baker, Billie Holiday. I sometimes feel like an impostor without knowing why, as if a shadow falls over me and I can’t make it go away.’

‘I have often been in love—I am surprised when someone loves me. I do not consider myself handsome just because a woman thinks so. My intelligence is uneven. My amorous states resemble each other, and those of other people, more than my works resemble each other, or those of other people. I find something pleasant in the pain of a fading love—A friend once remarked that I seem glad when guests show up at my house but also when they leave.’

'I spend a lot of time reading, but I do not consider myself a “big reader.” I reread—I will never know how many books I have read. Raymond Roussel, Charles Baudelaire, Marcel Proust, Alain Robbe-Grillet, Antonio Tabucchi, André Breton, Olivier Cadiot, Jorge Luis Borges, Andy Warhol, Gertrude Stein, Ghérasim Luca, Georges Perec, Jacques Roubaud, Joe Brainard, Roberto Juarroz, Guy Debord, Fernando Pessoa, Jack Kerouac, La Rochefoucauld, Baltasar Gracian, Roland Barthes, Walt Whitman, Nathalie Quintane, the Bible, and Bret Easton Ellis all matter to me. I have read less of the Bible than of Marcel Proust.'

‘The times I find myself handsome are not the times I’d like to be—I wish I had no beard to shave. I have no interest in awards, I have no respect for distinctions—Some day I will wear black cowboy boots with a purple velvet suit. To me the smell of manure recalls a bygone era, whereas the smell of wet earth evokes no particular time.’

'I am more interested in the neutrality and anonymity of our shared language than by the attempts of poets to make a language of their own, a factual report seems to me the most beautifully unpoetic poetry there is. I often use the word often. When I write I often use the word beaucoup, but on rereading I strike it. I dream of an objective prose, but there is no such thing. I don’t know how many words I know. I wonder whether I forget words as I get older, and if, since I’m learning fewer words than I used to, the number of words I use is shrinking.'

'Seeing Harlem from a train a sentence came into my head: “This is not the promised land.” I have neither a hunting permit nor a gun permit. Even though the food is bland and more expensive than at other places, I eat in museum cafeterias, their minimalist décor, their luminosity, and the memory of the art I have just seen make up for their lack of character. I am thirty-nine at the moment I write these words. I have seen a work by Damien Hirst entitled Armageddon, made up of millions of flies stuck to a canvas several meters square.'

'An astrologist friend told me that, according to my star chart, my weak spots were in my back and ears. I can’t say I believe in astrology, but I can’t say I don’t. I would like to believe in ghosts.'

'I drink Lapsang Souchong, Yunnan, Keemun, Hojicha. In the morning I drink a glass of orange juice, I eat yoghurt, I drink half a liter of tea. I prefer the name to the taste of Darjeeling. I notice the length of a journey less if I already know the way. I have lived through 14,370 days. I have lived through 384,875 hours. I have lived through 20,640,000 minutes. I am one meter and eighty-six centimeters tall. My eye is not sated with seeing, nor my ear with hearing. Déjà vu gives me more pleasure than a great wine—I am writing this book on a computer, there will never be a manuscript.'

[Melanie · Rating 4 out of 5]

'a factual report seems to me the most beautifully unpoetic poetry there is'.

Edouard Levé's free writing I-statements are humourless, colourless, soundless, they exit on an inaudible sigh, they are intangible.

The form is list-like, robotic and therefore it is easy to agree they are fact but the facts have already died, like cold stars that still throw their light.

' I prefer a ruin to a monument'.

For me, these distant stars shine on multiple human faces, not Edouard alone but what do the repetition of facts really do for us other than to inspire the wearing of masks?

This is interesting reading full of questions disguised as answers.

[Parisa Soltani · Rating 3 out of 5]

شاید اگر‌ قبلا به من پیشنهاد میدادن کتابی بخونم که تمام صفحاتش به صورت بریده بریده راجع به خصوصیات نویسنده است، این پیشنهاد رو رد میکردم. اما موقع خرید این کتاب، فروشنده فقط گفت «بخون، جالبه» ! هنوزم باورم نمیشه تونسته باشم تا صفحه آخر ادامه بدم:) ولی در کل میتونم بگم تجربه جالبی بود و خب لابد حتما جوری نوشته شده که تونسته کشش پایان دادن به کتاب رو ایجاد کنه.

[Bob Jacobs · Rating 3 out of 5]

Interessant concept, sommige passages trokken me echt aan; andere dan weer niet. Dan las ik liever Brainards ‘Ik herinner me’ in dit opsommend genre.

[Tosh · Rating 5 out of 5]

Without a thought in my head, I went to Stories Bookstore and Cafe in Echo Park, and decided to purchase a copy of Edouard Levé's "Autoportrait." I have heard of this book through Dennis Cooper's blog, and reading about "Autoportrait" made me curious to go get the book itself. After purchasing it, I went directly to the Echo Park Library, or Edendale Libray as it is officially known, to start reading the book. I didn't leave the library till I finished the entire book.

Once you start it, the writing of this short work of literature (not sure if it's officially fiction or memoir) is hard to stop reading. Rarely have I ever read a book where I was compelled to read the whole thing in one sitting. I'm glad that I did, because I think if one stops reading "Autoportrait," you would lose the rhythm of the language and sentences. Basically "Autoportrait" is a collection of facts regarding the writer's life and thoughts. There are sentences like "I get excited by the idea of reading the biography of an author I love, then when I actually do it I lose steam." Which is perfectly factual in a sense, but I'm not sure if he really means all biographies he feels that way, or just some. Perhaps the one's that are 'only' about his favorite writers. The book is actually full of sentences that can be either meaningful and quite textural, or just the facts sir, in the style of Jack Webb's narration in the TV show "Dragnet."

For me as a reader, the textures and pacing of the language he uses is quite hypnotic. As I mentioned it was hard for me to put down this book, not because I wanted to know what will happen in the end, but just where he is going with this style of writing and format. The book is very similar to the writings of George Perec and Joe Brainard - two writers he mentions in passing in "Autoportrait." Joe Brainard's "I Remember" is very subjective, because it is how he remembers a certain time in his life, yet Levé is working in the same format, but the results are different. Perec likes to play literary games, and I think Levé was a fan of both writers (just what I read out of this book - by his style alone) that in many ways, reads like a tribute to Brainard and Perec. "Autoportrait" doesn't have a lot of psychology, in fact, it is almost reading the surface of someone. Yet, one picks up little clues here and there. Towards the end of the book, he mentions a friend who before going out to play tennis he went back to the house to shoot himself. Which describes a person who thought out his suicide, but then I started to think why did he make arrangements to play tennis with his wife. There is a coldness in the text that is disconcerting. I did know that Levé committed suicide, so perhaps he was thinking about the nature of taking one's life. On the other hand, Levé seems to have a full-life before his end. He traveled well, and it seems he loved and had relationships, so the mystery of why one would do something like that, is still a mystery in this book as well.

When I read "I Remember" I get a full portrait of its author Joe Brainard. I don't feel that way after reading "Autoportrait." It is not a work of full exposure of a human being, but maybe just the facts of how one lives in their lives. Brainard is like Proust, and Levé is a minimalist by design. It is obvious he's a man who likes structures, or has a belief in the world of the system. Yet, that specific structure doesn't tell much. But then again, what is there to tell? "Autoportrait" is a remarkable piece of literature, but it is also I think a good book about the art or the artlessness of 'good writing. Those who write, should be for sure, read this book.

[Joachim Stoop · Rating 4 out of 5]

Op zich knap hoe je enkel met -vaak banale en toch veelzeggende- feitjes (weliswaar honderden mss wel duizenden) over zichzelf de mens in kwestie toch leert kennen. Na drie vierde was ik er wel klaar mee. En toch vond ik het knap gedaan.