Me voy

by Jean Echenoz, Javier Albiñana (Translator)

Félix Ferrer es un artista frustrado, reconvertido en galerista, inteligente y algo atormentado, seductor intranquilo y con una cuenta corriente que oscila entre el triunfalismo y la catástrofe. Pero cuando Ferrer dice que se va, habla en serio: emprende un viaje al polo Norte en busca de una vasija para convertirse en el rey de esa cacharrería «étnica» que se ha enseñoreado del mercado del arte. Comienza el vértigo de desventuras hasta que, en la última línea del libro, Ferrer declare, nuevamente: «Me voy». Parodia de un mundo de aeropuertos en el que nos movemos sin enterarnos de nada, de una Europa convertida en un pasillo sin puertas ni ventanas donde los ricos se apiñan para no ver el horror que los rodea, del arte convertido en mercancías, del amor carcomido por la intolerancia.

Genres: France, Fiction, French Literature, Roman, Literature, Novels, Mystery

192 pages, Mass Market Paperback

First published September 7, 1999

About the author

Jean Echenoz is a prominent French novelist, many of whose works have been translated into English, among them Chopin’s Move (1989), Big Blondes (1995), and most recently Ravel (2008) and Running (2009).

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

I’m Gone is a theatrically mannered black comedy… Something like a vaudeville without singing and dancing…
He’s leaving his wife… A new page in life… A new start… Another woman…

Then, her hair very dark and very long, no older than thirty nor shorter than five foot ten, the young woman named Laurence who had just opened the door smiled at him without saying a word before closing it behind them both.

But he is just in transition… Quite soon she sends him packing… His business at the art gallery is poor… Six months later he is aboard the ice breaker… He goes treasure hunting beyond the polar circle… After disembarking he travels by dogs…

The incidents with the dogs multiplied. Another day, for instance, between two transparent prisms of sharp ice, they came upon the body of a pachyderm that had been lying there since God knows when. Half buried, the corpse was sugared with ice, better preserved under the floe than a pharaoh in his pyramid: ice embalms just as thoroughly as it kills. Despite the guides’ outbursts, curses, and whip cracks, the dogs swooped avidly down on the mastodon, and what ensued was only the panting, viscous, repugnant crackings of busy jaws.

Hunting for women all around… Treasure hunting abroad… It feels so good…
But any hunter may become a prey as well.

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Winner of the Prix Goncourt!!!

Whatever that is.

I doubt though that its the literary equivalent of taking home the Cannes Film Festival's Palme d'Or.

I'm Gone features a ridiculous story involving the recovery of antique art from the North Pole.
Has two unlikable male central characters - a crafty thief who isn't as crafty as he thinks he is, and a skirt-chasing art dealer with a dodgy ticker, who, If I were a feminist, I'd want to kick in the balls. It has some really stupid scenes. And contains a plot twist of the lemon variety towards the end that I saw coming from before the halfway point. It's the sort of novel that Georges Perec or Raymond Queneau would have probably handled so much better.

And yet, it was still a fun and entertaining read!, in a bovine kind of way.

It's the type of book where nothing can be taken seriously. I put my brain in neutral, and just went with and tried to take it for what it is - a fluffy and quirky and lively postmodern toffee popcorn crime-ish caper that's not going to live long in the memory. But it made me laugh (even though it's not really funny) whilst reading it, and that's got to count for something whilst stuck indoors climbing the walls trying to avoid putting my head in the oven. This was just the ticket!

I'm feeling crazy today, and could score this anywhere between one and five stars, but let's go with the positive - I did enjoy the energetic playfulness and silliness of the whole thing. Maybe that's what made it such a big seller in France.

[Майя Ставитская · Rating 4 out of 5]

The unbearable lightness of being
We pass through you like a knife through water.
Modern French literature is strongly for the French. Any other national at the same time for internal use and presumably for export. French is to a large extent a thing in itself. She seems to say: appreciate me for who I am, with my gourmand, easy attitude to adultery, permanent depression, loneliness, escapism. I'm not going to change for the sake of your standards. And we learn to love it, although not suddenly, as you do not immediately begin to understand the taste of caviar or olives. Or we answer: yes, and you would go with your own characteristics.

It's better to understand, but no one promised that it would be easy. Here is Goncourt-1999, "I'm leaving" by Jean Eshnoz - a year in the life of the Parisian gallerist Ferer. It is easy to guess that the man is not in poverty and from birth belongs to the original inhabitants of the golden billion. Average height, age, intelligence, income level, talent, charm. He takes for granted what life gives, does not strive for the impossible, easily changes women and locations, is not inclined to change at all.

One embarks on an adventure with an Arctic journey in search of a valuable collection more because of impressions than for the sake of profit. In a difficult dangerous journey, he holds himself with the detachment of an ethnographer, however, with dignity. And that's what he's all about. And they are all like that, dandies and gourmets, connoisseurs of art and specialists in the organization of parties. They are easily enriched, easily ruined, easily killed, easily survive being on the verge of death, easily return. They leave easily. Voila!

Невыносимая легкость бытия
Мы сквозь вас проходим как нож сквозь воду.
Современная французская литература сильно для французов. Любая другая национальная одновременно для внутреннего пользования и предположительно на экспорт. Французская в немалой степени вещь в себе. Она словно говорит: цените меня такой, какая я есть, с моей гурманией, легким отношением к адюльтеру, перманентной депрессивностью, одиночеством, эскапизмом. В угоду вашим стандартам меняться не собираюсь. И мы учимся ее любить, хотя не вдруг, как не сразу начинаешь понимать вкус икры или маслин. Или отвечаем: да и шла бы ты со своими особенностями.

Понимать лучше, но никто не обещал, что будет легко. Вот Гонкур-1999, "Я ухожу" Жан Эшноз - год из жизни парижского галериста Ферера. Легко догадаться, что мужик не бедствует и с рождения принадлежит к исконным обитателям золотого миллиарда. Среднего роста, возраста, интеллекта, уровня доходов, таланта, обаяния. Принимает как должное то, что жизнь дает, не стремится к несбыточному, легко меняет женщин и локации, совершенно не склонен меняться.

На авантюру с арктическим путешествием в поисках ценной коллекции пускается больше из-за впечатлений, чем ради наживы. В нелегком опасном странствии держится с отстраненностью этнографа, впрочем достойно. И весь он в этом. И все они такие, щеголи и гурманы, ценители искусства и специалисты по устройству вечеринок. Легко обогащаются, легко разоряются, легко убивают, легко переживают пребывание на грани смерти, легко возвращаются. Легко уходят. Voila!

[Debbie Zapata · Rating 2 out of 5]

When I got back here to Arizona, one of the Big Projects I had in mind was to organize all of my books. That was supposed to be a long-term slow project, but once i got started I couldn't seem to stop. The results are between 3 and 4 hundred to be given away, 1650 or so keepers, and 45 to be re-read before a decision is made on their fate. These are books I know I have read but I can't remember enough about to make a choice about which list or pile they belong on. And that is how I came to be reading I'm Gone, the first I've chosen from this Encore list.

The writing is intriguing and sometimes quite lovely (that is why 2 stars instead of just one) but after the first few chapters the story itself gets boring. A middle-aged man who owns an art gallery leaves his wife, then leaves Paris to go to the Arctic to locate a shipwreck and recover a couple of crates of ethnic artifacts that his assistant has been telling him about. But the assistant is involved somehow in some shady goings on with the artifacts, and you can clearly see what is going to happen. That is never fun.

I did not like the main character. What is a middle=aged man with a supposedly bad heart doing sledding through the Frozen North? Greed, of course. He was greedy and selfish and not very nice. And how could he get through that trek up north without having a single physical problem relating to his heart? After his doctor had told him to avoid extremes of cold or heat? Not even palpitations!

I got bored once he got back to Paris and didn't care what happened to him or his artwork or his heart. I gave up about halfway through, still not able to remember what came later but no longer caring.

I'm Gone will be going on a one way trip to the library.

DNF at about the halfway point.

[Karen·]

It took Millerman more than a week to read this, which is much longer than I would have expected. Her French is a little rusty, but she has a sunny nature that allows her to blithely ignore words she doesn't know as long as she is still swimming along somewhere near the surface, so that can't have been the reason for her tortoise like progress. And the story itself is very engaging. It manages to both utilize and de-construct all the elements of a thriller: a case of ethnic art purloined for private profit, a trip to an unknown world to add geographical interest, a killer on the loose, two strands of narrative that slowly and inevitably converge, mistaken identity, flashbacks, the main character descending into ever deeper mires of trouble, you know, all that stuff that keeps you on the edge of your seat, but done with a wink to make the reader feel intellectually superior - and it has to be said that Millerman does like to feel intellectually superior - plus this appealing narrator who sometimes elbows his way in to the story with sardonic little comments on his own characters. Irresistible really, so why did she take so long?


Well, she read it during Wimbledon, that's why.

[Steve]

[This book has been translated into English under the titles I'm Gone and I'm Off.]



Jean Echenoz (b. 1947) is a French novelist weighted down by a dozen literary prizes, including the Prix Goncourt for Je m'en vais (1999), a cooly ironic intertwining of play with literary genres and of the emptiness of yet another protagonist's life.

A failed sculptor, Félix Ferrer owns an art gallery which has run onto hard times, so hard that he travels 100 kilometers above the Arctic Circle in search of a wreck containing a fortune in Arctic peoples' art. There are mysterious, dubious characters and also an art heist and murder. And there is the story line(s) of turn-of-the-millenium Parisians leading lives full of a desperate and pointless activity (centered about sex, money and, for one character, drugs) with an early emphasis on conceptual artists and their "collectors." Many easy targets for irony, and a great deal of material to stuff into a fairly short novel.

I grant that Echenoz keeps all the plates spinning, and he ties it into a big, anticlimactic bow at the end. But that is really not enough.

While reading this book, three other novelists insisted on repeatedly interposing themselves between me and Echenoz' text. Michel Houellebecq kept reminding me that Echenoz' distanced treatment of sexual relations - frequent and with multiple partners, but little better than a very temporary physical release in view of the total absence of emotional and other contact(*) - is but a pale, nay, a vacant reflection of his vituperative, repulsive, obsessive portraits of current sexual relations. Peter Handke quietly murmured next to my ear that Echenoz' extended passages about the Arctic quest shrivel into insignificance next to his profoundly poetic evocations of the beauty, the threat, the dread, and the wonder of modern urban man in the deadly vastness of the polar regions. And Thomas Mann shook his head disapprovingly at Echenoz' delivery of heavily researched literature - he and I both knew how much better he did it, time and time again, than Echenoz does.

And his language: the story is related all too often in a curious hybrid of colloquial constructions and something reminiscent of modern techno-bureaucratese, not in the vocabulary but in the manner of regarding and organizing the world. It fits the protagonist well, who only communicates to get what he wants: sex and money. Occasionally, Echenoz gives this diction a tweak that made me laugh. Then again, there are passages where Echenoz describes furniture, clothing, automobiles, buildings with a microscopic precision, and corners of Paris I have never seen receive more attention than most of the characters do. Why? To make it "real"? To display his writerly chops? I can't help but think that it is yet another distancing effect. At this point the reader is looking at the characters through the wrong end of the telescope.

Another cast of empty characters whose fates are a matter of indifference to this reader. Thus the gestures towards the "thriller" genre, the half-hearted attempts to generate some foreboding, some tension, fail completely for me. There is nothing innovative about the structure of the novel or its language. And coldly unemotive narration has become almost a commonplace over the past fifty years. A certain kind of cleverness is manifest in this text, and a certain kind of literary professionalism, as well. But I'll read some more Echenoz only because a few passages in this text suggested that he is, in fact, capable of much more.(**)



(*) Indeed, all the women are little more than empty symbols equipped with desirable bodies.

(**) Whereas the juries of the great literary prizes are all too frequently capable of completely mystifying decisions.

Rating

http://leopard.booklikes.com/post/105...

[Manny · Rating 5 out of 5]

Choupette's review of Platform reminded me of this book, which is quite famous in the francophone world, but pretty much unknown for English-speakers. It's formally a caper-style thriller, with a perilous voyage to the Arctic, a theft, a chase and a clever resolution. It manages, however, to completely subvert the genre.

The reason I thought about it just now is that it's a good example of how easy it can be to misinterpret writing about sex. On the surface, or badly translated (I haven't read a translation), it might come across as a tasteless masturbatory fantasy. The hero, a good-looking and charming guy, seems to find it easy to bed plenty of attractive women. You get to hear a fair amount about what he does with them.

After a while, though, and without the author's hammering too hard on the point, he and you both realize that it's all pointless. He never establishes any emotional connection with any of his conquests, so why bother? This is conveyed, more than anything, though the style, which becomes increasingly dry and disengaged. The ending, which I won't reveal, wraps it all up beautifully. Oddly enough, you see that it's a very moral book.

[Shaimaa شيماء]

فيه روايات كده الواحد مش بيبقى عارف هيا حلوة ولا وحشة.. بس بيفضل مكمل لعل وعسى يمكن يلاقي حاجة كويسة..

رواية فرنسية ثقيلة الظل بترجمة لبنانية متقعرة للغاية.

[Paradoxe · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.5

Το μυθιστόρημα δεν είναι μεν αστυνομικό, βρίσκει όμως την ευκαιρία ο συγγραφέας να χρησιμοποιήσει το είδος ως σχήμα λόγου. Συνήθως, όταν διαβάζουμε Τσέστερτον, ο τρόπος που φέρεται στο αστυνομικό μυθιστόρημα, είναι σα να παρατηρούμε ένα ανοιχτό σημείο στη θάλασσα και κατά διαστήματα, υποβρυχίως σκάζουν δυναμίτες που πετάνε το νερό προς τα πάνω, αφρισμένο, θυμωμένο και εν γένει εκτονωμένο. Εδώ δε συμβαίνει αυτό, μοιάζει περισσότερο με δρόμο που περπατάς κι είναι στρωμένος με σκορδάκια που σαν πατάς σου θυμίζουν τον πικάντικο, ήπιο κρότο του συγκεκριμένου πυροτεχνήματος.

Το περιστατικό που αφορά το παρακάτω απόσπασμα, στις σελ. 60 – 61:
<< Εκείνη λοιπόν μετά από μια ολόκληρη βδομάδα που είχε να τον ακούσει, μπήκε τελικά στο σπίτι του κι εκεί στα πλακάκια του μπάνιου, βρήκε το πτώμα του. Αυτό είναι το πρόβλημα όταν μένει κανείς μόνος, κατέληξε μ’ ερωτηματικό βλέμμα. Βεβαίως αποφάνθηκε. Ύστερα, η χήρα, η οποία του είπε είχε ακούσει πολλά γι’ αυτόν, πρότεινε επιτακτικά να πάει να σταθεί κοντά της, στην πρώτη σειρά. Πολύ ευχαρίστως απάντησε αυτός ψέματα, καθώς την ακολουθούσε απρόθυμα. Ύστερα όμως σκέφτηκε πως, καθώς ήταν η πρώτη φορά που παρευρισκόταν σε μια τέτοια ιεροτελεστία, αυτό θα του έδινε την ευκαιρία να παρακολουθήσει τη διαδικασία από κάπως πιο κοντά.
Η οποία και είναι απλούστατη. Έχετε το φέρετρο πάνω σε στρίποδα, τοποθετημένο με τα πόδια μπροστά. Στη βάση του έχει ένα στεφάνι από λουλούδια εις διαταγήν του αποδημήσαντος. Έχετε τον ιερέα, ο οποίος κινείται στο βάθος του πλάνου αριστερά, και το νεωκόρο πρώτο πλάνο δεξιά – κόκκινο και στρουμπουλό σαν νοσοκόμο ψυχιατρείου, βλέμμα αποθαρρυντικό και μαύρο κουστούμι, αγιαστούρα στο δεξί χέρι. Έχετε τον κόσμο που μόλις κάθισε. Κι όταν πια επικρατήσει σιωπή στο σχεδόν γεμάτο εκκλησάκι, ο ιερέας απαγγέλει μερικές προσευχές, εκφωνεί ένα λογύδριο προς τιμήν του αποδημήσαντος και μετά καλεί τον κόσμονα υποκλιθεί μπροστά στη σορό, ή την ευλογεί με την αγιαστούρα, ένα από τα δύο κατ’ επιλογήν. Η διαδικασία είναι αρκετά σύντομη, και τελειώνει γρήγορα, κι εκεί που ο Φερέρ ετοιμάζεται να δει τον κόσμο να υποκλίνεται, η χήρα τον τσιμπάει στο μπράτσο δείχνοντας με το σαγόνι το φέρετρο κι ανασηκώνοντας τα φρύδια. Καθώς ο Φερέρ σουφρώνει τα δικά του αδυνατώντας να καταλάβει, η χήρα ανασηκώνει και δείχνει ακόμα πιο έντονα, ενώ ταυτόχρονα τον τσιμπάει πιο δυνατά και τον σκουντάει. Φως φανάρι, λοιπόν πως κάτι πρέπει να κάνει. Σηκώνεται, ο κόσμος τον κοιτάζει, αισθάνεται αμήχανα, αλλά προχωράει. Δεν ξέρει τι να κάνει, δεν το ‘χει κάνει ποτέ.
Ο νεωκόρος του απλώνει την αγιαστούρα, την πιάνει χωρίς να είναι σίγουρος ότι την κρατάει σωστά, κι ύστερα αρχίζει να την κουνάει αδιάφορα. Χωρίς να θέλει να σχεδιάσει ιδιαίτερα σχήματα στον αέρα, σχηματίζει πάντως μερικούς κύκλους και μερικές γραμμές, ένα τρίγωνο, ένα σταυρό, περιφερόμενος γύρω από το φέρετρο κάτω από τα έκπληκτα βλέμματα του κόσμου, χωρίς να ξέρει πότε ή πώς να σταματήσει, ώσπου ο κόσμος αρχίζει τα μουρμουρητά κι ο νεωκόρος –συγκρατημένα αλλά σταθερά – τον πιάνει απ’ το μανίκι και τον επαναφέρει στο κάθισμα της πρώτης σειράς. Εκείνη τη στιγμή, ξαφνιασμένος από τη λαβή του νεωκόρου, που κραδαίνει πάντα την αγιαστούρα, την αφήνει κι αυτή πάει και καρφώνεται στο φέρετρο που αντηχεί κούφιο κάτω απ’ το χτύπημα >>
Είμαι στο μπάνιο, έχω χτενίσει το μουστάκι μου και με το ψαλιδάκι κόβω τις πολύ μακριές τρίχες που μπαίνουν στο στόμα μου και δε μ’ αφήνουν ν’ απολαμβάνω, ό,τι καταβροχθίζω. Με το δεξί κρατάω ανοιχτό το βιβλίο μπροστά μου σχεδόν. Είναι ένα σκηνικό που έχω επαναλάβει αρκετές φορές εξοικειωμένα, χωρίς ατυχήματα. Διαβάζω στα πεταχτά τις φράσεις, του παραπάνω αποσπάσματος. Σε σύντομο χρονικό διάστημα, το βιβλίο είναι στο πάτωμα, το ψαλιδάκι πέφτει κι ο κρότος του μ’ επαναφέρει, όπως σκάει στο νιπτήρα, ενώ κοιτιέμαι σαν ηλίθιος στον καθρέφτη. Ατυχήματα δεν υπήρξαν ευτυχώς, αλλά ότι τσίμπησα δέρμα, εννοείται.

Στο συγγραφέα μου αρέσουν πολύ τόσο το χιούμορ του που είναι αδιάλειπτο και εκφράζεται με φυσικότητα, χωρίς εντυπωσιασμούς και ο τρόπος του να απευθύνεται στον αναγνώστη με αμεσότητα, απλά και ξεκάθαρα.

Αν υπάρχουν δυο μελανά σημεία στο βιβλίο, είναι ο απαξιωτικός τρόπος που μιλάει για τα σκυλιά της αποστολής, καθώς κι η περιγραφή που αφορά όχι μόνο το γεύμα φώκιας, αλλά και τις χρήσεις συνολικά του ζώου. Όσο κι αν αφορά μια άλλη κουλτούρα, τη βρήκα ενοχλητική και υπερβολικά εκθεμένη σαν ανάγνωση δοκιμιακής έκθεσης κι εισέπραξα μια ιδέα εντυπωσιασμού από πλευράς του ατόμου που άντλησε και μετέδωσε τις πληροφορίες αυτές.

Το μυθιστόρημα γενικά μου άρεσε πολύ, διασκέδασα, αν και το βρήκα ανησυχητικά οικείο και ο τρόπος γραφής του συγγραφέα είναι ο εξής: Σαν ένας υπερκόσμιος παρατηρητής που βλέπει απέναντι του ένα βουνό, μια κατσίκα, τρία δέντρα, πέντε αυτοκίνητα και μετά μπαίνει σε κίνηση, με άλμα τα πλησιάζει και με τις γροθιές του τα ισοπεδώνει, τα χωρίζει σε σωματίδια, τα ανασυνθέτει σε άλλες μορφές γνωστές, ή παραπλήσιες. Από τα συντρίμμια του βουνού δε θα παραλείψει να φτιάξει ένα αμόνι, μια πέρδικα, δυο εραστές και μια φούξια καραμούζα που ο ήχος της θυμίζει κλειδοκύμβαλο με ουάουά, παίζοντας σου το Claire De La Lune, αν μπορείς να φανταστείς κάτι τέτοιο. Αρκετά ανατρεπτικό για να γελάσεις, να ανησυχήσεις, να αισθανθείς αμήχανα.

Το αγόρασα τυχαία, αλλά εντέλει αποδείχτηκε ένα ωραίο δώρο για τα γενέθλια μου. Κι οι εκδόσεις Πόλις δε χρειάζονται συστάσεις για την αρτιότατη επιμέλεια κι όσο για τη μετάφραση, χωρίς να έχω διαβάσει το πρωτότυπο, μπορώ μόνο να πω ότι η γαλλική γλώσσα είναι πιο παθιασμένη απ’ τη δική μας σε ‘’συγκινησιακές’’ λεξοποιήσεις, με αποτέλεσμα, ο Έλληνας μεταφραστείς όταν έχει ν’ αντιμετωπίσει συγγραφείς λιτούς και στείρους, όπως ο Εσενόζ, χρειάζεται μαεστρία. Έχοντας διαβάσει μια γαλλική κριτική για το βιβλίο, φρονώ πως το ύφος διατηρήθηκε ικανοποιητικά.

<< Κι όπως ο Φερέρ υπόδουλος αυτών των αμετάβλητων κινήσεων, σκεφτόταν κάθε πρωί πως θα μπορούσε να ξεφύγει από τούτη την ιεροτελεστία, ακόμα κι αυτή η σκέψη κατέληξε να ενσωματωθεί στην ιεροτελεστία >>

<< Είναι γνωστά αυτά τα βλέμματα που ανταλλάσσουν – μυστικά, αλλά με επιμονή – απ’ την πρώτη στιγμή που θα βρεθούν σε μια παρέα, δυο άγνωστοι που αρέσουν ο ένας στον άλλο. Βλέμματα στιγμιαία, αλλά σοβαρά και ελαφρώς ανήσιχα, πολύ σύντομα και ταυτόχρονα πολύ παρατεταμένα, που η διάρκεια τους φαίνεται πολύ μεγαλύτερη απ’ ότι είναι στην πραγματικότητα, τρυπώνουν κρυφά ανάμεσα στις κουβέντες της παρέας, η οποία δεν αντιλαμβάνεται τίποτα, ή κάνει πως δεν αντιλαμβάνεται >>

Αυτό που πραγματικά μου αρέσει στο συγγραφέα, δεν είναι κάποιο απροσμέτρητο βάθος, είναι η χαλαρότητα του ρυθμού του, η αναπάντεχη έκπληξη που νιώθω στα σκορδάκια που έγραψα παραπάνω κι αυτή η ιδέα ενός ανατόμου με την ακρίβεια του φωτογραφικού φακού, που δεν κρύβει καμιά πληροφορία απ’ το χώρο, αναλύει κι αναλύεται με διαύγεια και με σαφήνεια.

<< Προς το παρόν αναπαύεται, μόλο που κανείς δεν αναπαύεται ποτέ πραγματικά, καμιά φορά λες, φαντάζεσαι πως αναπαύεσαι, ή θ’ αναπαυτείς, αλλά αυτό είναι απλώς μια μικρή ελπίδα που έχεις, ξέρεις καλά πως δε θα γίνει, δεν υπάρχει καν, δεν είναι παρά κάτι που λες όταν είσαι κουρασμένος >>

<< Το χρήμα είναι αρκετά ισχυρό ώστε να κουκουλώνει τους αναχρονισμούς >>

<< Το μακιγιάζ βλέπετε κρύβει, αλλά και ταυτόχρονα στολίζει τα αισθητήρια όργανα, τουλάχιστον αυτά που έχουν περισσότερα της μιας, χρήσεις. Το στόμα, λόγου χάρη, που αναπνέει, μιλάει και τρώει, πίνει, χαμογελάει, ψιθυρίζει, φιλάει, βυζαίνει, γλείφει, δαγκώνει, φυσάει, αναστενάζει, φωνάζει, καπνίζει, μορφάζει, γελάει, τραγουδάει, σφυρίζει, έχει λόξιγκα, φτύνει, ρεύεται, ξερνάει, εκπνέει, το βάφουμε, αυτό είναι το λιγότερο, για να το τιμήσουμε που εκπληρώνει τόσες ευγενείς λειτουργίες. Βάφουμε επίσης το περίγραμμα του ματιού που βλέπει, εκφράζει, κλαίει και κλείνει για να κοιμηθεί – λειτουργίες εξίσου ευγενείς. Βάφουμε επίσης τα νύχια που βρίσκονται στην πρώτη θέση της τεράστιας και ευγενούς ποικιλίας των χειρωνακτικών λειτουργιών.
Όμως δε φτιασιδώνουμε ό,τι εκτελεί μία ή το πολύ δύο λειτουργίες: ούτε το αφτί – που δε χρησιμεύει παρά μόνο για ν’ ακούμε – στο οποίο στερεώνουμε απλώς ένα σκουλαρίκι, ούτε τη μύτη – που απλώς αναπνέει, μυρίζει και μερικές φορές, βουλώνει – στην οποία, όπως και στ’ αφτί, στερεώνουμε ίσως ένα χαλκά, μια πολύτιμη πέτρα, ένα μαργαριτάρι, ή και, σε ορισμένα μέρη, ένα κόκαλο, ενώ στα δικά μας, περιοριζόμαστε στο να την πουδράρουμε >>.

Πολλοί μεγάλοι και μικρότεροι συγγραφείς έχουν καταφέρει να κρυσταλλώσουν το συναισθηματικά μη διαθέσιμο άνθρωπο. Οι πολύ μεγάλοι χαρτογράφησαν και το συναισθηματικά αποπροσανατολισμένο. Ορισμένοι άλλοι, το συναισθηματικά κουρασμένο. Βεβαιώ ότι μπορούν να ενυπάρξουν και οι τρεις ‘’ποιότητες’’. Εδώ ο συγγραφέας το επιχειρεί, όπως κι επιχειρεί να παίξει και με τις τρεις καταστάσεις ανεξάρτητα σε διαφορετικούς χαρακτήρες. Θαρρώ ως ένα βαθμό τα καταφέρνει πολύ καλά.

<< τελικά κουράστηκε λιγάκι απ’ αυτή την πόλη την πολύ μεγάλη και ταυτόχρονα πολύ μικρή, όπου δεν ήσουν βέβαιος ότι ήσουν εκεί που ήσουν, κι ας το ‘’ξερες πολύ καλά ότι ήσουν >>

<< Τις κάλτσες αυτές μου τις χάρισε η γυναίκα μου, πρόσθεσε αφηρημένα, αλλά πέφτουν, όπως βλέπετε. Μονίμως πέφτουν. Α, είπε, έτσι γίνεται πάντα. Οι κάλτσες που μας χαρίζουν, πάντα πέφτουν >>

[Whitaker · Rating 3 out of 5]

Manny gave this five stars, so I felt I had to write a review to explain why only three*. To some extent, I can see Manny's point of view. It's a very well written book, quite effectively skewering the vacuity of modern trendiness and busyness.

When we first meet our hero, Félix Ferrer, he is leaving his wife of five years. Félix is an art dealer. He makes a trip to the arctic to recover lost Paleolithic Eskimo art from an abandoned shipwreck. Paleolithic Eskimo art is the "in" thing at that time, and this is an abandoned stash. He returns and the art gets stolen. We read of Félix's cynical views on the sale of art, and watch him massage the egos of his artists and his customers. In much the same way, he deals with women: assessing them, moving from one acquisition to another (there's a great comedic scene involving a babyphone when Félix goes to a conquest's home).

While a great deal of story turns around the trip, the preparation for the theft, and the fallout and resolution from this event, it's only a framework to present the emptiness of Félix's life and the anomie and ennui of modernity. The novel opens with Félix saying, "Je m'en vais." (I'm going), and it ends with Félix saying the same words. In between these sentences, Félix moves from one thing to another, never quite able to find a place to settle into. Nor is he the only one.

It's all very well-done, and in a non-navel gazing way (always the danger of this kind of book--read Francois Weyergans's Trois jours chez ma mère for an example of this type of crap. That won the Goncourt too). But while the mood of emptiness and transience was haunting, I also couldn't help feeling, "Oh, bloody hell, not sex and emptiness again!"

But hey, among the books I've read dealing with this theme (this book, Weyergans's self-regarding jism, and Toussaint's Fuir - Prix Médicis 2005 ) I'd say this is the best of that lot.

*Update: I just checked, and I see that I gave Trois jours chez ma mère two stars and Fuir three. So in fairness to its relative standing, I've upgraded this to four stars.

[JimZ · Rating 3 out of 5]

I read this 21 years ago and gave it an A+++. Obviously I really liked it. This time around just 3 stars...I have no idea why I liked it so much 21 years ago. This had the makings of a very good novel in that Echenoz had me guessing as to “what is wrong with this picture” or “what is going to go wrong”. There just wasn't enough for me to get enthused about and the ending was sort of blasé.

Winner of the 1999 Prix Goncourt.

Review:
• https://www.complete-review.com/revie...
• https://archive.nytimes.com/query.nyt...
• https://www.theguardian.com/books/200...

[Práxedes Rivera · Rating 4 out of 5]

What a voice! Although I read a French-to-English translation, Echenoz's literary timbre is unmistakable. Filled with humor, irony, and deliciously concocted sentences, one cannot avoid but be gripped by this novel.

The plot is typical (middle-aged art gallery owner, recently divorced, and with money troubles) but the tone is captivating. Highly recommended.

[KOMET · Rating 3 out of 5]

When I began reading "I'M GONE" 3 days ago, I wasn't sure I was going to like it. At first reading, the writing style seemed too glib and casually crafted, bordering on the banal. But the author, I think, did a clever thing by inserting in the opening pages, Felix Ferrer leaving his wife Suzanne - intent on divorcing her, and - following a quick ride on the Metro - finding instant refuge with one of his mistresses, at her place on the Rue de l'Arcade in Paris. (I smiled to myself at this point, because I myself had been to the Rue de l'Arcade when I visited Paris a few years ago.)

But the more I read "I'M GONE", the more I came to see it as a modern morality play. Ferrer, a failed sculptor, owns an arts and antiques shop in the heart of Paris, where he has several artists as clients. He is facing hard times. Most of his artists are not selling well. Business is nigh well stagnant. But then, Delahaye, his mousy, ill-dressed assistant, alerts him to a collection of rare Paleoarctic relics on a ship that had been ensnared in an ice floe in the far north of Canada and abandoned by its crew in 1957. (Paleoarctic relics are highly prized in the art world by virtue of their rarity.) Ferrer then has one of those EUREKA! moments, and spares himself no effort nor expense in travelling over to Canada to find this ship in a rather desolate, barren, wintry landscape.

The story proceeds to take the reader on a ride that has many meandering twists, turns, and spins. Ferrer is sorely tested -- so much so that when I got to the end of the novel, I couldn't help but wonder: WHAT NEXT? The experience of reading "I'M GONE" was like being on a roller-coaster ride. It started off slow and uncertain, then accelerated after scaling the first mountain and negotiating a series of sharp turns and dips. And then, when all is said and done, and the roller-coaster takes one back to the starting point, one lets out a sigh and reflects aloud: "now that was more interesting than I thought it would be."

[Tony · Rating 3 out of 5]

It is probably unfair for any book to follow Thomas Mann's Doctor Faustus in a reading queue. Such was the lot of my first Echenoz. Yet, I was entertained and it wasn't a bad thing not to have to wonder what every single sentence really, really meant.

This is a bit of an art heist thriller, at one simple level, so I won't detail that part of the mystery. Let me just say that it is a bit like a made for TV movie. And don't just take my word for it:

"And besides," he ventures as a last resort, "your whole deal is so cliché. They kill people like this in every TV movie in the world, there's nothing original about it."

You have to admire his self-awareness and imbedded critique.

Still, this was an engaging read, not just a thriller, and I did learn some things I (maybe) didn't know:

1. In the Iglulik language there are 150 words for snow: crusty snow, squeaky snow, fresh soft snow, hard undulating snow, fine powdery snow, wet compact snow, snow lifted by the wind, etc.

2. Polar bears are all lefties.* If you're on an ice shelf in the Arctic with one, they are probably more interested in walrus meat, but if they think you are too and attack, you can't outrun them. So if the gap narrows, work his weak side.

3. Man wakes up thinking of sex. He spends the day thinking about sex. He goes to sleep thinking about sex.

I see myself reading a lot more of this guy.



*It turns out this is basically apocryphal. The Inuits believe it, absolutely, based on their centuries of living with the polar bears. Scientists studying this tendency aren't buying it. What do scientists know?

[Babette Ernst · Rating 3 out of 5]

Neben epischen, sich im Detail verlierenden Romanen, weiß ich durchaus auch eine knappe, präzise Sprache zu schätzen, bei der mit wenig Worten maximale Wirkung erzielt wird. Dafür stand Jean Echenoz in meiner Erinnerung mit seinem Buch „14“. Und zu Beginn dachte ich noch: ‚Das muss man erstmal schaffen, einen Text so sehr zu verkürzen und trotzdem genügend Informationen unterzubringen und gut klingen zu lassen.‘ Aber dann erreichte mich der Inhalt überhaupt nicht. Was sollte das? Es ist so unentschlossen und frei von Aussagen, die mich interessiert hätten. Anfangs vermutete ich, auch in Anlehnung an den Titel, eine Beziehungsgeschichte, dann wurde es unversehens ein Reisebericht, wenn auch nicht sonderlich ausführlich und spannend. Dann dachte ich zeitweise, es würde sich dem spannenden Thema Raubkunst zuwenden, doch es ging nur nahtlos in einen Krimi über, dem wiederum ein Roadtrip folgte. Für ein schmales Buch sehr viele Themen, alle angerissen, nichts, was sie zusammenhalten würde (vom Erzähler abgesehen). Vor allem gab es nichts, was mir neu war oder was mich wegen der Nähe (oder auch weiter Ferne) meine Lebenswelt interessiert hätte. Es war nicht besonders spannend, es war zwar gut formuliert, aber auch wieder nicht so, dass der Text nur von der Sprache leben könnte. Das mittelmäßigste Buch, das mir in den letzten Jahren begegnet ist, es wird mir nicht lange im Gedächtnis bleiben.

[Roger Brunyate · Rating 3 out of 5]

La Ronde

This appears to be a novel about pointlessness, life as a carousel roundabout that you finally step off after going for numerous adventures, but essentially ending in much the same place. Reading it in French, I found it highly engaging on a chapter-by-chapter basis, but ultimately it gave me little reason to keep reading. I put it aside for about a week in the middle, actually, then went back to finish it just now. I'm glad I did, because Echenoz plays a lot of fascinating tricks. But I was left with a version of that old wartime question: "Was your journey really necessary?"

A case in point. Early in the book, Félix Ferrer, the protagonist, a middle-aged Parisian art dealer (and serial philanderer), travels to the arctic north of Canada to get hold of a crate of ancient Inuit artifacts abandoned on an icebound ship. He sails out of Quebec City on an icebreaker, crossing the Arctic Circle, and cutting through the ice all the way round what seems to be the Northwest Passage. It is a wonderfully-described journey taking several weeks, bringing him eventually to Port Radium, from which he undertakes a sled trek of a few days to reach the marooned ship. But Port Radium is in northwestern Canada, and relatively accessible from the south. Indeed, when Ferrer leaves, he takes a couple of flights across country that bring him back to Montreal in under a day. So why the adventure of the icebreaker?

I wish I knew more contemporary French fiction so that I could place this more confidently in context. I was reminded at times of Michel Houellebecq's The Map and the Territory, not only because both have one foot in the modern art world, but because Echenoz's book also morphs into a kind of crime novel at the halfway point. After Ferrer's return, his story interlaces with that of a mysterious individual named Baumgartner who, with an unsavory associate known as Le Flétan (the halibut), is not averse to theft and murder to achieve his ends. But a lot of this is told almost in passing by Echenoz, who is not averse to sidelining things that other authors might consider important, but is quite prepared to go into great detail on matters as trivial as the stops on a metro commute, or the types of vegetables eligible to compete in a county show. All in all, a strange book, fascinating because of its strangeness, but quite perplexing in its overall philosophy.

======

I now think that this was absolutely the wrong Echenoz for me to start with. I have since read two others: 1914, a story of the First World War that loses nothing by its extreme compactness, and Ravel, an imaginative biography of the last years of the composer that raises profound questions about music and existence. This one was a longer book than either of those, and with a less focused plot. But I suspect that Echenoz needs the tight focus and limited span in order to develop his full power.

[Jim Coughenour · Rating 5 out of 5]

This splendid little tale won the Goncourt Prize in 1999, and it's as exactly French as a fresh baguette. Felix Ferrar, a middle-aged Parisian art dealer, walks out on his wife in the first sentence — "I'm going," said Ferrer. "I'm leaving you. You can keep everything, but I'm gone."

From that point, everything's up for grabs. Naturally, there are messy romantic affairs with implausibly beautiful women, there's an art expedition to the Arctic, there are crimes and betrayals and masquerades and social satire. Sounds pretentious ("a humanist rewriting Foucault with a satirist's wit" says the blurb) but in fact it's nearly perfect.

I also enjoyed Echenoz's Piano — but this book has all the sparkle.

[Ron Charles · Rating 3 out of 5]

'I'm Gone" is a mildly amusing mystery. Indeed, its greatest mystery is why it's become a cause celebre in France. It's already sold half a million copies and won the Prix Goncourt, the country's most prestigious literary prize.

In America, where Jean Echenoz's short novel is being released this month, it's tempting to assume something was lost in translation - but in fact, the attenuation seems entirely intentional.

Life is not going well for Felix Ferrer, a Parisian art dealer. In the opening line, he walks out on his wife after five years of numbing routine: "He always washed in the same order, inalterably from left to right and top to bottom. He always shaved in the same order, inalterably right cheek then left cheek, chin, lower then upper lip, neck."

Strapped for cash in a weak art market, Ferrer accepts the suggestion of his assistant to search for a trove of lost artifacts. In 1957, a boat carrying animal pelts and some rare regional antiquities got stuck in the ice in Canada's extreme north. The crew was forced to abandon ship, and its whereabouts have never been determined.

Until now. By a method never explained, Ferrer's assistant has discovered the location of this lost ship. Then, by a cause never mentioned, Ferrer's assistant dies. Then, for a reason never given, Ferrer makes the trip to the Arctic Circle himself, though he has no expertise in such dangerous travel and suffers from a serious heart ailment. Finally, when he returns, the antiques are stolen by a "mysterious" man whose identity is immediately obvious to us.

But how declasse to worry about elements of plot. Some of these chapters are so aimless that even the narrator confesses he's losing interest. In the end, he notes, "Everything happened according to the desperately common process."

And let's not concern ourselves with characterization - tres bourgeois! These people are psychologically blank, morally vacuous. Before being frozen to death in an ice truck, one mildly annoyed victim accuses his killer of being cliche. (How's that for fighting back?) Speaking of Ferrer's meaningless sexual conquests, the narrator sighs, "Can he really have grown so blase?" His protagonist moves in a shadow instead of a spotlight.

So, what's left in "I'm Gone"? Wit. Echenoz's forte is an exquisite sense of comedy. He's a master with the details of modern life, not just the ripe absurdities of modern art - although he's brilliant with those, too - but the incidental filigree.

For instance, we learn nothing about why Ferrer cannot commit to women, but much about his frantic efforts to remove the smell of a heinous perfume from his apartment. Similarly, the narrator never mentions why Ferrer's assistant dies, but he provides a hysterical description of Ferrer swinging holy water at the funeral. And during his arduous trip from Paris to the Arctic, we learn most about the mosquitoes that make crossing the tundra so maddening.

It's not surprising that a nation which gave the world deconstructive criticism should embrace a novel that leaves its foreground out of focus and concentrates instead on the edges. The practitioners of that arcane critical theory are always picking at stray threads no one else notices. Even the structure of the book frustrates our expectations of how a story should develop. The narrator moves backward and forward simultaneously. Relationships that appear to be transformative eventually lead nowhere. Conflicts don't resolve, they simple dissolve.

You see, it's not about the story's characters; it's about the narrator's play. Echenoz moves through his story with casual elegance. When he says he doesn't want to bother "going into the technical details" - what used to be called "plot" - we chuckle and traipse along with him. "Let's keep moving forward," he calls back, "and faster."

He carries this off with considerable skill, but is it old-fashioned to ask, "To what effect?" Gourmets of post-structural theory will find "I'm Gone" a delectable piece of gateau sacher avec creme au beurre. But philistines should be forgiven if they note that it's a lot of fuss for a Ding Dong.

http://www.csmonitor.com/2001/0329/p1...

[Vilis · Rating 3 out of 5]

Mazliet melnā humora, mazliet trillera, mazliet apcerīguma, tomēr beigās paliek drīzāk tukšuma sajūta, it kā vārdi būtu vienkārši aizpildījuši sev atvēlēto vietu uz lapas

[Rea · Rating 3 out of 5]

The intense play on words and the complete lack of emotions in the narrative made this one a very difficult read for me. Every time I opened it, I found myself soon fighting to keep my eyes open. I really didn't connect with the style of writing - it just felt like endless descriptions of things I wasn't particularly interested in - and the suave Félix Ferrer was not a character that I could bring myself to like. I got the impression that all he ever thought about was sex, and in an emotionless narrative... well, it didn't go down well.

All in all, I was glad when it was over. I'll never understand why books like these win the literary prizes.

[Adam]

My first by Echenoz, an interesting mixture of styles in panoramic prose. There were times whilst reading where the central element of the narrative wanders, in an almost distracted style, the flashing lights high on a crane synchronising with the lights of a wingtip of a passing plane. Perhaps this reminds me in a cinematic style of Ozu or Immamura where definitive or life changing human dramas play out amongst the most mundane backdrops.

Ferrer departs at various points as he and Suzanne separate. Ferrer, owner of an art gallery, off in search of antiquities that leads to a crime, which is explained in a narrative that accelerates then backpedals through it's events. It is an intriguing novel that both demands your attention and remains casual in almost equal degrees.

[Noah · Rating 3 out of 5]

Ich hakte nichts von Kammerpreismünzen, Parker Punkten und Wine Trophys. Ich vertraue beim Wein auf den Concours des französischen Landwirtschaftsministeriums und wurde noch nie enttäuscht. Ich halte nicht viel vom Deutschen Buchpreis oder vom Booker Preis aber der Goncourt hat mich bislang selten enttäuscht. Dieses Werk ist keine wirkliche Enttäuschung - ein eingängig geschriebener Kurzroman, der zwischen Gesellschaftssatire und Krimi changiert - aber dennoch enthält er zu wenig in Erinnerung bleibendes, um wirklich prämierenswert zu sein.

[رؤى · Rating 2 out of 5]

اشتريت الرواية لأنها كانت تحمل اسم بسام حجار, فأنا لم أجد أعماله في المعرض فاشتريت أغلب ماترجمه لصالح دار الآداب .
الرواية هادئة جدًا في أحداثها حتى وصلت للصفحة 202 وجعلتني أصرخ: كيف لم أتوقع هذا!

أسلوب بسام حجار يسيطر على الرواية في مقاطع كثيرة ومنها هذا السطر بالذات الذي أسرني جدًا وجعلني أجدد تقديري لبلاغته وفصاحته
وهو يصف مجموعة الكلاب التي تجر مركبات الجليد:
" كان رهطًا رابضًا على أرض مسوّرة حول طليع.."

وعن الرواية:
فإنها مضت تحكي عن حياة فيري الذي كان فنانًا ونحاتًا سابقًا حتى قرر التخلي عن هذا الأمر وفتح صالة لعرض أعمال الفنانين والترويج لها..
وهي أيضًا تشعرنا بالخواء الذي يحسه فيري إزاء غياب العنصر الأنثوي في حياته, وكيف مررنا النساء فيها الواحدة تلو الأخرى حتى هجرنه وواصلن حياته دون الاكتراث به وظل وحيدًا حتى في نهاية الرواية عندما نظن أنه أخيرًا ستكون هيلين هي المرأة التي سيواصل معها حياته وإذ نفاجئ بأنها تقول له بالرغم ما فعله لها أنها ليست متأكدة من أنها راغبة في كل هذا ! لماذا ؟

هذا أكثر ماقهرني في الرواية إذ أنني شعرت أن جان أشينوز يرغب بأن ينهيها بأي شكل كانت وبسرعة.

عمومًا لم يكن هذا جوهر الرواية تمامًا إذ أن فيري هذا يسمع عن سفينة علقت بين الجليد وأنها كانت تحمل تحف قيمة, فيَهِم بالسفر وبعدها تحدث معه أمور
لطيفة, وهنا الجانب المشوق في الرواية وإن بدت إلى قرب نهايتها رتيبة الأحداث.

الغريب أن هذه الرواية حصلت على جائزة تعد من أبرز الجوائز الأدبية في فرنسا, عمومًا لا أعرف ما سبب رغبتي في أن أقرأ له روايته الأخرى شقراوات في وقت لاحق.

وبكل صدق فإن من المفترض أن أكون أذاكر الآن إلا أنني أتهرب بكتابة هذه المراجعة التي مسكت نفسي فيها عن قول كل شيء حول الرواية

[AlHALAH Al · Rating 3 out of 5]

تنتهي من حيث بدأت , لكن الأشياء لم تكن نفسها أبدًا .

أعترف بانهزاميتي أمامها. و حتى الآ�� لم أتعرف على الأثر الذي تركته, غير أنها تركتني في صمت طويل أرى فيه الصالة و أتلمس الأعمال . فيري الذي ترك كل شيء لسوزان و رحل . صاحب صالة عرض الأعمال الفنية , في وقت يأكلها الركود . منذ خمسة أعوام و منذ أن ترك سوزان و هو يقوم بنفس الروتين و يعيش أيام متشابهة . يذهب قلبه المصاب بنوبه قلبية إلى القطب الشمالي على الرغم من أن طبيبه فيلدمان قد منعه من التعرض لتقلبات الجو لكنه اكتفى بالأقتلاع عن التدخين , حالمًا باقتناء الأعمال الفنية و المنحوتات وإذ به يعود صفر اليدين إذ سرقت الأعمال منه . من الذي سرقها ؟ و كيف استعادها ؟ تكون هنا المتعة . الرواية جميلة و هادئة .

[JT Kerper · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book is a masterpiece for its novelty, economy of words, restraint and, oddly, Gallic sense of humor.
If you like punchy, well-written (and translated) psychological thrillers, you will love this.
There are no extra sentences in this book; everything makes the action move forward or adds to your insight to the protagonist.
It's by far Echenoz' best work and worthy of all the praise it's received.

[Ernst · Rating 4 out of 5]

Für eine Review ist das zu lange her, müsste noch mal genauer reinlesen, aber ich habe es in positiver Erinnerung, viele Wendungen, feine Sprache, smarter Humor.

[Ahmed · Rating 3 out of 5]

قوية وعميقة، حكاية بسيطة برمزية عظيمة وعنفوان حياتي مهم.

[Marina Simini · Rating 3 out of 5]

It is one of those case of books where the plot is interesting, but the description parts are even more so. The narrator adds its little commentary on the events as they unravel, pointing out how frivolous and poetic life can be. He (or she? ) focuses on the little details, as through a magnifying lense, then, proceeds to present a panorama, as through a telescope. it's one of the best uses of the device of an external narrator that I have encountered, and that's quite a compliment, if you think about it.

[Victor Morosoff · Rating 5 out of 5]

Jean Echenoz étale dans ce roman une écriture subtile et ironique. On dirait une vision indulgente, optimiste et détachée du monde, ce qui fait le délice de ce petit roman genre Jacques Tati. De petits hommes aux drames menus, mais c'est l'attention aux détails et aux efforts quotidiens qui enchante. 4,7/5

[Carolynne · Rating 1 out of 5]

This book won awards? It was awful! The reader follows Ferrar, a semi-successful art dealer, through various misadventures as he is taken advantage of by all and sundry. There is no point, no story, no conclusion. Ferrar learns nothing, and there is no ending. The book just stops.