Najskrytsza pamięć ludzi

by Mohamed Mbougar Sarr, Jacek Giszczak (Translator)

Diégane, młody pisarz, natrafia w Paryżu na trudno dostępną, legendarną powieść Nieludzki labirynt, która przed laty wywołała skandal. Diégane jest zafascynowany jej autorem, T.C. Elimanem. Postanawia dowiedzieć się, dlaczego po publikacji swojego dzieła w 1938 roku Elimane zniknął.

Genres: Fiction, Africa, Senegal, France, Contemporary, Roman, Literature

436 pages, Unknown Binding

First published August 19, 2021

About the author

Mohamed Mbougar Sarr was born in Dakar in 1990. He studied literature and philosophy at the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales in Paris. Terre ceinte (Brotherhood), his first novel, won the Grand Prix du Roman Métis, the Prix Ahmadou Kourouma, and the French Voices Grand Prize. The president of Senegal named him a Chevalier of the National Order of Merit. La plus secrète mémoire des hommes (The Most Secret Memory of Men) won the 2021 Goncourt Prize.

Reviews

[Fionnuala]

I don't think I've ever read a piece of fiction that contained so many titles of other pieces of fiction within it, all themselves fictional—except maybe in Borges.

When I string the fictional titles together, they read to me like a beautiful but hallucinatory poem, a poem that speaks of a well of possible stories that reach deep, deep into literary history.

Le labyrinthe de l’inhumain
Anatomie du vide
Élégie pour nuit noire 
Le badamier barbare
Journal d’une pygophile
Noir d’ébène
L’ogive sainte
La mélancolie du sable

Behind all those fictional titles lie the true facts of a real book title, Le Devoir de Violence by Malian author Yambo Ouologuem which won the French 'Prix Renaudot' in 1968. Ouologuem was later accused of plagiarism and withdrew from literary life.

The real book that I'm reviewing here, the 2021 Goncourt prize winner La plus secrète mémoire des hommes, is said to be inspired by that 1968 literary scandal. Senegalese author, Mohamed Mbougar Sarr has created a fictional compatriot called T C Elimane, who moves to France where his first novel, Le labyrinthe de l’inhumain wins a prestigious literary prize in 1938. But soon afterwards, Elimane is accused of plagiarising almost the entire Western canon and the book is withdrawn from sale. Elimane and his book disappear without trace.

Sarr's own labyrinthine book is an account of fictional Senegalese author Diégane Faye's search for Elimane and his book. The search leads Diégane from Paris to Amsterdam where he meets the author of Élégie pour nuit noire who tells him about her own long search for Elimane. Her story contains within it the stories of many people who knew Elimane including a fictional Haitian poet who met him in Buenos Aires in the company of real life authors, Witold Gombrowiz and Ernesto Sabato, but who then loses sight of him. Elimane is like the 'man in the macintosh' in Joyce's Ulysses, no sooner caught sight of than he exits the picture. Perhaps he's also like Homer's Ulysses, continuously on the move, unwilling to go home to the tiny village in Senegal where his mother sat under a mango tree for many years awaiting his return, the same tree under which the crocodile who ate his grandfather had been buried years before.

As you may have grasped, this original book gazes deep into the well of literary history and makes the reader ask questions about the very concept of 'original'. It also raises questions for me personally about post colonial literature. Senegal is a former French colony so the language of schooling is French and the most brilliant literature students, such as Sarr, inevitably drift towards universities in France, become steeped in the Western canon, and, if they become writers, they write in French. But what are they to write about in this language that does not belong to their ancestors but to the pillagers of their native land? There is surely a temptation to pillage the language and literature of the colonizers in turn. I was again reminded of Joyce, this time Finnegans Wake which is threaded through with borrowings not only from literature but from journalism, court cases, publicity material, song lyrics, basically a giant act of subversion by an author from a former colony, writing in a language that was not that of his ancestors.

And that is what I read into this story of the fictional Elimane, accused of plagiarizing innumerable authors of the Western canon. I read it as an act of original and genius subversion.

[Orsodimondo · Rating 4 out of 5]

IL DETECTIVE SELVAGGIO


Il villaggio in Senegal lungo il fiume Sine da cui il racconto parte e ritorna.

Come in un grande delta nel quale confluiscono fiumi con diversa portata d’acqua, le interviste, le schede biografiche, gli articoli di giornale, le lettere, i diari, le confessioni, i brani di opere di fantasia, le recensioni che Sarr accorpa all’interno di questo suo romanzo fiume confluiscono tutte nella stessa direzione, verso l’oceano letterario.
Magnifica operazione di metaletteratura travestita da investigazione letteraria dedicata al romanzo di Bolano che cito nel titolo. E oltre che dedicata, ispirata da. Plagio o furto? Che è poi l’interrogativo che percorre tutte queste quattrocento e passa pagine.
Il grande artista ruba, quello mediocre copia. Con varianti diverse, attribuita ad artisti diversi, questa massima arriva da lontano e va lontano. A me piace attribuirla al maestoso Orson Welles – uno delle mie prime divinità cinematografiche – che sicuramente avrebbe amato questo romanzo. E chissà, magari amato al pu to da volerlo trasporlo sullo schermo.


Il caffè parigino in Place de Clichy nel quale probabilmente T.C.Elimane andava a scrivere e incontrava i suoi amici editori.

Un grande libro parla sempre e soltanto di niente, ma dentro c’è tutto… Soltanto i libri mediocri o brutti o banali parlano di qualcosa. Un grande libro non ha un tema e non parla di niente, cerca soltanto di dire o scoprire qualcosa, ma quel soltanto è già tutto e anche quel qualcosa è già tutto.

Definizione che secondo me si adatta bene a questo La più recondita memoria degli uomini: forse dentro non c’è tutto, ma c’è sicuramente tanto tanto. E sembra parlare di niente, sembra un divertimento letterario. Che però diventa omaggio allo scrittore cileno, come già sottolineato, e omaggio alla letteratura africana e a quel continente, incluso il suo mondo magico, riflessione sull’Africa, il colonialismo, bianchi e neri, emigrazione, esilio, spontaneo o forzato. Le storie e i personaggi si moltiplicano, si intrecciano: e quando Sarr sembra arrivato a un punto fermo, da qualche parte in queste pagine s’innalza un canto o si sprigiona una poesia che porta lontano e rimette in moto la marcia narrativa.


Il canale di Amsterdam sul quale probabilmente affaccia l’appartamento di Siga D.

Un gioco letterario, dicevo. Un’inchiesta letteraria: quella che spinge tanti dei personaggi qui contenuti, le varie voci narranti – su tutte quella di Diégane Latyr Faye piccolo narratore dall’immaginazione senza limiti – ma come dimenticare quella dell’affascinante Siga D., o l’altra della poetessa haitiana – spinge a cercare di saperne quanto più possibile sul misterioso enigmatico scrittore senegalese T.C. Elimane – soprannominato il “Rimbaud negro”.
Sarr ci regala momenti di verità annodati ad altri di pura finzione: Witold Gombrowicz ed Ernesto Sabato vanno a braccetto per le strade di Buenos Aires, tra tanghi di Carlos Gardel, a personaggi assolutamente immaginari.
E fascinosissimi titoli di opere si snodano davanti agli occhi golosi del lettore: Malinconia della sabbia, Il labirinto del disumano, Anatomia del vuoto, Elegia per notte nera… ah che voglia di leggerli tutti. Peccato non esistano, siano solo magnifici titoli senza sviluppo, senza trama. O invece no?
E il punto d’arrivo coincide con quello di partenza.

Vincitore del premio Goncourt 2022. Ho imparato a prendere sul serio il più importante premio letterario francese. Così come i Pulitzer, o i Booker. Perché non faccio altrettanto con gli Strega?

Sono passati duemila anni da quando hai sofferto e sei morto sulla croce, Signore, il che ti fa onore, ma hai visto anche tu il risultato; ora ti chiedo: lo rifaresti?




El Querandi cafè a Buenos Aires dove Witold Gombrowicz andava a scrivere e incontrare i suoi amici scrittori Ernesto Sabato e T.C.Elimane.

[Meike · Rating 5 out of 5]

Now Nominated for the National Book Award for Translated Literature 2023
Prix Goncourt 2021
An excellent choice for the Goncourt: Mohamed Mbougar Sarr has written a well-composed, highly intelligent, entertaining and frequently hilarious novel about racism in the culture industry and the role of literature in society. Set in 2018, his protagonist Diégane is an aspiring writer from Senegal who emigrated to France to study at a prestigious university (much like a Sarr himself). By accident, he learns about the enigmatic fellow Senegalese writer Elimane who in 1938 published a highly celebrated novel, "The Labyrinth of the Inhumane", but then became the target of vicious attacks in the French press accusing him of plagiarism, and he subsequently disappeared. Diégane becomes obsessed with the destiny of the mysterious author and starts to research his whereabouts, assisted by one of Elimane's relatives, sixty-ish poet Siga D.

Sarr's main characters have to process the experience of being educated by a colonial power and trying to succeed in its system, while at the same time being aware that France saw colonialism as a mission to "civilize": They are playing by the rules of a system that has historically perceived their culture as inferior (even Albert Londres, until this day a hero of French journalism, has defended the need to civilize Africa, he just opposed the means, see Terre d'ébène). Elimane is modeled after the real author Yambo Ouloguem from Mali, whose novel "Le devoir de violence" won the prestigious Prix Renaudot in 1968. Ouloguem was then accused of plagiarism, he returned to Mali and was never able to recover from the blow his reputation took. Not-so-fun fact: After Sarr won the Goncourt in France, there was a campaign against him in Senegal, basically calling him a gay traitor to the motherland (you can read about it here).

In the book, Elimane is the victim of a racist press campaign, a combination of intentional hate-based attacks and ignoranace-based categorizations: Wow, a literate, educated Black man who has managed to write a book, what a novelty! But is he actually Black? And if so, is his writing African enough? (Interestingly, the novel mentions Haruki Murakami, a Japanese writer born and raised in Japan and writing in Japanese who is frequently informed by Western media that his writing is too Western - because some Western people obviously deem it appropriate to inform a Japanese man how to properly write Japanese literature.) Elimane's and Diégane's stories show what Orientalism means for the people affected, and Sarr also takes aim at the excesses of some renderings of identity politics, namely those that exchange personality and character with formal traits and ascribe positive and negative value to those traits (e. g. Blackness, queerness, religious orientation, etc.), not the person behind them.

Sarr uses the large time span Elimane's life covers to illuminate historical context, from colonialization and its repercussions to WW II and the role of African soldiers fighting for their colonial powers (see also the fantastic, International Booker-winning Frère d'âme) to domestic political unrest in Senegal. As we join Diégane on his quest for Elimane, we travel from France to the Netherlands, then to Senegal and Argentina. We meet Jewish publishers and runaway Nazis, African expatriates and Senegalese patriarchs, and we deal with literary and actual witchcraft. Literary history plays a major role in the text, from the obvious The Odyssey (or is it rather Don Quixote?) over a whole bunch of French greats, like Arthur Rimbaud, Charles Baudelaire and Stéphane Mallarmé, to Witold Gombrowicz and Jorge Luis Borges (the novel's title is also a reference to Borges).

The novel has a lot to say about finding one's own voice, but as a part of a world library, which, much like Elimane's life, is a labyrinth, but at the same time doesn't respect walls: Storytelling might be rooted in a place or a person, but transcends it, which is its specific witchcraft. Not to understand this means to read the wrong way, a sin Elimane thinks needs to be punished by death. Or is cultural cosmopolitanism, as Diégane's best friend thinks, nothing but a perfidious illusion that intends to re-frame and thus de-legitimize the alienation of non-Western writers in a literary world dominated by the West? What role can a writer play, in their own culture and globally? Sarr's book is a deeply philosophical pageturner, and a worthy winner of the Goncourt.

(The German version, Die geheimste Erinnerung der Menschen, has been translated by the team that usually transforms other high-profile, ambitious texts like Mathias Énard's works, so that should tell you something about the quality of Sarr's language.)

[Carlos · Rating 5 out of 5]

Lorsqu’il s’agit de prix littéraires, et compte tenu du goût très particulier des jurés, en plus du peu d’affinité entre eux, très souvent les lecteurs sont les premiers à être déçus. À mon avis, le lecteur ne devrait pas attacher une grande importance à ces prix, qui dans le pire des cas, reflètent les astuces que les maisons d’édition utilisent pour que finalement le livre qu’elles publient soit le gagnant. Oui, il semble que nous parlions de pratiques malhonnêtes qui salissent, presque indirectement, l’œuvre littéraire. Et pourtant, les prix continuent d’attirer notre attention, comme ce fut le cas aujourd’hui, chez Drouant, où quelque chose d’extraordinaire s’est produit. Un jeune auteur sénégalais de 31 ans vient de remporter le prestigieux prix Goncourt, avec son magnifique roman La Plus Secrète Mémoire des hommes publié par les petites maisons indépendantes Philippe Rey et Jimsaan, qui ont laissé les géants derrière elles, pour inaugurer ce qui pourrait bien être une nouvelle ère de l'édition. Après la crise sanitaire, tout est possible...

« Tout ce que je croyais être moi n'était en réalité que la substance des autres en moi, il est temps de l'extirper »

Le roman est un dédale impressionnant, une ode à l'amour des mots, une quête désespérée du sens de la création et un hymne à la beauté littéraire. Le personnage central est Diégane Faye, jeune écrivain sénégalais (le double de Sarr ?) qui suit la piste de T.C. Elimane, auteur d'une certaine renommée qui, dans les années trente, a publié un roman intitulé Le Labyrinthe de l'inhumain et qui, du jour au lendemain, a disparu de la vie littéraire française. L'œuvre a été louée pour sa magnifique construction et sa profondeur, pour la nouveauté de son style et la maîtrise de son exécution. Après la publication de quelques bonnes critiques, notamment celle qui le qualifiait de Rimbaud nègre, une série d'attaques ont été lancées contre le roman, le qualifiant de plagiat. L'intrigue nous conduit à Paris, Amsterdam, Buenos Aires, Dakar, dans un voyage où les itinéraires reflètent les vicissitudes de la recherche presque désespérée, de l'identité de l'auteur fantôme. L'histoire est inspirée de celle de l'auteur malien Yambo Ouologuem (prix Renaudot, 1968) dont le destin était similaire.

« Ce qui l’a chagriné, c’est que vous ne l’ayez pas vu comme écrivain, mais comme phénomène médiatique, comme nègre d’exception, comme champ de bataille idéologique. »

Si le titre vient d'une phrase de Roberto Bolaño qui parle précisément de la transcendance de l’œuvre littéraire (thème central de cet ouvrage), dans son roman Les Détectives sauvages, ce n'est pas un hasard. Mohamed Mbougar Sarr a exprimé à plusieurs reprises, et notamment dans un texte paru dans Le Point, sa grande admiration pour l'auteur chilien qui a vécu au Mexique. Mais il est également important de mentionner les autres influences sur son écriture et sa grande vénération pour Borges (tout au long du roman, l'influence borgésienne est très évidente : le livre dans le livre, les labyrinthes, la recherche passionnée...), Sabato et Gombrowicz. Ces deux derniers apparaissent dans une partie du roman qui se déroule à Buenos Aires, où T.C. Elimane s'est installé après son départ précipité de Paris.

Bref, la plume prodigieuse de l'auteur sénégalais a pleinement mérité son ascension à la gloire et les dizaines (centaines ?) de milliers d'exemplaires de son grand roman qui seront vendus ces prochains mois dans le monde entier. Il est important de mentionner qu'il est le premier écrivain d'Afrique subsaharienne à être consacré par le prix. Et j'ajouterai qu'à mon avis, ce livre a tout, absolument tout (même plus que celui d'Hervé Le Tellier) pour devenir un roman culte.

__

[Pedro · Rating 5 out of 5]

Diégane es un escritor senegalés radicado en París, que ha alcanzado un cierto éxito con su primera novela. Cuando toma conocimiento de T. C. Elimane, un autor también senegalés, que a fines de la década del '30 publicó la novela >El laberinto de lo inhumano, una novela que generó un importante revuelo en el ámbito literario, inicia una carrera obsesiva para conocer la obra y a su autor.

Una vez que consigue leer el libro, refuerza su interés por su enigmatico autor. Para ello asiste a largos relatos, que, como un juego de cajas chinas, abre lugar para otros relatos, así como situaciones aparentemente sobrenaturales. Su búsqueda sin descanso es la de quien persigue un grial, un secreto o una revelación que ilumine y permita alcanzar la sabiduría de comprender la profundidad de lo humano.

El contexto no es neutral para él, como no lo ha sido para ningún escritor africano negro* (y el autor muestra ser muy consciente de ello). Se espera que sea un portavoz de una literatura que ha conllevado consigo un mandato: el rescate de las tradiciones, la denuncia de la colonización, el testimonio de la miseria o de la atrocidad de las guerras civiles. Pero ¿No tiene un africano el derecho a cultivar el arte? ¿A navegar en las tinieblas del alma humana? ¿A deslumbrar con espejos y laberintos de ilusiones?

En un momento, un amigo politizado le dice (¿le reprocha?): "...siempre has considerado que nuestra ambigüedad cultural era nuestro verdadero espacio, nuestra morada, y que debíamos habitarla lo mejor posible, como trágicos conscientes, como bastardos civilizacionales, bastardía de bastardía, bastardos nacidos de la violación de nuestra historia a manos de otra historia carnicera."

Una novela que atrapa y apasiona, con múltiples personajes que van contribuyendo a armar el enigma de Elimane, y se van entrecruzando en distintos momentos del tiempo; y también algún artificio del narrador omnisciente que también contribuye a echar luz en la comprensión de la historia. Hay algunos párrafos que se hacen un poco largos, así como alguna situación en que hay personajes que actúan de forma un poco estereotipada.

Roberto Bolaño, el inspirador del título de la novela (que proviene de un párrafo incluido en su novela Los detectives salvajes), daba una clasificación de los escritores: los tímidos que preferían la seguridad del cuento o la novela corta, donde todo puede estar tranquilamente bajo el control del autor (incluyendo a su admirado Borges Jorge Luis); y los que tenían la audacia de la novela, y sobre todo la novela larga, en la que el escritor se lanza a una aventura, con riesgos y sin red.
En este caso, Sarr se ha lanzado a su aventura personal, y además se ha propuesto, en ese espacio ambiguo descripto anteriormente, a tender un puente entre la aldea y la ciudad cosmopolita; y aunque con algunos tropiezos, considero que ha salido airoso.
Una novela excelente.

* Aclaración: Cuando he hecho referencia a "africanos negros" no ha sido con una intención despectiva, sino descriptiva, con el fin de ser más específicos. África tiene escritores destacados y reconocidos: dos de ellos, Gordimer y Coetzee (Sudáfrica) han obtenido el Premio Nobel (también Naguib Mahfuz, de Egipto, pero esa es otra historia); también se destacan su compatriota Damon Galgut, Eduardo Agualusa (Angola) o Mía Couto (Mozambique). Todos ellos son blancos, y aunque muestran una gran sensibilidad en su obra, no han debido cargar con el mismo mandato que los africanos negros.

PD. La figura de T. C. Elimane parece haber estado inspirada por la historia real vivida por Yambo Ouologuem y su novela Bound to Violence.

[Marc Lamot · Rating 4 out of 5]

To Write or Not to Write, That's the Question
It was a long time ago that I've read a worthy Goncourt, but this sure is one. To me Mohamed Mbougar Sarr comes out of nowhere, but apparently he already has published a few novels. With this book he shows not only his stylistic skills, but also psychological and philosophical depth.

Mbougar Sarr immediately takes you into the story, by making it clear almost from the start that this book is about a quest: the search for the cult book “The Labyrinth of Inhumanity” and its Senegalese author T.C. Elimane. This quest is done by the novice, the 'promising' writer Diégane Faye, a compatriot of Elimane's who also ended up in Paris and is received in almost the same, half-derogatory way by the French literary establishment. The author holds on to that central storyline of the search for Elimane to the end, which explains the homogeneity of this very complicated novel. Maybe the final the twist at the end is a bit disappointing (it was to me), but I can't say anything more about it, so as not to spoil the reading pleasure.

Of course, the combined French-African aspect is quite central to this story. Through Diégane and other characters, Mbougar Sarr sheds light on the complex, still fraught relationship between France and its former colonies. The author pinpoints the massive, negative impact of that domination, not only in the literary environment, but also beyond. But Mbougar Sarr also goes wider. Part of this story takes place not only in Paris and Dakar, but also in Argentina, for reasons that will only really become clear at the end. It also enables Mbougar Sarr to give a big nod to Jorge Borges and especially his The Garden of Forking Paths, which clearly was one of his sources of inspiration.

And so we inevitably arrive at the central literary theme of this book: what is writing? Why do writers write? What is the social or the existential value of literature? Protagonist Diégane and his companions raise it with the regularity of the clock, without coming to any definitive conclusions. That certainly makes up the meta layer of this book, which immediately indicates that this is perhaps too highbrow a work to appeal to the general public.

What is also both a threshold and a charm is the book's ingenious polyphony. The story may be led by protaganist Diégane, but in practice it are mainly other voices that speak, people - usually fellow writers - who have had to do with Elimane in one way or another. Mbougar Sarr initially introduces them very sparingly, but gradually the polyphony becomes labyrinthine (!) intertwined, whereby it is only with great difficulty that you can decipher who is speaking. In my opinion, the author may have taken this a little too far, as he also throws in a few storylines that just add volume, not depth. The flashy prose (“see what I can do”!) and certain rather artificial twists, also detracted somewhat from the reading pleasure for me.

So, perhaps he is not entirely successful, but Mbougar Sarr finally manages to convey his central message: that of the labyrinthine and therefore ephemeral character of our existence, of any existence, however illustrious it may seem at a certain moment, and against which even writing apparently is barely able to do anything. To end in the words of the author: “And when his phantom steps towards me, it will formulate the terrible existential choice that was the dilemma of his life; the choice about which every man obsessed with literature will always hesitate in his heart: to write, not to write.” This book is a nice discovery, and if Mbougar Sarr can control his skills a little more, he will certainly become one of the greats.
Rating 3.5 stars.
(english translation "The Most Secret Memory of Man", forthcoming in September. )

[Laura Gotti · Rating 5 out of 5]

In Francia i premi li sanno assegnare. Perché se uno, a 32 anni, scrive così, con questa maturità, questo stile (questi stili) e queste idee, ci si può solo mettere lì e assegnargli il premio maggiore.
Un libro che non può non rimanerti dentro, se ami la letteratura, le storie, i viaggi e le idee così lontane dal tuo mondo. Ho sottolineato molto, non mi capitava da un po', e molto mi sono soffermata sulle idee di questo giovane uomo trasmesse attraverso questo libro e, davvero, ne ho amato ogni singolo capitolo. La storia è apparentemente semplice ma dietro si nasconde un mondo nascosto che, dalla ricerca di un autore, porterà alla ricerca di sé inevitabilmente ritornando alle origini. Banale? Già letto? Non proprio perché la capacità di scrittura e lo stile alzano il tono e il livello di romanzo a qualcosa che, a me, è sembrato incredibile.

L'avrei terminato in paio di giorni, invece mi sono imposta di leggerne poco alla volta, no volevo che finisse e non volevo essere delusa dal finale, cosa che succede quasi sempre, ma poi chi se ne importa dei finali se sei riuscito a trascinarmi fin lì, se mi hai portato nel tuo mondo e mi ci ha fatto stare così comoda che non avrei voluto alzarmi più.

'Avere una ferita non implica che si debba scriverla. Non significa nemmeno che si pensi a scriverla. E non ti sto parlando del poterlo fare. Il tempo è assassino? Sì. Scava in noi l'illusione che le nostre ferite siano uniche, ma non lo sono. Nessuna ferita è unica. Niente di umano è unico. Nel tempo tutto diventa terribilmente comune. Ecco il vicolo cieco. Ma è proprio in questo vicolo cieco che la letteratura ha la possibilità di nascere.' p.260

32 anni. Credo basti.

[Paula Mota · Rating 5 out of 5]

As grandes obras empobrecem e devem empobrecer sempre. Elas tiram-nos o supérfluo. Da sua leitura, saímos sempre desprovidos: enriquecidos, mas enriquecidos por subtração.

Poderia falar exaustivamente de “A Mais Secreta Memória dos Homens”, mas não quero que quem leia esta resenha fique enfeitiçado como aqueles que leram “O Labirinto Inumano”, obra que está no âmago destas incríveis mas complexas 400 páginas. Podia falar exaustivamente deste livro que recebeu compreensivelmente o Prémio Goncourt 2021, mas quase receio que T.C. Elimane me atire para o abismo por falar de mais, por falar da obra referindo-me à negritude e às origens do seu autor em vez de me limitar a avaliá-la pelo seu formato e o seu conteúdo, como parece que aconteceu a algumas personagens aqui apresentadas.

Sei que conheces a frase de Wittgenstein, a conclusão do seu ‘Tractatus’: “Sobre aquilo que não se pode falar, deve-se manter o silêncio.” Mas manter o silêncio não quer dizer renunciar a mostrar.

Esta obra faz lembrar vagamente “A Sombra do Vento”, de Carlos Luis Záfon, havendo um enigmático livro já fora de circulação, o “Labirinto do Inumano”, escrito por um autor que se esfumou no ar depois da sua polémica edição, mas é muito mais maduro, mais erudito, mais trabalhado.

Elimane não se encontra. Ele é que vos aparece. Ele é que vos atravessa. Ele gela-vos os ossos e queima-vos a pele. É uma ilusão viva.

Dizer que é um livro sobre livros tornou-se um cliché tão grande, que sinto que estaria a rebaixar “A Mais Secreta Memória dos Homens” ao nível das dezenas de best-sellers que saem todos os anos subordinados a essa temática, mas trata-se realmente de uma bela ode à literatura naquilo que ela tem de mais divinal e infernal.

Qual é, então, esta pátria? Tu conhece-la: é evidentemente a pátria dos livros: os livros lidos e amados, os livros lidos e amaldiçoados(...)os livros que pretendemos ter lido, os livros que nunca leremos mas dos quais também não nos separaremos por nada deste mundo(...). Sim, dizia eu, sim: serei cidadã dessa pátria, aliar-me-ei a esse reino, o reino da biblioteca.

É antes de mais um livro sobre escritores: além do fugidio Elimane, apelidado de “Rimbaud negro” após a publicação do primeiro livro, temos Diégane Faye, o narrador também senegalês a viver em Paris; Siga D. a escritora da mesma proveniência que lhe dá a ler “O Labirinto do Inumano”, a poetisa haitiana, que a toma sob sua protecção; Musimbwa, o “jovem escritor africano promissor”, oriundo do Congo, Stanislas, tradutor polaco a trabalhar numa nova versão de ‘Ferdydurke’ de Witold Gombrowicz. E numa prodigiosa mistura de ficção com realidade, é Gombrowicz que encontramos em Buenos Aires com Ernesto Sábato, a mentorar a jovem poeta haitiana e a frequentar os serões literários das irmãs Ocampo, juntamente com Bioy Casares e Borges, para mais uma das muitas histórias paralelas que compõem este livro, todas elas a convergirem para Elimane e novamente a ramificarem-se em cartas, artigos de jornal, biografias, folclore africano, relatos dentro de relatos e visões do futuro, num “labirinto mais perfeito que possamos imaginar, um longo caminho circular, cujo destino se confunde com a sua origem: a solidão”.
“A Mais Secreta Memória dos Homens” é extramamente ambicioso, tanto na cobertura geográfica, ao passar por França, Amesterdão, Buenos Aires, Senegal e Congo, como no alcance temporal, desde o início do século XX até aos dias de hoje, tocando em temas como a diáspora, a guerra, o plágio, o luto, o colonialismo e o racismo...

Perguntamo-nos se esta obra não será de um escritor francês disfarçado. Concordamos que a colonização fez milagres de instrução nas colónias de África. No entanto, como acreditar que um africano pode ter escrito assim em francês?

...destilado numa prosa ímpar...

Não era a ele que ouvíamos gritar, mas à própria dor; a dor absoluta que circulava nele, rugindo como um animal preso numa armadilha ou uma divindade ofendida no fundo de um oceano. O sofrimento não se contentava em devastar as carnes de Chérif: queria evadir-se como de uma prisão opressora.

...mas também com a acidez que compartilho.

Merda para a resiliência! Odeio essa palavra desde que ela se tornou uma palavra de ordem. Resiliência! Resiliência! Calem-se! Eu desejo a verdade da longa queda, a verdade da queda infinita.

Espero ler mais de Mohamed Mbougar Sarr, mesmo duvidando que ele consiga igualar esta obra-prima.

O passado tem tempo; ele espera sempre com paciência no cruzamento do futuro; e é aí que ele abre ao homem que pensava ter escapado a sua verdadeira prisão de cinco celas: a imortalidade dos desaparecidos, a permanência do esquecido, o destino de ser culpado, a companhia da solidão, a maldição do salutar amor.

[Justo Martiañez · Rating 3 out of 5]

3/5 Estrellas

Poco sabía de este libro, cuando me he enfrentado a su lectura.
Premio Goncourt 2021, autor senegalés que, evidentemente, escribe en lengua francesa. Alguna buena reseña, otras no tanto.
Pocas cosas me vienen a la mente sobre Senegal, cuando intento centrarme: Antigua colonia francesa del África occidental, el París-Dakar (que ya no se corre en África pero sigue manteniendo la marca), el lago rosa, los mandingas (ejem, ejem, no sé porqué viene esto a mi mente). Vamos un bagaje más bien escaso, para lo que se nos viene encima.

Porque estamos ante un libro complejo, en el que el eje principal de la trama sigue la pista de un libro maldito (El Laberinto de lo inhumano), un libro y un autor perdido (Elimane Madag), escrito allá por 1938. El "Rimbaud negro" lo llamaron.

Este hombre y su libro salieron de la escena muy pronto, acusados de plagio y se perdieron en la bruma de la segunda guerra mundial y la posguerra. Pero su sombra ha seguido sobrevolando la escena literaria de origen africano en Francia y sus ecos han llegado hasta un joven escritor, también senegalés: Diegane Faye, que se propone sacar a la luz la historia del libro y de su autor como leitmotiv de su vida. Todo ficticio, por supuesto.

Como he indicado el libro es complejo, para nada lineal. Faye bucea en el tiempo y poco a poco, va contactando con las pocas personas que conocieron a Elimane, antiguos escritos, antiguos testimonios sobre a un fantasma que recorre Europa, África y Latinoamérica, a lo largo de todo el siglo XX.

Para comprender a Elimane, su obra y poder seguir sus posibles andanzas, el autor nos zambulle en un ejercicio donde las continuas referencias literarias, la inmersión en el ámbito cultural africano-francófono, las difíciles relaciones culturales de Francia con los individuos egresados de estos países, sobre todo si son negros y saben escribir (a veces mejor que los propios franceses), lastran un poco la lectura. Nos presenta un ejercicio vital, que permite a Faye comprender mejor las raíces culturales, coloniales e históricas de su propio país, Senegal, abandonado para caer en los brazos de una madre patria que, en el mejor de los casos, los trata con desidia y desprecio.

El libro alterna partes muy activas, con mucha fuerza vital e incluso erótica, con amplios párrafos, donde el autor se recrea en una escritura demasiado rebuscada, repleta de imágenes literarias que aportan poco y te desconectan totalmente de la historia. Son estas partes, las que me han dificultado un poco la lectura.

¿Me arrepiento de haber leído este libro?: para nada. He leído un libro muy bien escrito, con mucha fuerza, con una estructura muy original y con un enfoque africano al que me he enfrentado pocas veces en mis lecturas. Un libro que te introduce en una cultura, en una escena literaria, en un ambiente colonial, totalmente novedoso para mi, así que si, ha merecido la pena.

¿Lo recomendaría?: No es un libro fácil de leer, pero aporta muchas cosas, a nivel literario y cultural. Si, lo recomendaría.

[Alan · Rating 5 out of 5]

“My life, like every life, resembled a series of equations. Once their degree was revealed, their terms written, their unknowns established and their complexity set down, what remained? Literature; all that remained and would ever remain was literature, as solution, as problem, as faith, as shame, as pride, as life.”

Undoubtedly, this is a very flawed book. But in that very mould, it attains perfection.

I came across this book shortly after its publication in 2021, the original French title being La plus secrète mémoire des hommes. Someone online was gracious enough to translate a brief description of the book that had just won the Goncourt, and I read this description. At that moment, the virus infected me. It was written for me, I knew. From then on, I would do a cursory Google search of Sarr’s name and the book title every few weeks. Had someone decided to translate this yet? Not yet. I would then go down this rabbit hole where I would start to hate the fact that I didn’t finish my French studies here in Canada. I went pretty damn far, and my conversational French is decent, but I couldn’t pick this up to read it. I had had the keys in my fingers and I had let it slip. Self-referential blame that made absolutely no sense. This is what the promise of the book had done to me. I would tell anyone close to me that cared enough to listen that I wanted to read this book. I then saw that it was finally set for publication, and I tore myself apart trying to get an advanced copy. I got rejected in this attempt, but I was so excited that I accidentally misread the whole email, thinking I had been given a copy. Poor Ted, who must have stared at my WhatsApp message that day with second-hand embarrassment and empathic pain, looking at the screenshot of the rejection email from NetGalley and trying to decide how to respond to my “LET’S GOOOOOOO”, how to break the news to me. Alan, read the text of the email, you didn’t get it…

Here it is, just under two weeks after the official release in Canada. I have managed to carve out enough time to read a book that was always waiting for me. At times, the book seems too ambitious, as if Sarr was excited about what he was writing as he was doing so, one thread quickly linking to the next, him sitting in front of the keyboard and typing away with the exhilaration and euphoria that comes with the beginnings of a grand plan. I will fully understand anyone who has lots to say about this book by way of criticism. As I said, the flaws are there, and they can be picked apart if need be. But there is just too much here. There are too many good snippets of writing, too many beautiful conversation starters (these conversations, of course, happening within my own head), and too many flags and margin notes after its completion.

I suppose I have always found romance in the image of the elusive author with impactful works. Salinger could be put here, and so could Pynchon. T. C. Elimane, the author of The Labyrinth of Inhumanity, is the elusive character in The Most Secret Memory of Men. Our main character, Diégane Latyr Faye, shows the same enthusiasm that I would with the work of an author shrouded in such mystery. The stakes are raised: I mean, you cannot even get your hands on a copy of The Labyrinth of Inhumanity. He manages to do so, only to realize that everything within him is completely and utterly transformed upon reading it. Now what? How to put himself back together? How to make sense of the crumbs and hints left around about the book, the book’s author, its mysterious origins, the scandals it caused? We go on the journey. We need to find out more about T. C. Elimane. We need to know what the secret is. We need to embark on this treasure hunt around the globe, and we need to be prepared for the fact that whatever comes out of the journey may change us.

Well, this journey has changed me. I knew it would. Perhaps I even paved the way for it to do so, acting out a drama that amused me and shaped me, using the book as a rite of passage toward the next stage of my life with reading and writing. It is impossible not to enjoy the intrigues of literary references within the book’s pages. The top dogs of literature find a way to be here, somehow. Diégane’s life as a budding author and a young, sometimes insecure young man are soothing and inspiring. The presentation of myth, history, and hermeneutics are perfectly poised. All of these are done on top of, through, and at the same time outside of the absolute anchors of colonialism, racism, in-group fighting, and the eventual (and perhaps Eternal) return of the child to his/her origins. I mean look at these gorgeous snippets:

“Diary: I’m only keeping you for one reason: to record the extent to which The Labyrinth of Inhumanity has left me a poorer man. Great works impoverish us and must always impoverish us. They rid us of the superfluous. After reading them, we inevitably emerge emptied: enriched, but enriched through subtraction.”

“After my lyrical peroration, the translator looked at me for a minute, then said: That doesn’t mean anything. I’m going to give you some advice: never attempt to say what a great book is about. Or, if you do, the only possible response is “nothing.” A great book is only ever about nothing, and yet, everything is there. Don’t ever fall into the trap of wanting to say what a book that you think is great is about. It’s a trap set for you by the general consensus. People want a book to necessarily be about something. The truth, Diégane, is that only a mediocre or bad or ordinary book is about something. A great book has no subject and isn’t about anything, it only tries to say or discover something, but that only is already everything, and that something is also already everything.”

This book has reminded me why I read and dusted off some of the pessimism. For that, I am able to forgive its shortcomings. How could I not, when it had me constantly closing the book with my index finger holding my place in check, but needing, at the same time, to look at the cover, admire the weight of it, smell its pages? So, much like Chris Cornell, on I read, until the day was gone. The final words stunned me, at once terrifying and reaffirming. And also like Chris Cornell, I realized that, in dreams until my death, I will wander on.

[Ce citesc acum · Rating 5 out of 5]

Grand coup de coeur. ♥️ Ça faisait longtemps que je n’avais pas lu un roman si bien construit et si cohérent. Il y a tout dedans: de l’amour, de l’amitié, de la guerre, du pays natal, de l’enquête et des fuites, du mystère et du mysticisme, mais surtout il y a la littérature et l’écriture. Et après :

« Rien de beau ne s’écrit sans mélancolie.»

[Katia N · Rating 3 out of 5]

Initial reaction

An expansive novel with a big heart, powerful post-colonial critique, brilliant social and meta-commentary but borderline ridiculous plotting, a very slight whiff of machismo and by parts almost a parody of itself.

Longer review (an update)

In 1968 a Yambo Ouologuem from Mali educated in elite École normale supérieure in Paris has published his first novel Le devoir de violence (translated into English as Bound to Violence). It has been well received and earned literary prices. However, a bit later it has become a cause of controversy as it included some passages taken verbatim from the books by Graham Green and Andre Scwartz-Bart. He was accused for plagiarism and even sued by Green. As a result the book was temporarily banned in France. Ouologuem has published a book of essays and an erotic novel. But since then he retired from the public eye and moved back to Mali.

This story of a disappearing writer, his colonial heritage and the controversy with his book is an inspiration for “The Most Secret Memory of Man”. Sarr has moved the main event into the late thirties of the 20th century. The disappearance of the author has naturally served the grounds for a mystery as a main driver of the plot. More valuably, the whole episode has provided Sarr with an opportunity to comment on a state of post-colonial world and a role of its “native” writers as well as plagiarism, literary circles and social media milieu and of course - a meaning of literature.

The result is easily readable and by parts immensely quotable romp. I admired that he raised difficult questions, managed to voice the opinions that might “ ruffle feathers” of some readers and possibly make the others engaging more with these issues. The best way to show what he has achieved is to give the voice to his characters.

The passage below is on the criteria of choice in the contemporary literary scene:

“Are things any different nowadays? Do we talk about literature, about aesthetic value, or do we talk about people, about their skin colour, their voices, their age, their hair, their pets, how they decorate their houses, whether their carpets match the drapes? Do we talk about writing or about identity, about style or about media buzz that eliminates the need for any, about literary creation or about sensationalist personalities? W. is the first black novelist to receive such and such prize or join such and such academy: read his book, it’s fantastic, obviously. X. is the first lesbian writer to publish a book written in gender-neutral language: it’s the major revolutionary work of our era. Y. is a bisexual atheist on Thursdays and a cisgender Mohammedan on Fridays: their account is magnificent and moving and so true! Z. killed her mother while raping her, and when her father comes to see her in prison, she gives him a hand job under the table in the visiting area: her book is a punch in the face. It’s because of all this, all this lauded and rewarded mediocrity, that we deserve to die. Everyone: journalists, critics, readers, publishers, writers, society—everyone.”

This is on the western educated intellectuals from colonies from the point of view of an ninety year old African fisherman turned sorcerer:

“For all their differences, they shared the same fate, to leave and not come back, and the same dream too: become learned men in the culture that subjugated and abused their own. What possible explanation can there be? A personal failing, built into their genes? The powerful seductiveness of white civilization? Was it cowardice? Self-loathing? I don’t know. And that ignorance is at the heart of the whole saga. The white man came, and some of our bravest sons went mad. Beyond mad. Madly in love with their own masters.”

And this is from the point of view of a contemporary Congolese writer who has returned back home from Paris. He refers to Elimane, the disappeared writer of a masterpiece in this novel:

“Elimane wanted to become white, and he was reminded that not only was he not, but that he never would be despite all his talent. He brandished every card of whiteness, culturally at least; these were simply used as reminders of his negritude. Maybe he understood Europe better than the Europeans. But how did he end up? Anonymous, disappeared, erased. You know this: colonization sows despair, death, and chaos among the colonized. But it also sows—and this is its most diabolical triumph—the desire to become one’s destroyer. That was Elimane: all the sadness of alienation.”

Sarr’s slightly verbose but sharp observations do not need any further context to be appreciated. But characteristically Diégane, the young writer, who narrates the whole thing, often is not quite sure about his own personal position on these issues. He prefers to listen to the others and convey their perspectives. I appreciated the author’s choice not to give simple answers or to impose a single point of view on this work.

I also liked his erudition and his love for literature that shined through the book including some examples of more subtle intertextuality. This might be a subtle reference to Borges's El Aleph, but the idea is beautifully expressed in its own way:

The dire aspiration of the essential book is to encompass infinity; its desire, to have the last word in the long discourse of which it is the most recent phrase. But there is no last word. Or if there is, it doesn’t belong to the book, since it doesn’t belong to Man.

He has successfully attempted to bring about some elements of oral tradition of storytelling from Senegal. At some point, the narrative moved to Senegal and the writing has become alive. His Paris is very atmospheric as well.

However as much as i was impressed with many things in this work, i was not convinced by how this novel was executed as a whole. Its form is a well tested post-modern sub-genre, a quest of a sort: a representative of writers/poets/critics/artists is in search of a disappeared and enigmatic book/painting/writer/artist. These novels tend to be digressive, deeply intertextual and sprawling in terms of geography, storytelling and writing styles. The current generation seems to be inspired by Roberto Bolaño’s maximalists novels. But this sub-genre could also traced to Umberto Eco, Calvino and others. While Borges remains a towering inspiration for articulating a mystery in love of literature. Further back in time it seems this sub-genre takes its root in Künstlerroman popular at least since the 18th century. However, after Bolano the number of these novels seemed to grow like mushrooms after rain. Some of them are brilliant. Some of them are less so. The recent example I’ve admired the most was Austral by Carlos Fonseca, an exquisitely written stylish improvisation that delivers its ideas and emotional impact within barely two hundred pages. Maybe if I would not have read Bolano himself, Fonseca and many others, before I would appreciate this novel more.

Following the tradition, the narrative was a hodge-podge of different writing registers: 3rd person accounts, diaries, newspapers excerpt Diégane’scconversations with his friends and even his “what’s up” messages in pursuit of an illusive writer. All these diverse pieces of writing put together has recreated a sort of a “from the cradle to the grave” (or even earlier and later) biography of Elimane. This kaleidoscopic bio was intertwined with meta-fictional commentary and juxtaposed with events in life of Diégane. Usually i am big fan of such a structure: its flexibility leaves the author enough space to divert from any plot and focus on the language and ideas. However, this technique seemed to be applied with too much gusto bordering excess in this novel. Occasionally it seemed as if Sarr demonstrates: “look i know this literary trick and i am going to show you i can do it.” But it was not always convincing.

For example, Sarr has written four short pieces he called “Biographemes.” Initially i was puzzled by this label, The pieces are quite disparate in nature: a diary excerpt, two letters, simple recount in present tense and a monologue. The word “Biographeme” rang the bell so i’ve looked it up. It appeared to be a term created by Roland Barthes. Among other things, he defined it as “that in a biography which reaches out of the text and touches, just as the photo reaches out of the photograph and pricks.”. I’ve understood Sarr’s intentions and his desire to show yet another example of intertextuality. Was this an effective tool and did this labelling add value? Every reader would form her own opinion. For me it seemed a little pretentious in the context of this novel. One of those pieces, the recount has introduced a new storyline about a Nazi and a Jew interactions in the war Paris with predictable consequences. Needless to say it has been done before a million times and came across as a trope rather superfluous to the core of the story together the foray into Argentina of the 60s it has indirectly initiated.

Another “biographeme” a monologue has definitely “pricked” me, but slightly in a wrong way. The monologue is more than ten pages single sentence by Elimane’s mother. Styllistically it is probably a nod to Molly Bloom. But even if it is not, omitting full stops sets the bar quite high for such a type of monologues. It works only if it does not split into logical sentences as it refuses to do in Joyce’s case. Here, this did not quite work. Also the content did not help me either. In the monologue the mother revealed the secret of Elimann’s conception that I’ve found seriously pushing the boundaries of the credibility and the conceit in the plot. Here is the a little excerpt:

“...he told me I had her same thighs and slid away, telling me that one day he’d ride those thighs, it was strange, because I felt incredibly ashamed and at the same time regal, proud like never before, I felt like a holy prostitute, a divine, sacred whore, necessary to the salvation of damned souls, and I was about to start psst-psst-ing the passersby when the man, I mean the hotel manager, came back and told me, We’re all set, he ate a lot, drank a lot, go finish him off,..”

She impersonated a prostitute, somehow did not get recognised by the man who is blind but very much in love with her for many years. I was not sure why a woman who is about to “psst-pssting” to the passerby thought she was saving “the damn souls” by this activity. One might consider it just as a symbolic detail i guess. However, in combination with some other sub-plots this made me face a tragic choice as a reader: either to suspend disbelief totally, but then all twists come down to “fate and magic” which is a bit anti-climatic; or try to accept the plot as an ambitious literary endeavour but in that case these excesses make the story incredulous and a bit tedious, providing too much unnecessary explanations. At one point, Diégane commented in the text “that nothing was worse than a book that explained itself.”. It was not the first time when this novel has managed to be excitingly self-referential.

In many cases Sarr attempted a polyphony of voices of his characters. Sometimes it worked. But it is very hard to give so many characters a distinctive voice. Occasionally they all sounded too similar to each other, too monotonous to make a difference.

All man in the book seemed to be absolutely irresistible lovers. Women seem to be attracted to them almost like flies to a jam. We are faced with three generations of men when all women of poetic sensibilities and different age absolutely cannot resist or even actively seeking their charms for sex and occasional friendship. Menage de trois seems to be a haute couture through these three generations. An element of machismo is palpable when the older generation dictating their partners moral grounds. While the younger generation is so irresistible that Diégane’s girlfriend who initially choses her job over him later regrets her decision only to be dumped by him through a “what’s up” message to “prevent a revenge”.

Eventually the plot has moved from a narrative with a Bolaño-esque vibe to an improvisation a-la “The Count of Monte Cristo” with its thirst for revenge but without the intricacy of the motives and its characterisation of the “badies”. The lack of this was compensated by throwing a bit of black magic for a good measure.

The quality of the intertextual element as well has become more questionable with the characters of Sábado and Witold Gombrowicz being dragged into the plot without any visible benefit. As far as I've noticed they did not say anything about literature in the plot. However, Gombrowitz has been utilised in other capacity as one night stand sexual partner for a character. On another occasion, someone who looked like Borges sitting on a bench in Paris and singing tango has been a part of a drug induced hallucination of another character yet again without tangible enhancement of the plot.

Again, Sarr has come to my help how to summarise my experience with finishing reading this novel:

“At times, yes, amid erratic paragraphs, I read a few pages, a few sentences, I saw an image, a painting, I heard music; and in those moments, Madag swept me violently off the earth and reminded me what substance made the man. But those flashes of brilliance merely illuminated in crueler fashion the depths of the surrounding literary night, before going out.”

If the writer can come up this paragraph, he can definitely write. I’ve mentioned before how much i was impressed with his social commentary. He also is capable with coming up with such brilliant short snaps:

«I don’t care about reality. Compared to the truth it’s always lacking.“

“Mum was conservative out of worry. Father was revolutionary out of regret. He was hoping to witness the great political rupture that his generation has failed to accomplish.”

But he is also too keen on his metaphors. Sometimes they deliver, but sometimes they end up a bit of a cliche or just wildly off the mark:

“The loud clock coughed out ten pm from its ravaged lungs.” ; “A blanket of fatigue settled on my shoulders.”; “I inhaled the room’s acrid smell which burned my throat.”

And sex, this eternal area for creative imagination:

“Her chin jutted out between those dunes of flesh, like a small pyramid.” (just for reference, “Dunes of flesh” are female breasts.)

“We battled in that bed until it was soaked with all our liquids.”

“We made love again like we each wanted to imprint the other’s skin or soul on our own skin or own soul.”

“it was like he transformed during sex into a gentle wind, or hot water, or warm water, and he’d come in through your belly, through your intimate parts, entire body."

At the end, reading this novel for me was like going from “a gentle wind” to a bucket of lukewarm water but on my head; fortunately, not on other parts.

Someone said to Diégane in the novel: “It might be that every writer, in the end, only contains a single book, a work that demands to be written between two voids.”. I disagree. I think every single human being “contains” such a single book. But a writer is the person that “contains” much more than a single book and also he is the one who can write in such a way that the others would find it unique, treasured experience to come in contact with such writing. In spite all of my reservations, i believe Sarr is such a writer. I hope his next book would be more focused. Maybe even more political as the one of the characters recommend to Sarr’s protagonist. I think it would suit his talent. We will wait and see.

[Alaíde Ventura · Rating 5 out of 5]

Asureputísima madre, ¡¡¡qué libro!!!!

Desde el principio están las reglas (medio bolañesco). Hay que tenerle confianza, hay piedrillas en las primeras escenas, medio inclinadas hacia un male gaze, no sé, raro. Y es obvio que hay cosas que el autor deseaba plantear y lo hizo, están ahí para sacudir y avergonzar a la lectora, a la aspirante a escritora (yo), que se refleja en los dichos. Ni modo. Toca.

Pero luego, bien pronto te das cuenta de que esta novela es más fuerte que el mundo, que es un mundo en sí mismo.

No decae nunca, también porque se apoya en juegos de formas (la estructura es compleja, pero no se revienta). Ahora sí que al gusto de la lectora, cada quien encontrará lo que más la mueve y lo que considera más flojo. Personalmente, yo perdí un poco el interés en los fragmentos del día D (un poco, as in: igual me lo eché de un tirón sin pausas más que para comer, dormir y ver Pinocho). Cuando llegué a la carta de Musimbwa supe que no nomás eran palabras, eran invocaciones, rezos, cirugía, reforestación. Había que recitarlo, que todo el cuerpo sintiera la desazón, la furia. Tremendo. De ahí ya no me sequé las lágrimas hasta el cierre.

Instrumentos, eso somos, más las desterradas, más las que nos desvivimos por agradar al dueño. Pero aun en el destierro surgen estos pinches magmas. Tons. Bueno, yo creo que ya no leeré nada el resto del año. Me voy a dedicar a repasar mis subrayados.

[Ellinor · Rating 5 out of 5]

Mir fehlen gerade ein bisschen die Worte, um dieses Buch zu beschreiben und entsprechend zu bewerten. Es ist so unglaublich vielschichtig, dass ich es eigentlich noch ein zweites Mal lesen müsste.
Alles beginnt damit, dass der junge Senegalese Diégane durch Zufall auf einen Artikel stößt, der das Buch "Das Labyrinth des Unmenschlichen" von T.C. Elimane beschreibt. Dieses Buch wurde zunächst als Phänomen gehandelt, führte aber schnell zum tiefen Fall des Autors und dessen Verschwinden. Diégane ist ganz gebannt von dieser Geschichte und widmet sich daraufhin der Suche nach Werk und Autor.
Dies ist der Rahmen einer Geschichte, wie ich sie so noch nicht gelesen habe. Verschwundene Werke und Autoren üben auf mich und vermutlich auch auf viele Autoren eine gewaltige Faszination aus. Daher war ich von Beginn an völlig gefesselt.
Die geheimste Erinnerung der Menschen ist nicht ganz leicht zu lesen. Oft ist zunächst nicht klar wer erzählt, da der Ich-Erzähler von einem Absatz zum nächsten plötzlich wechselt, ohne dass dies gekennzeichnet wäre. Lediglich durch die sich ändernde Handlung wird der Unterschied klar. Zudem gibt es eine Vielzahl von Personen, die teilweise über einen relativ langen Zeitraum nicht mehr in der Handlung vorkommen, um dann auf einmal wieder aufzutauchen. Auch wird Nebenfiguren auch zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt deutlich mehr Aufmerksamkeit gewidmet, als erwartet. Beim Lesen wäre es daher sinnvoll, sich nebenbei Notizen zu machen.
Wenn ich jetzt schreibe, dass ich große Erwartungen in den Autor habe und er ein neuer Star am Literaturhimmel ist, kann ich dies eigentlich nur mit einem Augenzwinkern tun. Lest das Buch, dann versteht ihr warum, aber lest es!

[Ярослава]

Уявіть суміш "Єллоуфейс" Ребекки Кван і "Московіади" Андруховича в рівних пропорціях: страх і заздрість у середовищі письменників з етнічних меншин на сучасному літературному риночку змішуються з трагікомедією постколоніального письменника в серці імперії, який шукає і/чи вигадує собі якусь літературну традицію, щоб на неї зіпертися посеред досить трешових і лімінальних пригод. Уявили? Маєте "The Most Secret Memory of Men", Гонкурівську премію 2021.
Герої книжки - письменники, активісти й читачі з різних колишніх французьких колоній в Африці - намагаються дізнатися більше про африканського автора, котрий у міжвоєнні роки видав один геніальний роман, а далі безслідно розчинився у бурливих водах ХХ століття. Називають його "африканським Рембо", бо, звичайно, охарактеризувати (пост)колоніальних авторів можна лише через референси до метрополії, як же інакше. Там є про все - від різних очікувань до автора з колонії й метрополії до цього болючого відчуття культурного випаленого поля за спиною. Мені книжка здалася трошки затягнутою, але рятує те, що автор дуже self-aware: як тільки щось сильно починає дратувати (скажімо, коли хочеться питати героїв: "якщо ви так тужите за питомою традицією, то хулі ви курите травку з їбанутими комуністками над Сеною, а не розбудовуєте своє?"), сюжет робить виверт і показує, що воно так і має виглядати неоднозначненько. Загалом, українським читачам точно раджу, воно подекуди дуже рілейтебл - і взагалі цікавий конструкт.

[Quirine · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is one of those books that is impossible to review because words would never be enough to translate the state of absolute awe it just left me in. The mystery, the lyrical prose, the palpable pain left behind by colonialism that spans centuries and generations and continents, the questions about identity and art and knowing or not knowing someone through their legacy - it all came together in this book that truly deserves the word masterpiece.

[Enrique · Rating 4 out of 5]

Dudas al final en cuanto a la puntuación. Lo que me parecía de inicio un 4 claro por lo valiente y atrevido de M. Sarr, una temática atractiva (siempre lo es un libro maldito, un escritor como es Elimane con claroscuros y un poco siniestro, etc), un relato construido fragmentadamente por varios protagonistas, distintos espacios temporales..., como digo , todo eso bueno, se me fue haciendo un poco irreal a base del exceso de metraje del libro y de enrevesar la trama.
Como decía un amigo de GR en su reseña, estas novelas largas también hay que premiarlas, ya que no todos los escritores se atreven con ellas, además yo añado, que lograr uniformidad en un texto largo resulta casi casi imposible.
Como no se puede puntuar con 3,5* le doy 4, que creo merece Sarr, habrá que seguirlo un poco.

[Andrea Gumes · Rating 5 out of 5]

¡viva la literatura!

[Kuszma · Rating 4 out of 5]

„Olyan történet ez, amelyet lehetetlen elmondani, elfelejteni, elhallgatni. De mit lehet csinálni valamivel, ami felejthetetlen és mondhatatlan és elhallgathatatlan?”

Nos, általában erről szoktak jó verseket írni. Vagy akit vonzanak a kolosszális kudarcok, amelyeket puszta méretük tesz megkapóvá, megkísérelhetnek belőle regényt írni.

Van ebben a könyvben valami mélységesen kamaszos lelkesedés. Elsősorban azért, mert abból a naiv hitből indul ki, hogy az irodalomnál nincs fontosabb, az irodalom az, ami élni enged vagy akár élni tanít, következésképpen ez az egyetlen, amiért érdemes feláldozni magunkat. Írni tehát nem egyszerűen mesterség, hanem több annál. Írni maga az élet. Az olyan dolgok pedig, mint mondjuk a szerelem, a vágy vagy akár egy forradalom, csak az általunk írott (élt) nagyregény lábjegyzetei, jobb esetben fejezetei.

Ugyanakkor a kamaszosságnak van egy másik aspektusa is. Hogy hajlamos kinevetni a nagy érzéseket. Ez ad egy játékos ambivalenciát a szövegnek: hogy egyre-másra kétségbe vonja, kigúnyolja saját magát. Van ugyanis egy detektívregénybe illő alaphelyzet, egy rejtélyes szenegáli szerző, T. S. Elimane, aki egyetlen regényt írt életében, aztán eltűnt. És van egy elbeszélő, Diégane, akit beszipkáz ez a toxikus szöveg, azt teszi vele, amit az ideális regénynek tennie kell az olvasóval: teljesen betölti, nem hagy benne helyet másnak. (Még szerencse, hogy a valóságban nincsenek ideális könyvek, mondom erre én.) Innentől kezdve Diégane kutatni kezd különös földije után, és miközben kutat, a szöveg vakmerő átalakulásokon megy keresztül, irodalmi krimiből fülledt mágikus-varázslatos dzsungelregénnyé válik, aztán kacérkodni kezd a politikai pamfletté válással, hogy végül megvillantsa a hazatérés-regénnyé formálódás ígéretét. Ami azért ironikus, mert közben az elbeszélő világosan látja, ezek a kanyarok voltaképpen a fehér európai olvasók elvárásait teljesítik be, azokét az olvasókét, akikhez az afrikai íróknak muszáj szólniuk, ha meg akarnak élni az írásból. (És ha nem is vallják be – meg akarnak élni belőle.) Nevezhetjük ezt akár öngyarmatosításnak is, de elképzelhető, hogy egyszerűen szükségszerűség. Hisz amíg honfitársak két törzsi háború vagy éhínség között nemigen érnek rá könyvesboltba járni, addig a Nyugat igen. De lehetünk-e önmagunk, ha idegen nyelven kell megszólalnunk, idegen olvasóknak?

Talán nem lehetünk. De azt hiszem, ez a könyv arról szól (feltéve, ha meg lehet mondani, egy könyv miről szól*), hogy nem az a lényeg, megtaláljuk-e, amit keresünk. És itt lényegtelen apróság, hogy önmagunkat keressük, vagy egy elveszett nagy írót, vagy bármi mást. A lényeg a keresés. Hogy akkor is megyünk tovább, ha nem hisszük, hogy eljutunk valahova. Talán maga a „keresés” az, ahová el kell jutnunk.

* Nem lehet.

[Aitor Castrillo · Rating 3 out of 5]

Hemos leído “La más recóndita memoria de los hombres” en una LC organizada por La librería ambulante.

Conecté con el inicio más por el fondo (reflexiones interesantes sobre la escritura) que por una forma densa construida con un léxico rebuscado.

En el nudo sentí que me estaba perdiendo cosas. Como cuando en Masterchef piden a los concursantes que cocinen un plato con siete elaboraciones muy sofisticadas y hay ingredientes que no tienen presencia al saborear la mezcla. El plato principal sobre el que gira todo es el misterioso escritor Elimane y su libro “El laberinto de lo inhumano”, pero al mirarlo desde diferentes prismas hay momentos en los que me sentí confundido con tanta textura. Y me daba rabia porque sabía que el problema estaba dentro de mí como lector y no tanto en Mohamed Mbougar Sarr como escritor. Un “no eres tú soy yo” en toda regla.

Cuando estaba perdidísimo y un poco agobiado buscando entender a dónde quería llegar el autor… me he reconciliado con la novela. Como una estrofa final que da sentido a la canción o como cuando volvemos la vista atrás y entendemos el camino recorrido.

Musimbwa dice “viva Elimane y viva su puto libro” y a mí solo me nace gritar “¡Viva!”.

[Christian Bistriceanu · Rating 5 out of 5]

Tocmai am terminat de citit această carte. Doamne, ce bucurie, ce nebunie! O reverență adusă literaturii și scriitorilor și, bineînțeles, întrebării care mereu îi bântuie: "a scrie, a nu scrie?" La început M. Mbougar Sarr pare puțin prea îndatorat lui Roberto Bolano și "Detectivilor sălbatici" (inițial aș fi recomandat cartea doar fanilor lui R. B). Totuși autorul reușește să spună propria lui poveste și nu uită ca face parte din două culturi: cea franceză (și implicit Occidentală) și cea a Africii (și în mod special a Senegalului) și de aici, dincolo de pretextul căutării autorului ficțional Elimane, autorul nu uită să vorbească despre adevăratele răni ale Africii: colonizarea și dispariția tradițiilor, migrația prin orice mijloacele (care uneori este sinonimă cu sinuciderea) și revoluțiile și luptele mereu sângeroase.
Ce este cel mai important M. Mbougar Sarr știe să povestească, știe sa te facă să vrei mai mult, indiferent în ce formă alege să spună povestea lui Elimane. O carte caleidoscop. O carte frumoasă.

[Jake Goretzki · Rating 3 out of 5]

Interesting, but I don't really understand the excitement that has greeted this novel.

Sure, the idea of an African writer being rejected by an establishment expecting 'African' cliche and heat is well worthy of commentary. The idea too of a novel within a novel is, I suppose, thought provoking, and becomes a tale - as many have noted - about the power of literature.

Yet I found this all a bit of a souffle, with the kind of magical realist turns that I find exasperating in a lot of Anglo-Saxon literature and a characteristic of a certain type of mystical novelising I'd associate with Borges (never read any, but it scares the hell out of me), or with novels like 'The Glass Bead Game', built on the assumed latent power of some artefact that the reader never sees, but is endlessly being told holds the keys to the mysteries of life.

For the same reason I hate Marvel movies and superheroes, I cannot *stand* being asked to suspend my disbelief about magic and mystery, and accept, in this case, that Elimane's lost novel transfixes readers and, oh, maybe casts spells on critics and sleuths. Each with their own Holy Grail - to find my mother / the writer / the book. I just want to interrupt and go 'Yeah, or maybe it was just a bit crap?'.

As such, I found the novel all a bit frustrating. I didn't feel a strong sense of characterisation (at times it's hard to recall whose notebook you're reading from or whose testament you're hearing). I wasn't itching to find out about the real Elimane. I just came away feeling that this was all a bit meta and all a bit over-clever. The title, even. What the fucking hell does 'The most secret memory of men' actually refer to? It reminds me of those bland 90s Booker winners with titles like 'Fugitive Pieces' and 'The Tenderness of Lint'.

This is the second French novel I've read this year about a fictional writer and matters of race and culture. The first, 'Le Voyant D'Etampes', is far more satisfying and politically acute. It didn't suggest that the writer was a wizard or a Prince of Darkness. It dealt very well with typecasting and with the expectations of publishing. Perhaps my issue is with magical realism (I hate magical realism). But I felt that here is a well-written, but rather frustrating novel about a frustrating novel - and both have fully beguiled their readers.

[diario_de_um_leitor_pjv · Rating 5 out of 5]

Uma das melhores leituras dos últimos meses. Que intensa reflexão sobre a humanidade, as relações humanas, a arte e a literatura.

[Ulysse · Rating 4 out of 5]

Who are you T.C. Elimane?
A demon spirit or a man?

I wrote a book when I was young
I wrote it in a borrowed tongue

Your father lies deep in a trench
Was he so willing to be French?

He said goodbye ere I could speak
I cried until my lungs were weak

Who raised you when your father left
And was your mother’s heart bereft?

She wept beneath the mango tree
She and my uncle cared for me

How did you come to be a writer
Who was your muse where did you find her?

I mastered all there was to know
There was no place she wouldn’t go

Why did you choose to live in France?
You knew you didn’t stand a chance

I was a Rimbaud with black skin
There was no way I could not win

The book you published disappeared
Don’t you find this a little weird?

The critics said I plagiarised
But I just did what critics prized

Why didn’t you write anything else
Why didn’t you write something that sells?

I tried for fifty years or so
To ply my pen but it said no

Why did you turn to sorcery
And say farewell to poetry?

Though I could give an answer now
The answer would feel wrong somehow

Who are you T.C. Elimane?
A demon spirit or a man?

Why don’t you read Diégane’s book?
You won't have very far to look

Diégane? Don't you mean Mbougar Sarr?
...

Yes I can see you will go far

[Oana David · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Fantoma lui, înaintând spre mine, va murmura cuvintele teribilei alternative existențiale care a fost dilema vieții lui. Alternativa în fața căreia șovăie inima oricărui om bântuit de literatură: a scrie, a nu scrie.“

“Cea mai tainică amintire a oamenilor“, Prix Goncourt 2021, o carte labirintică, abisală, enigmatică, căreia nu prea ai cum să îi faci dreptate într-o biată recenzie. Fără îndoială, o capodoperă a zilelor noastre.

Eu sunt bântuită de ce-am citit.

[wow_42 · Rating 5 out of 5]

детально розказую на ютубі: https://youtu.be/5z3M32hYI4c

направду, дуже хороший текст.

гарна інтертекстуальність, яка додає гри для читача. навіть якщо читач не розпізнає усі великодки, то сюжет тримає напругу для розгадки. теми колоніалізму, ідентичності, письменництва, унікальності в літературі прописані та поєднані вдало — сподобалось.

ще один цікавий постмодернізм. раджу.

[emily · Rating 5 out of 5]

‘Let me roll a joint before I tell you this story. I’m not going to offer you any: this strain is strong. It’s from the high seas, and you’re not ready for the high seas yet.’

Confessedly, I had (albeit unspokenly/secretly) underestimated this/Sarr (as I tend to do with books plastered with ‘accolades’ and such; simply uninterested in what a small number of ‘judges’ think — and esp. if they happen to be writers/people I’m unsure of). And/but in return, it fucked me up in the ways ‘great’ literature should/would do to one (but to reiterate, this doesn’t change how I view (or rather my ‘first impressions’ of) ‘books plastered/studded with accolades’). I was unprepared for the wreckage (that is me); and wallowing in the state I’m in, I have gone ahead and started reading (in particular the excerpts I had liked best in the translated text) the French/original text (not because I found the English translation of the text not-good-enough (on the contrary, it certainly left no room for complaints, I feel; I obviously can’t comment on the quality of the ‘translation’ (yet?), but if it’s not clear to one, I’m referring to how well-written it is in terms of style/diction/etc.), but just because I want to know how Sarr ‘sounds’ like in the/his original text). Will probably share more thoughts later/after. Got to let this one ‘sit’ for a while. To clarify, it’s fucking brilliant (shamefully, an obvious understatement, as for now I’ve been made far too stupified by it’s brilliance and ‘beauty’ to find the right words to describe Sarr’s writing/book).

Do excuse me for picking the most ‘unserious’ line/quote to start. While Sarr’s book is well saturated with heavy content and context, the narrator is incredibly endearing, and ever so ‘funny’ (at both appropriate and seemingly inappropriate times). Perhaps ‘funny’ is not an accurate description, but maybe — ‘fun’ to be with on this narrative/literary journey.

‘Bollème would have told me that chance is simply fate whose writing we can’t see—Here, smoke a little, als het erop aan komt, smoke the high seas, just one hit, slowly, there, there, bine-bine, you got it. Now open your eyes, the sea is yours, sailor boy.’

‘I wondered whether I was having a good trip or a bad trip, a pale copy of a dream or the prelude to a nightmare, but I couldn’t decide, probably because what I was having wasn’t, for the time being, one or the other: it was a strangeness not yet tinged with anything. I stopped and rolled another joint with the highest possible dose. Case of emergency.’

‘She—hadn’t told me that she sometimes had sickle cell crises—she was holding in her other hand: Philosophical Fragments. I didn’t have the heart or even the desire to sugarcoat the truth or to console her. She knew better than anyone—Telling her those eyes weren’t real, telling her they weren’t coming for her, would have verged on the kind of arrogance that sometimes colours the hopes of the healthy when confronted with the ill. I simply squeezed her hand.’

‘Maybe there were other rivers, other arms of the rivers. Maybe Elimane hadn’t told me the truth and grew up in Dakar or Ndar. But I continued my expeditions. In their way, they represented a poetic adventure. Knowing how to say poet or poetry in every language spoken in a country you’re discovering is a poetic gesture, isn’t it? Isn’t it the very birth of poetic interaction?’

‘The dream wasn’t a rendezvous. No one was there, but those sentences were. They covered one of the walls, and I was sure they hadn’t been there before. I read them and reread them. I liked them. I made my way down the length of the shore and entered every one of those makeshift huts. And every single one, on some part of the wall, bore your writing, your poetry. After that I started looking for you, everywhere and anywhere, in Dakar. You had left fingerprints all over the capital and yet remained invisible. I looked for you while I read you. Your verses written in black charcoal both guided me through the city and lost me in it. And then—.’

‘The rainy season was late and short-lived this year: several fields of millet have yet to be harvested—this though we’re just past mid-September. The rows of plants extend all the way to the roadside, their panicles dangling. These make a dry thud as they whip against the windshield, sounding just like certain fat insects when they crash into a window midflight—twilight descends as if being filmed in slow motion. First, the sharp line of the horizon sliced the sun’s iris horizontally, precisely through the middle, à la Buñuel; then it spread, from that radiant punctured eye: a sea of cinnabar bestrewn with small flecks of rich indigo and blue, almost black, that grow and then morph into large tumours on the body of the sky. Night falls gently upon the world, like a leaf on the surface of a lake.’

‘I don’t have a powerful origin story. Not like Haruki Murakami, for example. Do you know the story about the incredible way that he became a writer? No? He’s at a baseball game. A ball slices through the air, pure harmony, Murakami watches the ball’s perfect trajectory, and as he does he knows what he has to do, what he has to become: a great writer. That ball was his literary epiphany, his sign. But I didn’t have a ball. I didn’t have a sign. Which makes me want to say that my origin as a writer lies in my reading, I think. What about you? Do you know why you became a writer?’

‘Super Diamono was playing, and Omar Pène’s voice of molten obsidian was sailing toward day on the calm nocturnal sea. In its wake slid the peaceful and glorious “Moudjé,” a memento mori in the form of a unique gem, forged in the lava of twelve minutes of jazz. Da ngay xalat ñun fu ñuy mujjé, it said, remember our end, think about the great solitude, contemplate the promise of twilight, which will be held for everyone. A reminder as formidable as it was essential, as old as time, but whose dizzying gravity I felt like I was realising for the first time in my life. And so it was after surrendering myself to this abyss opened by Diamono and Pène that I began—.’

‘France won the World Cup and the country celebrated its second star beneath a sky brimming with them. I watched the game with Musimbwa, then we went out to eat at a little African restaurant where the food was decent, the service mediocre, and the mood set by an old kora player whose repertoire was limited to one long and repetitive Mandingo ballad.’

‘Outside, we could hear kids hollering as they played soccer in the streets, garbage lots, and potreros of Barracas. The games were held at all hours, in the middle of the night even; impassioned, rugged, violent matches, with nothing at stake but honour, which at that age is the most important and perhaps only thing worth playing for, apart from the occasional prize of two jars of milk for which all the children had chipped in. A tango melody entered Elimane’s bedroom from the upstairs apartment, whose window must have been open too. Amid the screaming and shouting by the boisterous soccer players, we were able to make out a few words. And yet we didn’t need to hear the song clearly to know that like all great tangos, it spoke of the solitude of man’s greatest depths, of the impossibility of keeping and even more so bringing back loved ones, of moments of innocence and joy, of the faint imprint of true beauty. From the window we also saw the silhouette of La Bombonera. If there had been a match taking place, we could have heard the Boca fans’ frenzied whoops and chants of love escaping the stadium.’

‘After that, he sought truth in his first love, the pure abstraction of mathematics, which he taught at a high school. All he ever wrote anymore were reviews, often to cogently and elegantly and cruelly destroy countless literary poseurs. His critical model is Étiemble.’

‘At this moment the void slits its own throat, and in the mute cry sparked by the blade cutting into flesh, you think you hear something fall from its twitching, pollarded head: a final hypothesis, terrible and terribly calm—the temptation to remain silent is sometimes as useless as the temptation to speak. Empty cenobitism kills, and for the same reason, just as surely as energetic jabbering: both believe they are making the essentialness of their book dependent on a posture taken in regard to words or the world, when it stems from submission to an interstitial language. To unleash the inner earthquake—Some withdrawals are empty, some company is hollow. Certain heavy silences carry nothing, just as words meant to be decisive collapse in on themselves, their foundations trembling at the crucial moment—.’

‘An easy metaphor, but true. A pirogue high on drugs and lost at sea, following a night-time tango sung by elusive sirens. And that’s all—the life of a stoned Ulysses, but a Ulysses with no way home, a Ulysses for whom Ithaca is, can only be, the sea, and the sirens’ song, and ruses, and tears beneath the rain, and Cyclops, and the sea again, forever the sea.’

‘So what is this homeland? You know it: it’s obviously the land of books. Books read and loved, books read and despised, books we dream of writing, insignificant books that we’ve forgotten and can’t even remember if we ever opened, books we claim to have read, books we’ll never read but that we still wouldn’t relinquish for anything in the world, books waiting for their hour on a patient night, before the dazzling twilight of dawn readings.’

[Wojciech Szot · Rating 5 out of 5]

W końcu!

Czekałem na “Najskrytszą pamięć ludzi” od kilku miesięcy nagabując wydawcę o losy przekładu Jacka Giszczaka i ewentualną rozmowę z Autorem, bo to jest zdecydowanie jedna z najciekawszych książek, jakie w tym roku przeczytacie. A, że przeczytacie, to jestem niemal pewien, bo naprawdę trudno mi sobie wyobrazić, że nie zainteresuje was opowieść o młodym senegalskim pisarzu, który prowadzi śledztwo w sprawie innego senegalskiego pisarza i jego legendarnej powieści “Nieludzki labirynt”. Ta wydana w 1938 roku powieść sprawiła, że jej autor - T. C. Elimane został okrzyknięty “czarnoskórym Rimbaud”. Gwiazda Elimane’a rozbłysła nagle i równie szybko zgasła, a autor zniknął i pozostawił czytelników pełnych domysłów o swoje przyszłe losy.

Bohater i główny narrator książki Sarra, Diégane Latyr Faye, właśnie Elimanowi zawdzięcza zainteresowanie literaturą. “Afrykańskim autorom z mojego pokolenia, których wkrótce nie będzie już można nazywać młodymi, T. C. Elimane pozwolił wypruwać flaki w literackich potyczkach, zaciętych i krwawych. W jego książce było coś z katedry i areny” - pisze. I coś z katedry i areny jest w książce Sarra, to szkatułkowa powieść, w której znajdzie się miejsce zarówno na powieść w powieści, dziennik, pełną erotyki opowieść w typie bildungsroman, a do tego wszystkiego niesamowicie inteligentną krytykę postkolonialną. Bo przecież, czy Senegal naprawdę musiał wydać “czarnoskórego Rimbaud’a”, by Francuzi docenili literaturę czarnych autorów i autorek? Z drugiej strony pokolenia czarnych pisarzy i pisarek, którzy “podążali ku stronicom “Nieludzkiego labiryntu” jak manaty, które ściągają do źródła. By tam się napić”, nie trafiłyby nigdy na autora książki, gdyby nie Francja i jej rynek książki. Kto kogo zatem kształtuje?

“Najskrytsza pamięć…” jest też opowieścią niezwykle sprytną i zawierająca wiele możliwych dróg interpretacji. Już sama dedykacja jest problematyczna. “Dla Yambo Ouologuema”. To właśnie Ouologuem, malijski pisarz, który w 1968 roku za powieść "Le devoir de violence" dostał jedną z najważniejszych francuskich nagród, został oskarżony o plagiat książek Grahama Greene'a i André Schwarz-Barta. "Oczywiście" na język polski nikt jej nie przetłumaczył, więc nie możecie tłumnie ruszyć do bibliotek na studia porównawcze. Dzisiaj już wiemy, że o ile w powieści Ouologuema są pewne odniesienia do innych książek, tak autor nigdy ich nie ukrywał, a nagonka na niego miała rasistowskie podglebie. Autor wyjechał z Francji do Mali i nieomal zniknął. Podobnie jak Elimane z powieści Sarra, Ouologuem dopiero w ostatnich latach swojego życia i po śmierci w 2017 roku doczekał się uznania.

Faye, bohatera “Najskrytszej…” poznajemy już po debiucie. Jego niewielka powieść “Anatomia pustki”, którą opublikował “u nieszukającego rozgłosu wydawcy” sprzedała się w 79 egzemplarzach, wliczając w to zakupy samego autora. “A przecież tysiąc sto osiemdziesiąt dwie osoby zalajkowały post umieszczony przeze mnie na Facebooku, anonsujący rychłą publikację książki. Dziewięćset dziewiętnaście osób zostawiło komentarz. „Gratulacje!”” - żali się Faye. Na łamach afrykańskiej edycji “Le Monde” został nazwany “obiecującym autorem frankofońskiej literatury afrykańskiej”, co było “pochwałą dyskwalifikującą”. Bo to, o czym marzy Faye, to zostanie jednak wybitnym francuskim pisarzem. Marzy mu się powieść “wielka, ambitna i przełomowa”. Jak “Nieludzki labirynt” Elimane’a.

“Najskrytsza pamięć…” to zapis fascynacji literaturą i fascynująca literatura w jednym. Kalejdoskop niezwykłych postaci. Poznajemy na przykład senegalską diasporę młodych twórców i ich przywódczynię, skandalistkę, która dla Faye była “czarnym aniołem senegalskiej literatury, bez którego ta ostatnia byłaby kloaką śmiertelnej nudy, gdzie taplają się, niczym miękkie stolce”. To jest język! Gdzie indziej pisze o kongijskim autorze, że ten “jak surowy aerolit wtargnął do literackiego świata, zgarniając nagrody, zdobywając poklask i laury z obojętnością, która mogła być przejawem pokory albo arogancji”. Sarr wspaniale gra żarliwym patosem, poetycznością, niesamowitym bogactwem frazy, niemal barokowym w ozdobnikach, a wciąż czytelnym i nieprzygniatającym czytelnika.

“Mit literacki to plansza do gry”, pisze Sarr. I podobnie jak wielcy mistrzowie prozy iberoamerykańskiej, zaprasza nas do gry w literaturę, a “Najskrytsza pamięć ludzka” jest jak wielka podróż, czy może bardziej - niesamowicie rozbudowany seans z duchami. Bo znajdziecie tu i opowieść o literaturze, rasie, kolonializm, postkolonializm, wojny światowe i niezwykłe biografie. Faye rekonstruuje biografię Elimana’a, przytacza artykuły mu poświęcone, pisze swoją nową powieść, a wszystko to przecież jest fikcją. Jak u twórców postmodernizmu, tylko może trochę bardziej realistycznie.

Z pewnością zainteresuje was również fakt, że jednym z bohaterów powieści jest… Polak. I to jaki Polak! Od razu tłumacz i to kogo! Gombrowicza! Stanislasa poznajemy gdy chrapie i to mnie akurat nie zdziwiło, choć urzekło. Dodać należy też, że Sarr tworzy w “Najskrytszej…” misternie utkane apokryfy, pisząc choćby na nowo fragmenty dziennika Gombrowicza, z których wynika, że ten również miał kontakt z Elimanem.

Zachwyca bogactwo tej urzekającej, niesamowicie inteligentnej prozy. Sarr jawi się jako pisarz o niesamowitej wyobraźni, mistrz smutnej ironii, a jednocześnie genialny gawędziarz. Niesamowita jest umiejętność Sarra do opowiadania historii wieloma głosami, różnymi gatunkami literackimi, które nie rozpadają się, a tworzą spójną, epicką historię o tym, że literatura zmienia ludzkie życie. Niekoniecznie na dobre.

Okładka też świetna. Plakiat wymiata! A z autorem porozmawiam pod koniec miesiąca.

[Ubik 2.0 · Rating 5 out of 5]

“non cercare mai di dire di cosa parli un grande libro…”

“non cercare mai di dire di cosa parli un grande libro. O, se lo fai, dai l’unica risposta possibile: di niente. Un grande libro parla sempre e soltanto di niente, ma dentro c’è tutto”

Si potrebbe cavarsela così, adottando le parole dell’eccellente romanzo di Mohamed Mbougar Sarr, e chiudere il commento.

Un altro immediato riferimento all’ispirazione dell’autore è insito nel titolo stesso del libro all’interno del romanzo e che ne rappresenta il vero protagonista, e cioè “Labirinto”, perché è difficile trovare una definizione tanto appropriata anche se scontata per definirne l’anima e la natura.

All’interno di questo percorso “dedaleo” (Treccani = “mirabilmente ideato e congegnato, geniale”) Sarr inserisce ogni cosa, la Storia, i legami familiari, il rapporto fra editoria e società culturale, la colonizzazione dell’Africa e lo sradicamento dal paese natale, l’animismo, e poi l’amore, l’erotismo, la follia, ma soprattutto la scrittura (“scrivere o non scrivere?”), l’enigma, il ruolo, il potere, il pericolo, l’ossessione della letteratura.

Sarr inscrive tutta questa materia, e tanto altro ancora, in una struttura che inanella piani, epoche e luoghi diversi attraverso racconti orali, interviste, biografemi, ritagli di giornale, recensioni, testimonianze.

Quanto al soggetto si può sintetizzare in modo semplicistico nella ricerca da parte di un giovane scrittore africano contemporaneo (Sarr stesso?) di un libro sfrecciato come una meteora mezzo secolo prima nel panorama editoriale francese e poi pressoché scomparso, vilipeso e dimenticato, un libro sbalorditivo, affascinante ma anche maledetto, così come il suo altrettanto fantomatico autore che diventa l’oggetto dell’ossessiva ricerca attraverso tre continenti e quattro generazioni.

Mohamed Mbougar Sarr affronta questo itinerario, tortuoso e doloroso quasi quanto il percorso del libro oggetto della narrazione, con grande talento e tanta generosità che giustifica alcuni inevitabili pleonasmi, virtuosismi e squilibri che possono sconcertare il lettore, comunque ben ripagato da innumerevoli brani di indimenticabile suggestione.

Ci sarebbe ancora da accennare ai numerosi riferimenti e tributi letterari che l’autore ha immesso nel romanzo in modo indiretto oppure, come nel caso di Witold Gombrowicz ed Ernesto Sabato, trasponendoli come personaggi all’interno del racconto, ma altri hanno trattato in modo approfondito quest’aspetto, dal quale non mi sento particolarmente appassionato.

[Gabriela Pistol · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.5

Mi-a plăcut povestea înaintașilor lui Elimane mai mult decât povestea scriitorului misterios, care le fascinează pe toate celelalte personaje. Mi-au plăcut și gândurile despre literatură ale tânărului Diégane, cel ce ar fi trebuit sa fie un fel de executant al testamentului lui Elimane.

"(...) scriam pentru că nu știam nimic, scriam pentru a spune că nu mai știam ce altceva trebuie să faci pe lumea asta, dacă nu să scrii, să scrii fără sperantă, dar și fără a te resemna ușor, cu încăpățânare și dându-ți sufletul, și plin de bucurie, cu singurul țel de a pleca din lumea asta cât mai acceptabil cu putință, așadar cu ochii deschiși: să vezi totul, să nu-ți scape nimic, să nu clipești, să nu te adăpostești sub pleoapele coborâte".

Și mi-a plăcut viziunea colonialismului, chiar dacă ea se desprinde destul de vag din puzzle-ul pe care am avut senzația tot timpul că Sarr s-a chinuit să îl împraștie cât mai tare - adică să amestece momente și voci - ca să dea mai multă complexitate/consistență poveștii.

"Tu știi: colonizarea seamănă printre colonizați dezolarea, moartea, haosul. Dar ea seamănă, totodata, printre ei - și asta e reușita ei cea mai dracească -, dorința de a deveni asemenea celor care i-au distrus. Iată-l pe Elimane: toată tristețea înstrăinării".

Nu mi-au plăcut: patetismul unor discursuri, sentimentalismul scenelor de dragoste, dialogurile excesiv de prețioase chiar și cu sătence senegaleze care nu știau să citească. Senzația că alternanța vocilor nu e întotdeauna un procedeu post-postmodern/-colonialism/-ceva, ci că autorul pierde uneori povestea din mână. Totuși, cred că melancolia, sentimentalismul, neclaritatea liniilor sunt de fapt naturale într-o poveste care e în primul rând despre trecut, trecutul ca singur loc care pare să definească fiecare personaj.

"Credeam, cu forța evidenței, că trecutul este cel care se întoarce pentru a bântui prezentul. Ar trebui să luăm în considerare ipoteza că este la fel de adevărat și invers, dacă nu chiar mai adevărat: noi îl bântuim, nelăsându-i niciodată sa se odihnească în pace pe cei care ne precedă".