On Elegance While Sleeping

by Vizconde de Lascano Tegui, Idra Novey (Translator), Celina Manzoni (Introduction)

The first English translation of the self-proclaimed “Viscount” Emilio Lascano Tegui—a friend of Picasso and Apollinaire, and a larger-than-life eccentric in his own right—On Elegance While Sleeping is the deliciously macabre novel, part Maldoror and part Dorian Gray, that established its author’s reputation as a renegade hero of Argentine literature. It tells the story, in the form of a surreal diary, of a lonely, syphilitic French soldier, who—after too many brothels and disappointments—returns from Africa longing for a world with more elegance. He promptly falls in love with a goat, and recalls the time, after a childhood illness, when his hair fell out and grew back orange—a phenomenon his doctor attributed to the cultivation of carrots in a neighboring town. Disturbing, provocative, and mesmerizing, On Elegance While Sleeping charts the decline of a man unraveling due to his own oversensitivity—and drifting closer and closer to committing a murder.

from On Elegance While Sleeping:

“I was born in Bougival. The Seine flowed through our village. Fleeing from Paris. Its dark green waters dragged in the grime from that happy city. As the river crossed our town, it jammed the millwheel with the shy bodies of drowning victims hidden beneath its surface. Their trip ended with a final shove. They didn’t drain easily through the sluice gates as the water passed under the mill and so it happened, occasionally, that one of their arms would go through without them, reaching into the air in a gesture of help. I fished out a number of these bodies as a child. Like the mailman in town who was famous for bringing news of a death, I was known for discovering the most cadavers. It gave me a certain aura of fame among my comrades, and I prided myself on the distinction. I threatened the other children my age that I was going to find them too, the day they drowned.”

Genres: Fiction, Latin American, Literature, 20th Century, Book Club, Novels, Latin American Literature

192 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1924

About the author

Firma de Emilio Lascano Tegui, escritor, poeta, pintor y diplomático argentino.

Reviews

[Vit Babenco · Rating 5 out of 5]

On Elegance While Sleeping is a diary of some self-styled and decrepit Don Juan.
On Elegance While Sleeping is morbidly decadent…

“And how have you been?” he asked instead. Next to his life as a coachman-drifter, running to so many volumes, my own adventures would fill only a few measly sentences… “What do you bring us from Africa?”
“Syphilis,” I replied mechanically.

On Elegance While Sleeping is decadently poetical…

Love is the most profound aesthetic experience in a person’s life. Faith cannot compete. It and love tend to go their separate ways – though they do often stage reunions on battlefields, taking refuge together, as when they were first born, in men stricken with fear, nothing more than the terrified playthings of God.

On Elegance While Sleeping is poetically grotesque…

Once, men possessed the sea, the mountains, and the stars. They put them to use in their poetry, in their dreams and deaths. Today, however…

On Elegance While Sleeping is grotesquely dreamlike…

When night comes, crowds hit the old neighborhoods like herds of boars escaping the purest of women (Diana) – clerks twisted and gnawed by their desires till they resemble the old files from their offices, the sex maniacs, vampires, and still-ashamed pederasts, all looking for refuge in the slums and suburbs and peeping into the buildings there, unbuttoning their pants and pissing at random against the walls and trees.

On Elegance While Sleeping is dreamily mystical…

In a pit, among the garbage heaps, a woman who was really still a girl was poking at the ground. She was burying a biscuit tin containing six playing cards with a pin stuck through them, a piece of lodestone, the hearts of two doves, and a cameo of her seducer.

Is life but a dream?

[MJ Nicholls · Rating 5 out of 5]

A glorious little book, told in elegant poetic chapters, tinier than a thimbleful of sand, but wittier than four Javier Maríases and smarter than one Fernando Pessoa. Written in an undated diary format, the narrator recounts his experiences as a man of leisure, from his manicured beginnings, his syphilitic middles, to his murderous ends.

Wondrous little intro, too, and the translation is smooth, perfect: captures the voice nicely. (P.S. The author was a self-appointed Viscount. Megacool).

[Maria Bikaki · Rating 3 out of 5]

Πάντα αναζητούσα την αγάπη που δεν είχα. Ήθελα να μ’ αγαπούν. Έκανα ό,τι μπορούσα. Αυτό είναι το μόνο που έκανα. Οι εργάτες κινδυνεύουν να πέσουν σαν τα τούβλα από τις σκαλωσιές τους. Χάνουν τα χέρια και τα πόδια τους. Εγώ δεν μπόρεσα να χάσω τίποτα, και τα’ χω χάσει όλα. Ήταν σωστό να μ’ αγαπούν. Μόνο η αγάπη υπάρχει. Να σ’ αγαπούν. Αυτή είναι η χαρούμενη μονοτονία της ζωής μου.

Μια άκρως διασκεδαστική αναγνωστική εμπειρία- ιστορία για έναν μελλοντικό φόνο μέσα από τις γεμάτες διαστροφή και πάθος σελίδες του ημερολογίου του. Ο υποκομης ερωτοτροπεί ξεδιάντροπα, σοκάρει και ξαφνιάζει, παρατηρεί την ανθρώπινη φύση και γράφει με μια ιδιαίτερη εκκεντρικότητα που σου τραβάει το ενδιαφέρον.

«Κάποτε οι άνθρωποι είχαν δικά τους τη θάλασσα, τα βουνά και τ’ αστέρια. Τα ’βαζαν στα ποιήματά τους, στα όνειρα τους, και στο θάνατο τους. Σήμερα όμως… Καμιά φορά, αν κοιτάξεις μακριά, στο βάθος της λεκάνης του Σηκουάνα, μπορείς να δεις κάτι ακαθόριστο, το οποίο, δεδομένης της προνομιούχου θέσης του, λες ότι πρέπει να ’ναι ένα παιδί ή μια ωραία γυναίκα. Οταν πλησιάσεις, διαπιστώνεις πως αυτό που σου ’χε φανεί ένα εκλεκτό ανθρώπινο πλάσμα, δεν είναι παρά ένα σκυλάκι, μια φωτογραφική μηχανή ή ένα ποδήλατο».

[Tosh · Rating 4 out of 5]

With the title "On Elegance While Sleeping," of course I had to read it. Its by a writer i never heard of before, a man who is a total mystery to me. Which added the appeal for me to pick on this book as well.

A sweet little tale of a murder-to-be via his diary. But no, this is not a serial killer's rant and ravings, it is a highly beautifully written dreamy (in other words Surreal) observations on sexuality, family, and one's place in the 'outer' world. Which in other words can be "dandy" world.

These two paragraphs i find beautiful:

"One day she wasn't among her friends, but still feeling the strange power of that fragile girl -destined to die far too early - her friends fell silent as they passed me, same as on all the other day, without the least self-consciousness. Not a single one looked at me. And I knew the truth. Isabel was dying.

Having decided a few days later to inquire about her health, I installed myself again along the bend in the road, where I soon heard a song coming down the way. The women from the factory of supersensitive telephone receivers had replaced their dead friend with a song."

A wonderful little book.

[WillemC · Rating 5 out of 5]

"De la elegancia mientras se duerme" - in het Nederlands vertaald als "Blauwe onschuld" - is een soort fictief dagboek vol anekdotes, herinneringen en bespiegelingen afkomstig uit verschillende levensfases van deze zelfuitgeroepen Argentijnse baron. Lascano Tegui lijkt in deze bladzijden bijna geobsedeerd door Eros en Thanatos in hun meest lichamelijke en soms decadente incarnaties; de late negentiende eeuw is in de verstopte toiletten, drijvende lijken, prostituees en gedegenereerde adel nooit echt veraf. Het deed mij tijdens het lezen soms wat denken aan "Les 21 jours d'un neurasthénique" van Octave Mirbeau, dat hierop zeker van invloed was. Meer dan honderd jaar geleden geschreven, maar nog perfect leesbaar; gedateerd en fris tegelijk. Prachtige vormgeving trouwens van Paul Bogaers. 4.5/5!

"De traagheid waarmee ze rekende, haar duidelijk zwak geestvermogen heeft mijn keuze bepaald en rechtvaardigt mijn daad. Ik ga de wereld verlossen van een onvolmaaktheid, de mensheid van een zwakke geest."

"Literatuur en roem maken me ziek. [...] De kunst vergalt mijn leven."

"Ik ben bang dat, als ik een boek over de syfilis van Don Juan zal schrijven, ik ook ten prooi zal vallen aan de hersenkronkel van sommigen die hun doen en laten een literaire uitgave waard achten terwijl hun bestaan in werkelijkheid een saai feuilleton is."

"Mijn nachten bestaan uit fragmenten. Ik heb nog nooit een nacht doorgeslapen."

"Syfilis is een hoofse aandoening en ik heb me te houden aan de gedragsregels die daarbij horen."

"Waarom vond ik vrouwen die in de vorm van hun gelaat iets van een schaap hadden zo aantrekkelijk?"

"Het riekt naar heiligschennis, zo'n bladzij in een dagboek als dit waarin je troost zoekt door tegenover jezelf anderen in een kwaad daglicht te stellen."

"Bougival is bevolkt met oude vrouwen. Ze hebben grote gezichten die de ruiten van de ramen vullen. Oh God, wat zijn ze toch oud!... Zelfs de dood laat ze onverschillig en ze zullen pas sterven wanneer ze het luiden van de klokken zat zijn."

"Water en urineschuim vormen een poel in de urinoirs. Met pus doordrenkt verband verstopt de ingang van de afvoerbuizen en daardoor blijven de riolen wanhopig leeg."

[Oscar · Rating 5 out of 5]

No sé cómo describir lo que acabo de leer, pero lo que sí sé es que me ha dejado fascinado.




“He sentido al nacer el deseo de corregir esta naturaleza humana que sentía frágil e imperfecta”

“El arte ha envenenado la existencia”

“El tiempo nos ha carcomido la esperanza y mientras la humedad nos roía por dentro el corazón y el higado, los literatos nos entretenían pintándonos la puerta”

[Jonathan · Rating 5 out of 5]

Perfection from start to finish.

[Kathryn · Rating 5 out of 5]

This short novel, On Elegance While Sleeping, was written, in the form of a diary in the 1920s, by Argentinian novelist "Viscount" Lascano Tegui, who counted among his friends Pablo Picasso and a fellow early surrealist writer, Apollinaire. Many passages of the novel have taken my breath away because of their beauty, originality, and jarring juxtapositions. This little known and brilliant piece of literature is sometimes dark, often haunting, and more than occasionally shocking and funny. Full of mesmerizing, decadent, voluptuous and delicate images, some passages (especially as the book progresses) are not for the faint of heart.

[Anna Baboura · Rating 3 out of 5]

Από τα βιβλία που κάθε του σελίδα με κάνει να τραγουδώ:
“All day long I think of things
But nothing seems to satisfy
Think I'll lose my mind
If I don't find something to pacify”

https://youtu.be/RF0HhrwIwp0

[Theodora · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ένα μικρό διαμαντάκι!
Ό,τι καλύτερο για το αναγνωστικό ξεκίνημα της χρονιάς...

[Ben Winch · Rating 1 out of 5]

Yeah. Um. I don't see the point in this. Plotless it may be; Book of Disquiet it ain't. It's well written, I give it that much, but I put it down three quarters of the way through many months ago and, having dipped into it briefly this morning, I feel not the slightest desire to pick it up again. Could be I'll reconsider. True, some images linger. But so does a sense of lethargic frustration. Oh, and the cover is terrible. Thank heaven it's well-bound! But it may be its spine will never get much of a workout.

[José · Rating 4 out of 5]

Nunca el amor a las ubres ovinas dio tanto juego. Una colección de fetichismos.

[Monica Carter · Rating 5 out of 5]

Bougival is full of old women. Their big faces fill the windowpanes. My God, how old they are! Not even death can get their attention. They'll only die once they finally tire of listening to the ringing of the village bells.

Emilio Lascano Tegui of Argentina, self-proclaimed Viscount, was a man that lived the life of an adventurer. Yes, he was a writer. Yes, he was a witness to the world he lived in, but that never stopped him from creating a world others wanted to live in. Writer, journalist, painter, diplomat, mechanic, decorator and...dentist? Participating in professions from the banal to the grandiose, he never waited for life to come to his door. He was the consummate writer able to make his own experiences and turn them into writing that is utterly compelling, funny, full of depth and sensitivity. No need for me to hide the fact that his book, On Elegance While Sleeping, is one of my top choices out of all the titles on the longlist. Once he moved to Europe as a translator for the International Post Office, he began writing as a career. He befriended Picasso and Apollinaire, fancied himself a Viscount(a title in British nobility) and enjoyed life as the dilettante that he was.

What is magical about his fictional diary of a man's slow fall into madness is that he renders it relatable. A man whose prized possessions are sex and elegance, Tegui offers madness and eloquence through his short diary entries. We are witness to his surreal proclamations of love for a goat alongside his wistful musings on the loss of elegance in society. All done with an impeccable writing style that is unique without being verbose or self-conscious. His narrative skill is evident in this passage where he introduces a friend, Raimundo:

December 31, 18--

We had a large carriage depot in Bougival. Come evening, these heretofore idle carriages would depart for Paris. They were our town's only night owls. In a cafe, "Au Rendez-vous des chochers," the drivers would get together for wine. Among those wide, paunchy men with their flush faces, I met one who was exceptionally wide, paunchy, and flushed: his face was a beet with two little holes that opened to allow his eyes to peer out. On top of that, these eyes hid under a single eyebrow, life the forehead-strap on a muzzle.

The man was a rag torn off some holy cassock. A defrocked priest. He took me along with him until the road to Mont Valerian sometimes, recounting the secrets of his adventurous life as a coachman, enjoying himself immensely, as if he though of himself as one of the Eugene Sue characters that appeared weekly in the newspaper serials.

The reader learns so much here--about his town, the friend--in such a concise and engaging way, it's difficult not to appreciate the density of his marrowy style. There is a hint of allusion to the work itself which reflects expresses the character's attempt at making art our of his illness, syphilis:

May 19, 18--

"I'm thinking about writing a book," I said, "a book that would be a sort of symptomatic journal of my disease that could serve as a source of information for doctors and literary types both. This idea came knocking at my door as twilight fell...I let it seduce me as though I were just another conquest...Even though I know that writing a book is the greatest shame than an original mind can bring upon itself."

"But--I want to write a book, Raimundo. A book that will make my illness into an iridescent fantasy..."

This idea of writing a book about an illness gets to a core theme of writer as detached observer and corroborator, forever in isolation while trying to convey the experience of actually being there. As soon as the idea is set into action in the diary, he simultaneously mourns the loss of poetry of writing while contemplating the role of writer:

November 6, 18--

They (writers) publish books for the pleasure of seeing them printed and bound, without remembering the saddest aspects of their lives will end up contained in those pages.

But wouldn't my book be a result of my desire to commit a crime, and thus be part of it? Wouldn't every page be a sliver of glass in the daily soup of my fellow citizens?

A book is the vegetal pulp left behind by man. And now, after countless centuries of digging up and studying palimpsests and engraved tablets, they're saying that we should just allow those dead, abandoned cities to become buried again beneath the windblown sentiment...

A book is a slow, unavoidable catastrophe.

And at the end of this slim novel, Tegui gives us that catastrophe in violence and in our testament to his book, to his' unavoidable catastrophe.' As far as Argentinian writers, Tegui may not be well know in the canon of twentieth century Argentinian literature, but he and this masterpiece deserve a place in it. Indra Novey's translation is superlative and I am thankful that for her skill as a translator. On Elegance While Sleeping has earned a permanent spot on my bookshelf as well as one of the most quote-worthy books I own. I only hope that there is more of Viscount Lascano Tegui's to be unearthed and shared with those of us who crave more.

[Michael Vagnetti · Rating 4 out of 5]

A single astonishing passage bends the book to its ear:

"I sing my childhood in these pages that no one will ever read since they are written only for me. Nobody ever gave me toys to sap away my manhood, to teach me to be docile and, sadder still, simply ordinary. No. I've never had the tinplate and cardboard gendarmes children play with in the city. Justice is a painted gendarme whose colors rub off in our hands. A gendarme that's been painted, carved, encrusted in the foods we ingest. The trademark of our moribund society, of a nation unhinged, of men who don't know how to hold on to the elegance they possessed as children, when man - that obese monster - happily slept." (39)

This somatic morality is a resonant redefinition of voluptuousness, a word that appears throughout the book. The potential for pleasure is not a dissipation, or even purely sensual. It is like a reinforcement against a kind of false maturity. Tegui senses that one's fulfillment of being is undermined from birth. Here, there is an inferior, play version of humanity that, although carefully made and given, is an antidote to individuality.

The oddities and idiosyncrasies described in the writing bully and romance the narrator's physical memory as he dramatizes his relationship to a kind of spiritual insomnia.

[Karellen · Rating 4 out of 5]

A pariah writes:

Okay well obviously nobody can be bothered to contact me any more and I feel like some kind of social outcast or leper. So the pariah shall review some books instead.
Starting with this one.
Interestingly it seems to be one of those marmite books. Plenty of 4 and 5 star ratings but also some disappointed readers that doled out low marks. Nevertheless 3:5 is a good average from 76 ratings.
The negative reviews typically focus on the lack of plot. One reader even felt that surrealism was irrelevant in this century. Are they being serious or was that some sick joke?
Thankfully there are enough people out there with taste.
Personally I thought it was rather brilliant and quite an antidote to the bombastic monolithic tomes that are regularly churned out by those who cannot find a decent editor.
The Count is a fascinating figure a Latin American who has written a fascinating novel set in the villages that lie on the seine near Paris. I guess it doesn't even qualify as a novel. I wouldn't like to categorise this kind of writing. That it doesn't go anywhere is almost is its strength.
That and the great jacket.

[Babs · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book was highly original in terms of its subject, approach to form and style. The writer shows his deep thought he has consecrated to observing the human condition, and it is frequently funny, witty and irreverant. However, the writing sometimes felt obscure, and several times I had to re-read and even re-re-read sections as they didn't make any sense. They may have been beautiful but they didn't seem to mean anything that I could grip on to.
An example of the enjoyable eccentricity of writing in this book can be found in the author's observation that there are people who worship the book as a fetish object, "like the eighteenth-century woman who liked lace so much she cut it up and ate it in a tortilla."
Considering that this book was written in 1925 it is daring and avant-garde. I don't feel like I understood the book, but from what I know of the author, and from what I have read in the book itself, I would not be surprised if this is the last thing the author wanted. Definitely one to read again.

[Gary Lee · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Literature does far worse things than those poor whores who, out of hunger, have to turn tricks from street corner to street corner on the outskirts of town. Literature is invited into the family home as easily as a maid -- but soon is giving one breast to the son and the other to the father, kissing all the daughters with Sappho's lips, and disheartening the mother by giving her 'The Little Flowers of St Francis' to read. Me she nursed and later delivered to glory. She was far worse than a whore -- she didn't even wash my private parts. Now I smell her perfume on every road. I've deposited my assets into her account. I'm nothing when I'm far from her. What would I do if I couldn't set eyes on her from time to time? My mouth is full of consonants." -- Viscount Lascano Tegui

[Jacob Wren · Rating 5 out of 5]

Viscount Lascano Tegui writes:


Nobody has ever honestly shown us, for instance, a man precisely as he was during his transition from the countryside to the city. Authors have merely “discovered” psychology and thus complicated our life even further. A psychologist doesn’t understand people: he’s a businessman who sells carnival costumes. There are no costumes, however, for the soul. No, there’s nothing more there than its poor twisted simplicity, turned inside out by a civilization still terrified by tigers – and hiding from them in cities.

[Michael Fragoso · Rating 5 out of 5]

Simply this is a book I picked up at Mcnally Jackson in Soho and was like meh, sounds good.

I started reading it and found one of the greatest little gems ever which checked all sorts of neurotic, mysterious, david lynch-ian marks in my mind. One of the best little slices of an artists writing.

[Rafa · Rating 3 out of 5]

Entretenido.

[Rebekah Nicole · Rating 4 out of 5]

Though sumptuously written and slightly disturbing at times, there was an abruptness to the ending that really made it hard to feel anything after it all finished. It was slowly paced and a lot of meanderings for 150 pages until we get to the final climax that almost felt deflating. Though, I think that was the intention of the author. It succeeded if that was the intention. It did tie in with the “protagonists” misanthropic outlook and nihilism. So it was fitting to feel a bit detached from the outcome after. This isn’t a read for a storyline that’s for sure. It’s more of a reverie wallowing with the character until you hit the end which I think was meant to jar the protagonist from his rather sad lifestyle. Overall I did enjoy the poetic reflections of the ugliness that surrounded the character. He really knew how to romanticize his life, regardless if it sucked and that’s inspiring.

[Lena · Rating 4 out of 5]

Έτσι κλείνει και ο συγγραφέας το αυτοβιογραφικό του σημείωμα:
«Είναι ένας φυσιολογικός άνθρωπος χωρίς καμία όρεξη, χωρίς φιλοδοξίες και χωρίς ελπίδες. Οταν είναι με άλλους χαμογελάει κι όταν είναι μόνος γράφει στίχους ή, εν πάση περιπτώσει, στοχάζεται. Δηλώνει ότι δεν οφείλει, ούτε όφειλε ποτέ, δεκάρα σε κανέναν. Κι αν ήταν απολύτως εντάξει, θέλει να ξέρει ο κόσμος ότι το έκανε μόνο και μόνο για να εκδικηθεί κάτι αστικές χρηστότητες που εξυψώνουν τους ιδιοκτήτες αλλά δυσφημούν τους ποιητές».

[AndreasRaptis · Rating 4 out of 5]

Δεν κρύβει τίποτα ο αυτόκλητος υποκόμης. Ανοιχτά ηδονοθήρας, αρρωστάκι του ποδόγυρου, με οικονομική άνεση διατρέχει τους καλλιτεχνικούς κύκλους των Παρισίων στα ερλι 20'ς και κρατάει κάτι σαν ημερολόγιο - περισσότερο μια λογοτεχνική περσόνα με φοβερή πένα που ξορκίζει την επάρατο συγγραφίλα και αφήνεται σε ένα πολύ κομψό σκιαγράφημα ενός ημιαληθούς κόσμου. Όχι, είναι πραγματικά καλό, κα��ά τόπους δε αριστουργηματικό.

[Jenny · Rating 2 out of 5]

2.5 I haven't really ever read a book quite like this one before. I enjoyed the way this novel felt both of its time and very modern at times. However, I didn't love the diary format because I could never quite find a storyline to follow. I felt a bit lost while reading this book.

[Sam Lerner · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5. Pretty weird but also cool but I also didn't understand a lot. Pretty short so it's worth a read imo.

[Angel · Rating 2 out of 5]

Ya no lo tengo

[Marianna Flessa · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ψέματα δεν θα πω. Ο Τέγκι με δυσκόλεψε. Ένα τόσο δα μικρό βιβλιαράκι, μόλις 160 σελίδες, μού δημιούργησε ανάμεικτα συναισθήματα, με μπέρδεψε ως προς το θέμα του και τον σκοπό που γράφτηκε, με γονάτισε με τις αλήθειες που είπε. Η διήγηση κινείται μέσα σ’ ένα δυσδιάκριτο φάσμα, ρεαλισμού, έντονης θρησκευτικότητας, ελευθεριότητας, φαντασίας, κουτσομπολιού και προσωπικών σκέψεων του Υποκόμη, που πολλές φορές είχα την αίσθηση ότι διάβαζα μια διαφορετική ιστορία σε κάθε “κεφάλαιο”. Διόλου περίεργο αν κανείς λάβει υπόψη του την πολυσχιδή και ταλαντούχα φύση του ίδιου του συγγραφέα.

Ο Λασκανό ντε Τέγκι γεννήθηκε στην Κονσεπσιόν της Ουρουγουάης το 1887 και προερχόταν από σχετικά εύπορη, αστική οικογένεια. Μεγάλωσε σε ένα κλίμα κουλτούρας και πολιτισμού, που του έδωσε όλα τα απαραίτητα εφόδια να καλλιεργήσει ο ίδιος τις καλλιτεχνικές του τάσεις. Αν και δεν είναι εξακριβωμένο, ο ίδιος δήλωνε ότι σπούδασε ιστορία και φιλολογία. Για χρόνια εργάστηκε ως δημοσιογράφος πολιτικής και καλλιτεχνικής ειδησεογραφίας σε αργεντίνικα περιοδικά κι εφημερίδες και μετά τον Πρώτο Παγκόσμιο Πόλεμο, βρέθηκε στο Παρίσι κάνοντας από δουλειές του ποδαριού και φθάνοντας μέχρι να καταλάβει σημαντικές θέσεις, όπως πρόξενος ή αναπαλαιωτής διατηρητέων δημόσιων κτιρίων. Όλα τα παραπάνω τα αφηγείται ο ίδιος στη βιογραφία του και ομολογεί ότι θεωρεί τον εαυτό του έναν “ακροβάτη της λογοτεχνίας που συχνά αλλάζει όνομα και ύφος”. Ο Τέγκι εκδίδει μυθοστορήματα, ποίηση, ζωγραφίζει, γράφει ιστορικά βιβλία. Ζει μια μποέμικη ζωή και ανακηρύσσει ο ίδιος τον εαυτό του "Υποκόμη", δίνοντάς του τίτλο ευγενείας. Όχι γιατί θεωρούσε τον εαυτό του σημαντικό αλλά γιατί ήταν μέρος της συμβολικής γραφής του και η καταβύθισή του στο παράλογο.


“Η εν ύπνω κομψότητα” είναι ο καθρέφτης της προσωπικότητάς του. Γραμμένο εν είδει ημερολογίου, ο ήρωάς του μοιράζεται μαζί μας τις σκέψεις του, την καθημερινότητα που άλλοτε κυριαρχείται από γεγονότα φαινομενικά ασήμαντα, άλλοτε γυρνά στο παρελθόν και στα παιδικά του χρόνια δίπλα στον Σηκουάνα, άλλοτε μας εντυπωσιάζει με τα κατορθώματά του. Σε κάθε σελίδα παρελαύνουν η φτώχεια δίπλα-δίπλα με τα πλούτη, ο θάνατος χέρι-χέρι με την άνοιξη, πόρνες και καλόγριες, έρωτας και ελευθεριότητα, η διαστροφή. Κι όλα αυτά οδηγούν στο τέλος μιας εποχής και στην απόφαση μιας δολοφονίας. Περιφρονεί και θαυμάζει την αξία της ζωής ενώ ταυτόχρονα στέκεται κριτής της έκλειτης ζωής του ήρωά του.

Η γραφή του Τέγκι με εντυπωσίασε με την αμεσότητά της, τον μοντέρνο τρόπο της -αν και αφορά ένα κείμενο που εκδόθηκε 100 χρόνια πριν. Δεν διστάζει να παραθέσει όλη την μαυρίλα και την ένδεια της ανθρώπινης ψυχής δημιουργώντας απόγνωση και στην αμέσως επόμενη σελίδα να γράψει ύμνους για την ανθρώπινη φύση. Είναι αξιομνημόνευτη η άνεσή του να κινείται ανάμεσα στα δίπολα της ανθρώπινης ιδιοσυγκρασίας. Προσωπικά γοητεύτηκα. Σε όλα αυτά προσθέστε χιούμορ, αυτοσαρκασμό, διεισδυτικό κριτικό μάτι και την παραδοχή ότι το βιβλίο δεν γράφτηκε για να το διαβάσει το κοινό αλλά μόνο οι φίλοι του. Αλλά καταλαβαίνει κανείς ότι ξαναστειεύεται... Ή μήπως όχι; Μου άρεσε πάρα πολύ.

https://vivliosimeia.blogspot.com/202...

@mariannareading

[wally · Rating 4 out of 5]

starts: the first time i entrusted my hands to a manicurist was the evening i was headed to the moulin rouge.

an ok read...more than a few seemed not to like it, not story-enough for them i take it, too confusing, to not-enough of a good thing this that the other whatever. there is that intro that i read beforehand probably influenced my read so maybe avoid that until you've read it...was looking for a progression...as i thought i read...a...was it a downward spiral...and now you're ruint if you read these words?

don't know that i saw that...a lineal progression downward or upward...our diarist's only indication of time the dates at the top of the page every so often and one of them out of sequence and noted as such by the editors/translators whomso-ever.

an interesting read, some of the ideas here, how words are used, words and ideas, some crazy things here and there...thinkin the hand of emmogene correct spelling missing.

what's the point of stars? seems like so many have their own standard that they apply that has nothing to do with what the star says when you hold your cursor on it. 4-stars? really liked it? 3-stars? liked it? i'd give the actual writing...what? 5-stars? does it get marked down to a b- because it's in the form of a confused diary? then there's the deal with my read of the intro, the quandary that i have in that i don't know that i agree there is whatever the wording was...a progression down...or whatever. there isn't a band of character you can clue on, follow, identify with...

...heh! there is a line in here...bout narcissus...readers reading to find their image in the story? and then the end...am i not like other people? eyes in the mirror, longing to strangle the passengers? heh! ummm...okay...4-stars.

[John Allen · Rating 5 out of 5]

Each passage of "On Elegance While Sleeping" reads like pure decadent cake, the narrator an elegantly deranged neurotic who has loving and hateful toward the female sex. There's Gourmont, Jean Lorrain, and a bit of Maldoror around the edges.

"The first time I entrusted my handsto a manicurist was the evening I was headed to Moulin Rouge. A woman trimmed back my cuticles and polished my nails
My hands looked as though they didn't belong to me.
At the Moulin Rouge that night I heard a woman saying in Spanish "He cares for his hands like a man preparing for a murder."

And that's about the size of it. Slow, disintegrating madness on the part of the protagonist, more literate than most madness by far.The prose is subtle and in only isolated moments does the author reveal how mad this guy is. One thinks of Suskind's Perfume" but this is much better. The ending is predictable but coldly effective.

"Syphilis is a civilized disease and I intend to declare my allegiance to its aesthetic. I acquired it in the charming of ways. Suffice to say, she who bestowed this gift upon me did so with the same ease and elegance as the doves of Aphrodite must alight upon the breasts of sleeping women."

The diary form Tegui uses is so close to the syntactical structure of M that it is not a surprise Ducasse counted this book as an inspiration, writing his Anti classic long after Tegui's death. A minor Argentinian writer, his biography is as slim as Ducasse's.

A masterpiece of pathology and velvet decadence.

[Laura · Rating 1 out of 5]

Surrealism, yecch. I had the same reaction to reading this as I did to seeing L'Age d'Or a couple years ago: yawn. Epater le bourgeoisie was probably interesting up until 1958 or so, but in 2010? Why bother translating this at all now?

Maybe interesting as a historical document, but I'm not even quite sure about that. Unless you still think Dali is way cool, don't bother.