Surrealism’s pretty childish when you think about it. It’s as if, around 1924, a bunch of snotty French hipsters took a look at their society and said: ‘Oh yeah? Well, we’re going to do the opposite of everything you do, cuz yer stupid.’ So they tossed out the civilized values of reason, hard work and common sense, and set up their own private Bizarro world, a topsy-turvy kingdom ruled by dreams, play and imagination. It was a willed immaturity, a conscious regression to the infantile state, and I think the original Surrealists were deluding themselves about the extent to which their fabulous little slumber party was subsidized by the grown-up culture they’d spurned. You can, for instance, choose to view your city as a playground and trip out on its oneiric vistas, but it might be worthwhile to reflect on the poor working stiffs who built it for you. Sure, the kids can get high in their funky jam space all night, but who’s paying the bills?
As you might have gathered, I’m a little too old, and much too square, to have a whole lot of sympathy for the Surrealist project. It’s ironic, then, that one of my favourite books ever is a monument of Surrealism, written by perhaps the biggest daddy-o of all those hep cats, Louis Aragon (and doubly ironic in that the middle-aged, Communist Aragon epitomizes a type of French intellectual I absolutely loathe). But who’d want to be totally consistent in their prejudices? Why on earth can’t an anarcho-vegan punk listen to Spoon in his off-hours? (What? They’re a good band. Shut up.)
Le Paysan de Paris in not quite a novel (roman was a swear word in the Surrealist vocabulary) and it’s too documentary to be a prose poem. If you want to get hung up on genre, you could call it a travelogue, but it’s a travelogue with a bad case of agoraphobia, never venturing far from a couple of tiny patches of downtown Paris. Aragon spends the first half of the book exploring every inch of the Passage de l’Opera, one of those covered arcades dating back to the 19th century that are now recognized as forerunners of the modern shopping mall (see Walter Benjamin’s massive Arcades Project, or then again, don’t.) By the time Aragon got around to writing about it, the place had already gone to seed and was about to be demolished to make way for yet another of Haussmann’s boulevards. But for Aragon, the Passage’s weird sex appeal is bound up with its very ephemerality . The place fascinates him as a repository of memories, desires, fashions – a whole hidden history of Paris mouldering away in a sleazy arrondissement. His obsessively detailed evocations of the arcade’s cafes, hair salons and louche massage parlours are not so much surreal as hyperreal; he thinks nothing of devoting an entire delirious page to the unusual dress worn by a saleswoman in a handkerchief shop; hell, it takes him a paragraph just to figure out what colour it is:
The whole skirt has a garish half-tint (use your imagination): it’s a sort of plum-brandy red, a vinaigrette-ish tone that looks as much like a living colour as costume spangles look like diamonds. It’s reminiscent of dying gooseberry, of pecked-over cherry, it resembles those ribbons on Palmes Academiques that turn to acid in daylight…wait, I’ve got it, the dress is litmus paper tinted slightly pink by urine.
Now you might be thinking a hundred pages about some condemned shopping centre in old Paris would get to be a bit much. But the joy of reading Le Paysan is in watching a brilliantly inventive mind go to work on the faded texture of everyday life, bringing out the beauty and strangeness lying just below the dusty, fly-specked surface. This, I have to admit, is one of the nobler aspects of Surrealism: the determination to seek paradise, not in some other, ideal world, but right here, in the depths of the quotidian. A woman’s glance, a moronic ad, a row of medical supplies in a display window: all are mundane, all are sacramental. Each has its meaning and its mystery, if we’d only look.
I’m almost farcically unqualified to be dispensing wisdom in any form, but I sometimes feel that our spiritual fortitude is tested less by outright disaster than by all the drab, pointless shit we rub up against every day. It can wear you down after a while, you know? ‘Habit,’ as Beckett said, ‘is a great deadener.’ I still have no idea what literature is for, but one thing I believe it can do is to break through the crust of habit, to restore the world, if that’s not too portentous a phrase for what should be a humble task.
'I am already twenty-six years old,’ Aragon tells us in his preface. ‘Am I still privileged to take part in this miracle? How long shall I retain this sense of the marvellous suffusing everyday existence?’
The answer, it turned out, was: not long. But it was long enough to write a book as marvellous as the brief vision he was granted. I know my world would be a little poorer without it.