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[psalm22-6]

In Which Victor Hugo's Salad is Tossed

or How The Devil Wrote Les Misérables

Please don't be put off by how long the text is, I promise it is worth reading. I seriously feel that I have found some forbidden knowledge which I must share.

A Salad in a Skull, from La semaine des famille, 29 November 1862

It was evening. The sky was gloomy, cloudy, and sad. Through breaks in the clouds, like wounds of a bruised sky, only a few pale rays of pallid, lugubrious moonlight were allowed to permeate. A storm raged over the ocean, twisting the masts of ships like wisps of straw; the waves roared, eager to seize their prey. One heard here and there strange clamors which broke the heart; it was like the supreme cry of a crew in distress. The rain was falling in torrents, and the raging winds carried violent pelting gusts of water. From time to time in the hollows of the rocks and at the tops of the old ruins of feudal towers, the mournful cry of ospreys — which the fury of the elements prevented from seeking their prey — resounded and in the distance the howls of wolves answered in sinister harmony. Common people said that the night was terrible; the poets will say it was a romantic night. In an elegant cottage on the isle of Jersey, Victor Hugo was awake. He was meditating on the outline of a new work which would seal his fame forever and which he would sign opus exegi, like Horace.  It was a monumental epic about the miseries of the century. Already the characters who were to play a part in this epic crowded the threshold of his imagination and knocked on the door of his poem. They were tearful young girls — like the virgins of Verdun, like those the poet had already sung of — unhappy and plaintive children led by the child-king, Louis XVII in a moaning choir — Louis XVII, who died of old age brought on by grief before he was twelve years old; shattered destinies, the faded bloom of youth, misunderstood genius, misinterpreted and slandered virtues. In a word, the grande armée of the afflicted, crossing the valley of tears, throwing a cry of suffering towards the earth, a cry of hope towards God. Christianity, that old friend from the poet’s childhood and adolescence, appeared to him as a consolation for all afflictions, a support for all trials, the last hope of the hopeless, the father of orphans, the companion of the abandoned, and the immortal medicine for all illnesses of the soul and the body. The beliefs he received from his Christian mother warmed his heart; he would perhaps write a sublime book and his guardian angel, only waiting for a prayer, was ready to issue forth from his lips to carry the words to the foot of the throne of God, He who gives sun and dew to the earth and inspiration to the poet.   The angle was waiting in vain. The poet did not pray.  Pride, love of public approval, the presumptuous confidence of a genius in his own strength, and the spirit of revolt and hatred: these stopped his parted lips from issuing the prayer he was ready to begin. Bit by bit, Victor Hugo’s daydream became a dream. He fell into a sort of magnetic slumber, with his eyes open although he was asleep. He continued his somnambulistic meditation on the subject and plot of his poem, with his head held in his hand.

Now you must know that, on this fatal night, Mephistopheles traveled in the air, carried by his bat wings in the company of Astaroth, his comrade from the fall. The two pernicious spirits were chasing after souls and the hoped to bring back rich spoils from their journey. Passing before the isle of Jersey, Astaroth, who while hovering over the waves where several fishermen had been swallowed up, had swept up all the souls whose last words had been curses and blasphemes. He said to Mephistopheles: “Master, you who sees everything, do you see that light which shines over there in the middle of this terrible night?”  “I see it.”  “Master, you who knows everything, do you know what is happening in that solitary chalet?”  “I know it. A man is sitting there. He is a victim of a restless sleep that resembles meditation and dream.”  “What man is that?”  “A poet. Once our enemy, now faithful to me and to whom I owe numerous recruits. It was him who, in his second to last poem, made Belial and Jesus-Christ embrace, and who, in his most recent, was not afraid to put a pig ahead of God himself when he wrote ‘the miserable pig and God looked at one another.’”  “Victor Hugo!”  “It was you, imp, who said the name.” “Master, an idea.”  “What is it?”  “We are working like fools. We've been here gleaning souls since the beginning of the night, when in that chalet we can perhaps make an audacious move. You know that it is always through writers that we have succeeded in winning our most fruitful battles. The best of our auxiliaries is a bad book." “Let us enter,” responded Mephistopheles, who was beginning to understand.  They flew toward the chalet, and as they passed, the croaking of the night birds became more mournful, and the clouds, as black as inkblots, put the sky in mourning. The moon, like a solitary eye open in the middle of the sky, sadly watched them pass. Doors and windows, all were locked hermetically. However the two pernicious spirits entered as easily as if the doors and windows had been open wide.  “Ah! Ah!” exclaimed Mephistopheles with a sneer after having cast a quick glance at the sleeping poet. “I see we are at home here. Here is a mind which has not armed itself by the sign of the cross against our nocturnal undertakings. Come, Astaroth, get to work quickly! Open up this skull and quickly lift the lid for me, so that I can better see what is going on.” At these words, Astaroth traced with his finger a line of fire around the forehead of the poet, who dreamed at that moment that M. Viennet had descended on the banks of the Styx to seek a strong hand, that he had brought back M. de Jouy, and that the two classical poets tried to scalp him. It was an atrocious, unheard-of, unbearable torture. However the operation had been as quick as a thought. Dupuytren himself, whose hand trepanned with a dexterity that surgeons called grace, could have learned something from Astaroth’s performance. [Dupuytren is actually mentioned in LM] “Good! Good!” murmured Mephistopheles, “We arrived at the right moment. The brain is working, the autoclave pot is boiling, and our visit will not have been useless. Astaroth, pass me your pitchfork.” There is never a travelling devil who does not have a pitchfork on him. It is the tool of the trade. Astaroth therefore passed his pitchfork to Mephistopheles, who gravely began sharpening it, as well as his own.  “And what are you going to do with those two pitchforks?” asked Astaroth.  “Haven’t you guessed?”  “No master.”  “Well, I want to make a fork and a spoon out of them.”  “And what will you serve with them?”  “I will make a salad in a skull!” cried out Mephistopheles with a horrible burst of laughter.  At that exact instant Mephistopheles began to make his diabolical salad. Armed with his two pitchforks which he used as cutlery, he turned and turned, with an untiring hand, in the skull of the poet the ideas, feelings, images, metaphors, and characters into a molten fusion, so as to produce in his brain the most strange mixture, the most terrible mess.

[Everything described in this part can be found in the above illustration] A convict capped with a prison bonnet and pulling along his ball and chain found himself face to face with the bishop capped in a skullcap and holding in his hands silver candlesticks which he offered up; a four pound loaf of bread floated through the air and put itself beneath a tooth…a tooth freshly torn from a mouth! A classic cupid fluttered above a heart pierced by a mythological arrow and he crowned the convict, whose comical glorification the cupid celebrated. Meanwhile, a city constable with a haughty air and threatening tricorn, some Javert or something, sought to grab the convict by the collar. A bug crawled out of M. Sue’s Mysteries of Paris knocked incessantly against the aching insides of the poet's skull, while Fontaine's fly took flight beside a bottle of champagne, the cork of which was popping, symbol of a joyous orgy. “What if we added the swan from the Luxembourg gardens also?” Astaroth was saying. “We’ll add the swan from the Luxembourg. And the battle of Waterloo, and how could we forget Cambronne’s curse word?” “Go for it. Waterloo and the curse word.” “And an anthem against covenants?” “Go for the anthem.”  “And a dissertation on the sewers of Paris?”  “Put in the sewers. And a Parisian gamin for a little spice?”  “Go for the gamin.”  Mephistopheles did not stop tossing and retossing his salad. His formidable spoon scrapped up on one side a tearful grisette with her hands held together — presumably the unfortunate Fantine — while his fork scrapped up on the other side a newborn child — very probably the innocent Cosette — holding onto Cambronne in his braided hat, and a Parisian gamin, stepping over the skull of Victor Hugo as if it were the balustrade of the Porte-Saint-Martin, took from Cambronne’s lips (did I say lips?) his famous word which the child seemed to throw at the public while thumping his nose. What bothered the poet the most in this coming and going was, of all things, a student who leaned on his frontal orbital cortex — who knows if it was Enjolras or Lesgle de Meux (called Bossuet) — and who smoked a pipe philosophically, his back to a barricade. Meanwhile a jumper, perhaps Javert, determined to kill himself, plunged his head into the interior of the poet’s mind and on the other extreme, a swan seemed to speak into the ear of a judge, who was himself speaking into the ear of the poet on which Mephistopheles stood in order to follow the progress of his salad dressing. Beneath this intellectual mayonnaise, “slang” and “style”, representing vinegar and oil, gave each other Lamourette’s kiss and fraternized.  It was indeed the most appalling rigmarole that, in living memory, has ever had a human skull for a salad bowl. Next to this, the witches' cauldron from Macbeth was like Saint John’s.  Chaos could pass for distinct, clear, full of coherence and regularity by comparison. The harlequins of the Place Maubert, where, according to M. Sue's Mysteries of Paris, one could find everything from scraps of truffles and lobsters to old shoes, was by comparison an almost classic dish.

Madame Gibou's tea with sugar, oil, pepper, cream, salt, wine, honey, broth, and brown sugar, seemed like a simple and elementary drink by comparison. With a mocking eye and a mouth folded into a cruel smile, Mephistopheles was following, with the self love of an author which he did not bother to hide, the progress of his work. As for Astaroth, he was trying to see from the side what was happening inside the poet’s head and if his two hands hadn’t been occupied by holding the salad bowl’s lid — excuse me, I meant to say the skull cap — he would have been holding his sides for he was laughing so much over the good trick he was playing on Victor Hugo and his readers.  The night passed in this infernal labor. At the first light of day, Mephistopheles and his companion disappeared.  The poet, who had spent the night with his head held in his hand, half woke up.  “That’s strange,” he said. “It seems to be that during my sleep my ideas arranged themselves in my head of their own accord. That’s it! A convict, a bishop, a ball and chain, a mitre, Cambronne, a Parisian gamin, a swan from the Luxembroug, the June barricades, cupid, an idyll, melodrama, Jean Valjean’s bread, Fantine’s teeth, champagne, style, slang, Waterloo, an inn’s sign, the policeman Javert. Let us write the title: Les Misérables!”  Two strident bursts of laughter resounded in one and the other of the poet’s ears, and it seemed to him that he heard this word resound in the distance, perhaps like the judgment of posterity:  “Tohu-bohu” P.S. This legend was told to my pen by the ingenious and witty pencil of Bertall. More skillful than my pen, he summarized for the readers of la Semaine des Familles, the book  Les Misérables, which my pen would not have dared to do. This is why I am only countersigning, ne varietur, his poem translated into vile prose by his devoted collaborator, Felix-Henri.

[mills]

If I didn’t want to compete, I wanted even less to make new rules about what constitutes victory. I would want what everyone else wanted, even if I couldn’t attain it.

Faye, in Rachel Cusk’s Transit.

These sentences, like much of the texts of Outline, Transit, and Kudos, come from the internal monologue of the narrator, Faye. She does not speak them aloud or to other characters; they are private moral commitments within novels about private terrains. Faye’s promised refusal to “make new rules” for herself will, presumably, be measured by no one but Faye; moreover, the detectably deep system of considerations that leads her to this principle might never be exteriorized —discussed out loud or turned into a “post” from which others might string fences— at all. It is never elucidated in the novels, although it also seems to be everywhere in it. So too with “the world,” if one can put it that way; these novels are plainly contemporary, reflect life today. Yet they never strain to integrate the trivia of our kaleidoscopic present or fall for the temporary or transient; they seem both contemporary and easily enduring.

There is much to admire, in Faye and in Cusk. Cusk reminds me a bit of Kundera at his very best; in some ways, I think she may be a better pure novelist than he is, more able to infuse, suspend and sustain, imply and elide, to use subtlety and impression and description for both aesthetic and thematic purposes. In any event, Kundera once wrote: “A novel that does not uncover a hitherto unknown segment of existence is immoral. Knowledge is the novel’s only morality.”

For some time, I worried that our civilizational rate of change was approaching something like the sound barrier: new technologies, cultures, values, arts come so quickly that the fundamental processes which animate art encounter turbulence, cannot keep up, lose lift. Among many other things: each generation’s artists observe how new configurations of human existence reverberate through individual psychologies, integrate and extend these observations over time and with reflection, and then recreate worlds in their work to explore the “hitherto unknown.”

At some pace, there simply wouldn’t be enough time! Vast changes now come within, not between, generations; a novelist might scarcely have time to familiarize herself with the relevant dynamics, stories, cultures, brands, even user interfaces before they’ve been turned into the dead past. (And the past dies faster and more finally than ever before; we feel less and less kinship with even the people of the recent past. A novel set before cellphones is a period piece!).

I should say: I am a poor reader and have no idea whether any of these concerns had merit; for all I know, there is no acceleration whatsoever —it may be a delusion associated with aging— or novelists in the thousands have no difficulty overcoming the torrent of novelties in the trillions. But for me, Cusk’s novels are not only a literary pleasure but a relief. In that effortlessly sublimated yet present complexity she demonstrates a capacity to personalize, individualize, novelize whatever the present brings. Someone will capture what life is like, at least, whatever else happens; someone will help us understand what we are now.

For the phrase “making new rules for victory” is ludicrously dense with observations about our time. I felt, as they say, seen. My entire bratty, cowardly life has been a constant, resentful, creative elaboration of “new rules for victory.” At every turn, I “discovered” that what those around me valued, believed, cared about was “stupid” and often “evil,” while my alternative system of values was correct and, coincidentally, affirmed that I was “good” in whatever arbitrary sense mattered to me at the time. Not only have I spent my life in this narcissistic enterprise, but so too do many, so far as I can tell. It seems difficult to avoid.

Engaged in the most quotidian matter —she is looking for an apartment— Faye refuses to do it. Neither will she prevail in any way thanks to this choice: she cannot afford the places everyone wants, and no one will reward her for her unseen stance. But she’d rather lose than lie to herself. It seems to me a radical but appropriately unhyped heroism; and what heroism is more needed today than for individuals to prefer losing to lying to themselves? (And to refrain from self-aggrandizement if they do?).

Thus: short, simple sentences about a wholly ordinary moment touched both some of my deepest psychological anxieties —I am now worried about nearly all of my beliefs again— and traced a line to some of the broad dynamics of our time. Each of us, if we’re honest, knows how often we make new rules to console ourselves, to lie to ourselves; each of us, if we pay attention, sees that atop Maslow’s hierarchy, our semantic and rhetorical culture-sphere is battleground of meme-ideologies whose primary function is to provide new rules for victory, all ready-made. You may already be a winner.

One can argue that her position —if it were a position, and I do not think it is or should be— is communitarian: the elevation of your preferences over the general scrum is immoral. But I don’t detect the superiority one would expect if that were her attitude. Faye doesn’t want to self-justify, but she’s not trying to persuade others not to. Faye is reacting to the roaring noise of all that justification —never have Nietzsche’s reductive remarks about ressentiment seemed more descriptive than when reviewing online cultures—, crafting her stringent principles to align with a quiet, personal fixation on something like inner honesty. We hurt others when we’re deluded, after all; we cannot regard self-delusion as innocent. It is our responsibility to understand ourselves, even if it means —and I think it often must— that we lose.

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[learningaliving]

Commonplace Entry 12: Frankenstein Part 2

Said Victor Frankenstein, "These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving... although they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquilized it. The following morning the rain poured down in torrents and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains. The rain depressed me. My old feelings returned, and I was miserable" (47).

Author Mary Shelley touches on 18th century mental health perceptions and practices coinciding with a connection to nature through Victor's brief reprieve away. The sublime of nature can relieve depression and grief, but it's only momentary. The state of his mental health and mood are as quickly ruined as remedied, paralleling the fragile life/death threshold.

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein: The 1818 Text, New York, Penguin Random House, 2018, pp. 47.

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This Post was Last Updated On: January 13, 2018

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