Fable for Another Time is one of the most significant and far-reaching literary texts of postwar France. Composed in the tumultuous aftermath of World War II, largely in the Danish prison cell where the author was awaiting extradition to France on charges of high treason, the book offers a unique perspective on the war, the postwar political purges in France, and Louis-Ferdinand Céline’s own dissident politics.
The tale of a man imprisoned and reviled by his own countrymen, the Fable follows its character’s decline from virulent hatred to near madness as a result of his violent frustration with the hypocrisy and banality of his fellow human beings. In part because of the story’s clear link to his own case—and because of the legal and political difficulties this presented—Céline was compelled to push his famously elliptical, brilliantly vitriolic language to new and extraordinary extremes in Fable for Another Time. The resulting linguistic and stylistic innovation make this work stand out as one of the most original and revealing literary undertakings of its time.
Louis-Ferdinand Céline (1894–1961) was a French writer and physician best known for the novels Journey to the End of the Night (1932) and Death on the Installment Plan (1936). Céline was accused of collaboration during World War II and fled France in 1944 to live first in Germany, then in Denmark, where he was imprisoned for over a year; an amnesty in 1951 allowed him to return to France. Céline remains anathema to a large segment of French society for his antisemitic writings; at the same time his novels are enormously admired by each new generation.
Louis-Ferdinand Céline, pen name of Dr. Louis-Ferdinand Destouches, is best known for his works Voyage au bout de la nuit (Journey to the End of the Night), and Mort à crédit (Death on the Installment Plan). His highly innovative writing style using Parisian vernacular, vulgarities, and intentionally peppering ellipses throughout the text was used to evoke the cadence of speech.
Louis-Ferdinand Destouches was raised in Paris, in a flat over the shopping arcade where his mother had a lace store. His parents were poor (father a clerk, mother a seamstress). After an education that included stints in Germany and England, he performed a variety of dead-end jobs before he enlisted in the French cavalry in 1912, two years before the outbreak of the First World War in 1914. While serving on the Western Front he was wounded in the head and suffered serious injuries—a crippled arm and headaches that plagued him all his life—but also winning a medal of honour. Released from military service, he studied medicine and emigrated to the USA where he worked as a staff doctor at the newly build Ford plant in Detroit before returning to France and establishing a medical practice among the Parisian poor. Their experiences are featured prominently in his fiction.
Although he is often cited as one of the most influential and greatest writers of the twentieth century, he is certainly viewed as a controversial figure. After embracing fascism, he published three antisemitic pamphlets, and vacillated between support and denunciation of Hitler. He fled to Germany and Denmark in 1945 where he was imprisoned for a year and declared a national disgrace. He then received amnesty and returned to Paris in 1951.
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Henry Miller, William Burroughs, and Charles Bukowski have all cited him as an important influence.
آرگو ترین کتاب سلین تا اینجا. نظر خود شاید در مورد این کتابش در بخشی از کتاب به شرح زیر است: از دستم به تنگ آمدهاید؟به تخمم،من نعرهام را میکشم،پارس میکنم.
ترجمه هم مشترک هست از مجموع ۲۶۰ صفحه ۱۳۰ صفحه رو مرحوم سحابی ترجمه کرده و باقی رو آقای نوری با کمک خانم طاهری برای بهتر شدن ترجمه.
Дана рецензія не може рахуватися за обʼєктивний літературний огляд, бо читаючи «Феєрію» я весь час уявляв собі що от її пише прихильник «русского міра» в Україні і така оптика не дає мені можливості «абстрагуватися» і «обʼєктивно» оцінити Селіна. Я не уникну звичних для опису Селіна прикметників: жовчний, злобливий, цинічний, песимістичний і тд, але я додам від себе ще один, який мало хто вживає в критиці його творів: мерзенний! Селін часів «Феєрії» мерзенний! Не через те що він пише чи як він це пише, а от сам по-собі - мерзенна істота. Нічим не краща тих, кого він описує і звинувачує в мерзенності. І не треба мені, що геній виправдовує подібні речі - не виправдовує. Ах я весь такий цинічний, ах всі кругом таке гівно, а я страждаю. Читаю його ниття про вʼязницю де він провів 2 роки ПИШУЧИ КНИГИ! І думаю що він просто не здатний прийняти наслідків власних вчинків, жаліється на власну долю та кляне «зло та садизм» тих хто його поневолив, хоча поневолити його за заклики до убивства євреїв і підтримку Гітлера: «Євреї мусять поставити мені памʼятник за те зло що я міг би їм вчинити, але не вчинив». (С)
Тепер про книгу. Я розумію чому Селін «один із головних письменників 20 ст». В його письмі відразу зчитуються і Генрі Міллер і Чарльз Буковскі. Чувак реально вивів «потік свідомості» в стиль, в музику і танок. «Феєрія» це справді таке собі ча-ча-ча озвірілого і загнаного в кут Селіна яке він танцює між знаками оклику посипаючи всіх навколо прокляттями. Картина його увʼязнення (перша частина) та бомбардувань Парижу (друга частина) подана доволі ясно і обʼємною незважаючи на його дивний для простих смертних стиль. Я б навіть сказав сильно, бо ти справді ніби занурюєшся в голову іншої людини.
Інша справа як ти себе в тій голові почуваєшся. Бо мені, романтику та ідеалісту, постійно хотілося вибратися звідти і помитися. Може справа в тім, що сам я сто разів стояв на порозі абсолютного цинізму і зречення через все, що бачу нині в історії України та людства, але збагнув що цинізм це просто одна з форм страху. І такий погляд не дає мені дивитися на Селіна як на героя, нехай і літературного, чи хоча б на як людину яка стоїть НАД ситуацією, бо це не так. Селін переляканий втікач, який не знайшов в собі сили і мужності дійти до кінця у власних чорних переконаннях. Хоча, хто я такий щоб його судити, але його видає оця його неприхована зверхність в обіцянках, що після написання «Феєрія» стане хітом який французи будуть розкупати не зважаючи на його «зраду і пособництво». Але не сталося так як гадалося. Феєрія перша провалилася і чувак підохуїв і став ще зліший на людство..і хто тобі , дядя, винен?
It's exhausting reading Céline...what with the bile...the vitriol...the rambling narrative...and of course the three dots punctuating the text throughout...you may find yourself reading faster and faster...broken phrases and scattered words entering your brain...until you've had enough...
I first read this when the translation came out in 2003 and I've had the second part, Normance, sitting around on my shelf since it came out in 2009. I thought it was time to read Normance, so...before reading it I thought I'd re-read the first part as I couldn't remember anything about it.
I realise now why I couldn't remember much...there's no plot...no narrative at all...it's just Céline ranting...about being in prison...his fellow inmates...his enemies back in Paris...his bowels...enemas...you! the fickle reader...So! Should you read it?...Yes, is the answer...but only if you're already addicted to his writing and know a little about his life...not put off by the ellipsis...it's really for the hard-core Céline addict really...you certainly don't want to start off with this one...I can assure you...
Even for the hard-core addict it may be a bit hard going...as he just rants and rants...his style though is exquisite...that's what always makes Céline readable for me. I think I could read anything by him.
Ok...so let's assume that you know a bit about him and you've read a couple of his other novels and you want to take the plunge!...my advice...for what it's worth is...read the beginning...usually the best place to start...if you get bored then read in smaller chunks...however, if you're on the verge of giving up then dont!..hold on!...just a bit more patience...and skip to the end...from page 153...or thereabouts...as it sort of lightens up...Céline even starts singing to himself...but he turns his focus to an acquaintance of his during the war...an artist...an amputee...a sculptor...Julot...or Jules...the text really begins to sparkle at this point...he still spits piss and blood...but when Céline can focus on characters that's when he really starts to fizz...he does a brilliant crowd scene as well. Come to think of it...there was another scene earlier on in the book...an hallucinogenic episode where he imagines his enemies have stuffed him in a wheelbarrow and dump him into a cesspit...good stuff!
Now for Normance...well, I may have to leave it a little while...but I'll be ready!...
نمیدونم با خودم چه فکری کردم که برای اولین اثر سلین خوندن این کتاب رو انتخاب کردم، شاید چون دیدم ترجمهی اصغر نوریه؛ نمیدونم. ولی واقعاً نمیفهمیدم داره چی میگه و فقط چون از نیمه تموم گذاشتن کتاب بدم میاد تمومش کردم. سه ستاره دادنم هم به همین علته. منتظر یک اثر خارقالعاده بودم چون به هر حال اولین تجربهم بود از سلین خوندن. شاید مجدد برگردم به این کتاب و ریویی تازه بنویسم. ضمناً من از علامت تعجب واقعاً بدم میاد و این کتاب پدر چشمهامو درآورد بس که ته هر کلمه علامت تعجب گذاشته بود (!) بابا چرا مرد؟ چی توی این دنیا انقدر متعجبت کرده آخه؟
سلینی ترین رمانی که از سلین خواندم. متنی تلخ، هذیان گونه و در عین حال مملو از آنچه از خیال و واقعیت میشه در ذهن یک زندانی مجنون چپاند و از دهان او نقل کرد
برخلاف کتابهای دیگر سلین که روایتی آکنده از غرغرهای نویسنده اند، این اثر فقط مقدار تمامنشدنی از غرغر بود که روایتی ابتر و نامفهوم از گوشهوکنارش آویزان بود. متاسفانه نتوانستم لذتی از خواندن کتاب ببرم، بسکه سختخوان، پراکنده، غیرمنسجم و هذیانگونه بود.
Féérie pour une autre fois… Plus je repense à ce livre, plus je jubile intérieurement...Et pourtant ! Qu’est ce qu’il fut difficile à lire, surtout la première partie ! Céline y raconte son enfermement en prison, au Danemark, juste après la guerre, tandis que la France se livrait avec une joie maniaque à l’épuration et que les résistants se découvraient garçons coiffeurs pour ces mesdames... Cela dit, c’est du Céline. N’espérez pas un récit linéaire, une sorte de journal racontant les faits et les événements qui se sont déroulés durant cette détention. Rien de cela ! Au contraire. On reçoit dans la gueule une marmite pleine de souvenirs, de haines, de critiques. On sent bien que Céline veut nous révolter, comme pour nous faire dire "Putain, ce vieux con, il me gonfle ! Il avait raison Malraux !"... Sa petite mélodie intérieure nous tâte, nous rend fou, mais surtout, nous fait vivre… Et on se fait transporter dans ce Paris qui prend conscience que l’envahisseur allemand se fait rétamé sévère. Tous les collaborateurs de la petite semaine retournent leurs vestes. Tous les amis de Ferdinand commencent à sentir que le docteur Destouches est quand même bien encombrant. Sa famille éloignée vient chez lui…. On inspecte les meubles, on observe le futur cadavre Céline... Puis on part ailleurs... Au grès des souvenirs… Jusqu’au retour aux années 40… la butte Montmartre… Et Jules... Ah celui là ! Un peintre cul de jatte qui veut modeler Lili, la femme de Céline… Le Jules trahis Céline, en faisant courir de sales rumeurs sur lui... Puis arrive la seconde partie, Normance… Et là. C’est l’extase à chaque page. Céline transforme un bombardement nocturne de la RAF anglaise sur Paris en une véritable odyssée homérique ! Tout le monde s’engueule, se vomit dessus, pendant que l’appartement où réside Céline, Lili et son chat tombe en ruine comme si c’était Pompéi. Et pour Céline, tout cela est un coup de cet infâme Jules, perché en haut du moulin de la Galette, guidant les avions avec sa canne, un vrai chef d’orchestre ! Les engueulades entre ceux hommes sont aussi grotesques, violentes, ridicules mais tellement drôles ! Céline hallucine fortement dans cet épisode. Car au fond, la réalité est déjà remplacée par cette féerie. La situation cauchemardesque se transforme en une sorte de parodie gargantuesque, aussi grosse que Normance justement ! Une mythologie à elle toute seule cette seconde partie !
Numai Cèline poate să înjure astfel: stilat, literar, convingător și fără a se repeta. Dar dincolo de ele? Justificare/acuzare? Mărturie/confesiune? Feeria e un bloc unitar de spațiu și timp. Un bloc care se năruie, ce-i drept, sub bombardamentul Parisului. Etapa dinainte de exil. Înainte de trilogia germană ca și cronologie. Dar, spre deosebire de trilogie, îi lipsește o forță de propulsie. Narațiunea se ține pe contrapunct: Jules pe acoperiș, ca idee un demiurg bețiv; Normance la subsol, victimă a cărnii, abrutizat. Și Ferdinand, naratorul, observatorul, care pleacă din acest vacarm cu Lili și Bébert.
I've got quite a memory. Engraved in my mind, things are. I can't forget anything . . . It's not a sign of intelligence . . . Nothing to boast about, memory . . . that's just how it is . . .
* * * * *
Celine wrote this novel in pencil on paper in a prison in Denmark during WWII. It marks the start of his mature style, all exclamation marks, ellipses, and perfectly measured phrasing. It's a declaration of his status as supreme chronicler of 20th century horrors: "I drown out all the howlers! I'm a shock-trooper mastiff in the barking department!" It's also tremendously funny and wistful. He writes about the terrible prison conditions, his illnesses, the other tortured prisoners, and his longing for France, his wife, his cat, and his bike.
* * * * *
You can find something funny in anything! I'm sick as a dog and falling to bits, but I'll give up joking only after I give up the ghost! my last gasp! The proof, here, with only an eighth of a glimmer of light, things oozing out of my asshole, my armpits, and the elbows, too, blood coming out of the eyes, from the soupy mess of my grave, me whistling a tune, that's what you'll hear! A regular blackbird! . . . putting on a brave face while I ham it up? Maybe you're right! So what? But you won't catch me taking it lying down!
Don't tell me a cat's just something to pet. Not at all! A cat is bewitchment itself, tact emanating in waves . . . they go "grr . . . grr" and it's words . . .
the bike that's so light it almost glides forward without me, at the mere suspicion that I might want to straddle it! . . . the brand: the "Imponder" . . . faster than Arlette in a sprint! Wait'll you see me! . . . Arlette, who's a sylph on the pedals! . . . From Trinite to Montmartre: seven strides! a breeze . . . that's her! a breath of air and she's gone! and that's uphill!
So you say, "You'll have a car!" Not so! The car is a fatso, a half-hearse for has-beens! I won't hearse around! It's the "Imponder" for me! no other! A patient phones? I fly! all reflex! calves! lungs like a forge! I care for myself while caring for others! One visit, two healthy specimens!
On the bike I'm a more presentable kind of nutcase! you get a look at me, the patrician! rejuvenation through zeal! brimming with health! taking care of business! ardor! reflection! heart! a new man!
* * * * *
Near the end there's a long, hilarious section about Jules, a talented, legless, chaotic artist who lived in Celine's building in Montmartre. The novel was already compulsively readable, but this portion compelled me to voraciously finish it in a few days. Dig the little scene below.
* * * * *
- Champagne or I'll die!
They'd bring it back to him! . . . The tyrant! . . . All for Jules! and not so much as a thank-you! nothing! He'd knock it back in one go! . . . Chug-a-lug! Burp! That was it . . . The window watchers would come up, they were thirsty, too! . . . They took the liberty of saying something . . . some remark or other . . . battle royal!
- Come in here, you lazy bastards!
Some guy who didn't know any better . . . he dared . . . a newcomer . . .
One step . . . a quick little maneuver . . . and then plumpf! plop! Irons! canes! bottles! the guy's kisser! Ah! Hee! Ah! Hee! Ole Jules's got no legs, but he's got arms! . . . what an aim, amazing! . . . the dexterity of a monkey! . . . terrible! . . . every projectile hits its mark! . . . He had a monkey's hearing, too, what a sense of hearing! . . . He had strength, too! . . . and guile! . . . so the guy gets clobbered! got the hell out of there fast! squealing! bleeding! . . .
- After the murderer!
Jules would be shouting after him! that they should catch him! finish him off! . . .
* * * * *
Amazingly, Fable and its second part, Normance, were not translated into English until the 21st century. Readers keen on Celine's books will find much to enjoy between their covers. There's no other hallucinatory, semi-autobiographical body of work like the mad French doctor's, and this volume is primo.
* * * * *
It's the web of Time . . . Time! the embroidery of time! . . . blood, music, and lace! . . . I'm spreading it out for you, unfurling it, laying it all before you . . .
Life's a series of repeat performances, and then you die. It brings people back to us, the same people, their "doubles" if they no longer exist, always the same gestures, the same old song . . . you screw up your entrance, your exit, and your lousy luck begins! flops! catcalls! . . . You only get one act to play! One only!
"It is no doubt Celine's singular contribution to world literature to have bared man's innate violence, demonstrating it in ever better ways, in all its forms, and furiously tearing off the veils with which we try to cover it." (Henri Godard)
Non il lavoro piú riuscito di Celine. Trama inesistente di cui si possono riconoscere solo alcuni accenni e anche la prosa lascia un po' a desiderare. Detto questo Celine era un genio quindi una stella non la posso dare (non è mica Orwell! Con tutto il rispetto per lui) e qualche frase è stata copiata da Gaber per le sue magnifiche canzoni quindi è già una stella in piú. La considero comunque per un certo verso un'opera rivoluzionaria.
Céline focust in dit na zijn amnestie geschreven werk op de tijd dat hij in een Deense gevangenis zijn uitlevering zat af te wachten. Scènes uit dat "gat" worden afgewisseld met visioenen, hallucinaties en herinneringen, de ene al grappiger en gruwelijke dan de andere. Kabaal in de cellen rond de zijne, de plundering van zijn appartement, zijn medische aftakeling (tand-, huid-, darm- en aarsproblemen) en uiteraard groteske beschrijvingen van meestal op waarheid berustende personages, het komt allemaal aan bod. "Feeërie..." is een wraakactie tegen zijn aanklagers, een agressieve verdediging, een hilarische karaktermoord. De auteur hangt in deze roman zwaar het slachtoffer en de martelaar uit - hoe durven ze een held uit WOI een verrader noemen?! - en maakt bijna de hele mensheid zwart in zijn eigen onnavolgbare stijl. Absurd, ironisch, keihard, gewelddadig, het leest als een trein en het zit vol met memorabele scènes en karikaturen (Sartre en co die Céline van zijn cel in Denemarken met een kruiwagen in vliegende vaart naar Frankrijk overbrengen om hem op een mesthoop te kieperen; zijn vriend Jules, een invalide beeldhouwer in een aftandse rolstoel die zichzelf bedrinkt met verfverdunner en zelfs de moeite niet meer doet om naar toilet te gaan; ...). Op sommige plaatsen wel moeilijk te begrijpen wegens de hele resem plaatsnamen, persoonsnamen, ... die de revue passeren. 4.5/5
"Ach, wat een gore ellende om artiest te zijn! maar één manier om alles te vergeten: hoekje om! 'n eind eraan! of dan maar: aan de zuip! zuipen en nog eens zuipen!"
"... ik heb er natuurlijk heel wat opengesneden in m'n leven, maar ik vind er nou eenmaal niks aan al die lijken..."
"Ja ik geef toe, hij had wel 'n speciale smaak, hij zocht 't vooral in van die ziekelijke, hoesterige typjes, van wie je de ribben kon tellen..."
"... u zult het voorwerp zijn, meteen na uw allerlaatste snik, van een les in de Snijzaal, een hooggeleerde les!"
Хух, це було важко, неприємно та поглинаюче. У мене досі трохи мерехтить в очах після такої кількості знаків оклику :) Перша феєрія читається важко - складний стиль (буквально! ось так! постійно!!) , безперервний монолог людини, що веде незрозумілу оповідь, з якої ти хоч щось починаєш вловлювати тільки з приміток. Та й загалом через кожні 30 сторінок хочеться закрити книжку з думкою «та ти заїбав, скільки можна».
Але треба було дотерпіти до другої феєрії - там, на 215 сторінці, нарешті починається опис бомбардування. І це було прям дуже добре. Оцей уривчастий стиль та агресивна манера оповіді починають чудово робити свою справу. Людина, що протягом усієї книжки тебе дико дратує, перебуває на хиткій межі «не в сих, не в тих», в один момент знаходить якусь агресивну спорідненість із читачем. Але, можливо, мене це так зачепило через наші реалії. Коли ти перебував у схожих бомбардуваннях власні шкірою, то однозначно по-іншому починаєш сприймати подібні описи.
Природний страх та мимовільний захват від величезної заграви; Бажання наблизитися до вікна, щоб розгледіти куди летить та сподівання, що на тебе не заваляться меблі від чергового кидка; Часткове оглушення та краща гострота зору, щоб бачити куди бігти. На цих моментах текст дійсно починає поглинати. Так, все ще неприємний, але не дає відірватися. З великою перервою, але інші тексти Селіна я обов'язково почитаю 🫡
ok le mec se moque de nous je pense que dans ces années là juste après la guerre il avait plus d'ambition artistique juste il était en roue libre
il se fait passer pour fou zinzin invalide de guerre ou jsais pas quoi pour se faire réhabiliter mais on voit clair dans ton jeu petit bourgeois collabo
et non toujours pas Céline tu n'es pas un martyr de la guerre
pourtant j'adore son style, les trois petits points et les onomatopées tout ça... Céline quoi, ça rend la lecture tellement vivante. Mais là on arrive à la limite de ce style. Si tu voulais rien raconter et juste te défouler sur tes ennemis fallait leur écrire des lettres d'insulte plutôt que ça
Bref le plus décevant de Céline : Londres c'est son banger absolu pour moi, ça c'est HORRIBLE
Turned out to be a disappointment even though it ended strong enough. A gifted touch still glows to life here and there, but in toto this book was too fractured, hysterical, and maniacal - which is the point, of course, but I found it almost unreadable about 100 pages in. More than ever it seems to me that Celine cannot be properly understood or enjoyed unless read in French. Given his infamy, I would probably suggest starting and stopping at Journey to the End of Night; and if that floats your boat, Death on the Installment Plan, which his hard core fans consider his best work (I prefer Journey, but I am not a hard core fan).
Read in the brilliant Dutch translation by Frans van Woerden. I am a fan of Céline's, ever since reading Voyage au bout du nuit in high school. Féerie pour une autre fois takes his style to the extreme and turns it into a stream of consciousness filled with hate and abuse against everyone who pissed off Céline (which he brought over himself by being an antisemitic collaborator with the nazis anyway). In any case, the book goes all over the place, only has a few sections of greater focus (dealing with Saint Malo earlier in the book and with an artist referred to as Jules in the last fifty pages or so). References to obscure historic figures are plenty (thanks to the translator for numerous notes). Eventually, the value of the book is questionable and it seems more written for the author himself than for a general public (who didn't care for the book when it was initially published, given the 6000 or so copies sold). Not the best of Céline's books, but I know he has written plenty of higher quality books.
Céline, Céline... Este libro esta lejos ya de sus obras geniales como el Voyage o Muerte a Crédito, es más una especie de memorias en las cuales narra los últimos momentos de la ocupación alemana de Paris, cuando los aliados ya bombardean la ciudad. Es interesante como Celine, un poco en autodefensa, nos narra la hipócresia de la sociedad francesa, pues cuando estaban bajo la ocupación Nazi no fueron pocos los franceses que colaboraron abiertamente con los alemanes, y ahora que Alemania retrocede y parece perder la guerra, muchos de esos colaboradores se hacen los inocentes.
Una narración caótica, con ataques feroces a los intelectuales que pedían la muerte de Céline por colaboracionista pero que cuando el propio Céline tenia cierto poder cultural bajo la ocupación, le solicitaron muchos favores para publicar libros.
Il romanzo più incazzato e caustico che io abbia mai letto di Céline fino ad ora! Pantomima per un'altra volta è un romanzo autobiografico che racconta della sua fuga da Parigi quando gli Alleati stavano per sbarcare in Normandia. La sua posizione era compromettente, in quanto collaborazionista della repubblica di Vichy e del nazismo. È un continuo berciare, un latrato di 200 pagine. Qui si tocca l'anima incollerita e sarcastica di Céline, un delirio in crescendo. La narrazione dei fatti è segmentata da punti esclamativi gravi, ogni locuzione è una sfilettata, uno sparo, un colpo di mortaio.
به قول دوستمون این کتاب آرگوترین کتاب سلین تا به اینجا بوده، البته دوتا کتاب دیگه در دست ترجمه هست که ممکنه سوپرایزمون کنه. با وجود زبان آرگو یجاهایی از کتاب به خوبی نیش و کنایهها رو در قالب توهم زده بود. مثلا جایی که سوار فرغونش میکنن و و کل شهر میگردوننش و آخر هم توی تاپالهها پرتش میکنن پایین و آبریزگاهشون روش خالی میکنن.
ما با کسی تعارف نداریم، حتی آقای سلین. کتاب همه ش هذیان است، حالا درست است خوب نوشته شده ولی غیر قابل خواندن است، داستان ندارد، هیچ چیزی جلو نمی رود و دقیقا هم معلوم نیست کجا تمام می شود.
This is one of the more recent of Celine's books to be translated. Nearly all of his work apart from his anti-Semitic works is now available in English, some of it in parallel texts (French on one side, English on the facing page). This book focuses on Celine's spell in a Danish prison while the government there decided whether to extradite him to France to stand trial for collaboration during the war. In the event, it did not, and Celine spent several years in the Danish countryside, poor and isolated, till an unexpected amnesty allowed him to return. In the meantime he was tried in abstentia and sentenced to prison and confiscation of part of his wealth.
As this book covers much of this period, it is not surprisingly pretty bitter. Celine's graphic language gives the reader a very good idea what was happening to him physically, while his outrage is expressed in the kind of language the gutter may find too difficult. It's maybe a book for the Celinist, like me, rather than the general reader. But I liked it well enough.
Technically it is the first half of a two-parter. The second, dealing with an Allied bombing raid on Montmatre in 1944, is written in Celine's "advanced" style, a sort of impressionistic, all over the place assault on the senses that for me anyway is way over the top; it just takes too long for anything to happen, and the flood of language that is meant to carry the reader instead overwhelms her or him. London Bridge, also the second part of a two-parter, suffers from the same problem. Celine thought this style was great and that the sequel to this one would bring his readers back. He was wrong.
D'abord conçu pour être un long roman en deux parties, cette oeuvre de Céline fût finalement éditées en deux tomes distincts, «Féérie pour une autre fois» et «Normance».
Dans Féérie, Céline conserve le style d'auto-fiction qui l'aura fait connaître tout au long de sa carrière. Ce livre est probablement le plus éclaté, plein de rage et de douleur, que j'aurai pu lire de l'auteur jusqu'à maintenant. Il ne s'y passe vraiment pas grand chose en terme d'action, alors que l'intrigue débute par une discussion avec la voisine de Céline, puis part en digressions et mélopées sur tout ce que Céline a à dire sur la vie. Et il est malheureux, le Céline. Il confronte le lecteur, l'insultant, le sommant à acheter 100 copies de son livre pour le faire vivre.
On peut facilement imaginer un auteur désabusé, que tout le monde déteste à cause de sa collaboration avec l'Allemagne durant la IIe guerre, toujours à Montmartre, se réfugiant dans son petit appartement, attendant le répit. Si «Féérie» se lit comme une longue plainte, c'est probablement la plainte la plus poétique, intelligente, brillamment écrite qu'il m'eût été donné de lire.
L'exercice de style en vaut vraiment la peine, mais quiconque ne connaît pas l'oeuvre de Céline devrait définitivement commencer par ses premières oeuvres, «Voyage au bout de la nuit» ou «Mort à crédit».
"Fable for another time" is an interesting book from Louis-Ferdinand Celine, a very pissed off writer in France who got in trouble because he let his rhetoric get completely and totally out of control, publishing a book that he most likely didn't really believe in "Bagatelles pour un Massacre". It's a really sordid affair. Fable for another time was written while he was in prison in Denmark wanted for extradition back to France, and cuts no corners and pulls no punches. He portrays France at the current time as wanting a scapegoat while refusing to acknowledge its own responsibility for the things that happened, pointing out or alleging that quite a lot of people were all to willing to be collaborators before it became clear that the Axis was going to lose World War II. Celine didn't kill anyone, he didn't collaborate with the occupation government, he just lead a quiet life trying to avoid politics while all that was going on.
This book, which was one of Celine's polemical rants while imprisoned in Stockholm, once again restates his sympathy with the Nazi party (a dubious political affiliation for Celine), and embodies his disdain for the French intelligentsia of his time. This is strange because in many of Celine's novels there is so much humanity, not to mention outrage directed toward crimes against humanity. It's also the essential example of a prison novel, a political pamphlet that unabashedly expresses its anger against the supposed guilty party that put that certain individual there.
I got about 70 or 80 pages into this one before dropping it. You know you're off to a bad start when there are more end-notes than actual pages to the book. And I read the preface and intro so I had the back-story to his writing of the novel, but come on, he wasn't making a dick of sense half the time. Sometimes I'll be talking with a person and they'll say, "What are you TALKING about?" Now I can throw Fable at them and say, "What is HE talking about?" I still need to read Death on the Installment Plan and his other popular one, but so far I'm not impressed.
J'ai poussé presque la centaine de pages pour voir si Céline m'offrirait à moi lecteur un peu de repos dans son style d'écriture. Si il y avait seulement une ou deux pages de répit. C'est embêtant en tant que lecteur lambda de dire d'un auteur renommé qu'il a écrit quelque chose de médiocre, de consternant et que tout ceci n'est que de la masturbation intellectuelle. Qui est-on pour critiquer Céline ? Mais je ne ressens rien d'autre que de l'ennui, du dégoût pour le livre et l'auteur. Voyage au bout de la nuit est dans mon top 10 pourtant. S'il voulait se faire détester, c'est gagné.