Writers and readers

I don't think we should mix any author's work up with their personal life, even though the life of authors may help to explain their work.

By the way, I fondly remember the anthology book we had in French Literature class when I was a highschool student. It was the Lagarde et Michard collection, that had a volume for each century -- well the first volume was about the whole Middle Ages (of course I now consider such a reduction to be a heresy!), the second about the XVIth century and so on -- and the structure was always the same: life of the auhor, work of the author.

Must we take an artist's life into account in order to understand his (or her) work?

I do believe that the former enlightens the latter, and not only when it comes to auto-fiction, but at some point the work must speak for itself too, and we have to forget about the artist behind it.

It's a two phase process. First knowing to understand and possibly analyse (if you're studying Literature), then forgetting to enjoy and really assess without any bias.  The work is usually bigger than the artist, and will go on its own journey anyway.

Some artists are horrible people in what we call here "Real Life", and yet their work may be masterpieces. Others are really nice people but their work will never be any good.

Take Louis Ferdinand Céline for instance. His Voyage Au Bout De La Nuit is a literary monument from the XXth Century. The man, on the other hand, was notoriously anti-Semitic. Richard Wagner's work is a musical monument as well, not only for the XIXth Century but in the whole history of music, but he was also as Anti-semitic as they came, and probably a difficult man to be around.

I read this morning an article from The Guardian about Marion Zimmer Bradley, or rather on the reactions that were caused by her daughter's revelations. Apparently MZB was quite the monster, especially by nowadays' standards -- read the article I linked to, if you want to know what she is accused of, but given that it is her daughter who's the accuser you probably can guess. So there are fans or fellow-authors from the SFF community that obviously now feel ashamed of having liked her work or revered her person. Some people say that they will never read one of her books again. It seems that they feel betrayed by an author they never met and tainted by their reading. I think it's an interesting reaction showing how much readers deeply bond with the invisible and untouchable god that created the word-universe they dive in. There's something sacred but also intimate in reading someone else words, isn't it?

Personally, I read MZB's The Mists of Avalons when I was about 14 or 15 year old. I remember that I enjoyed the book, but that's it. I never reread it, so I guess I wasn't that impressed, and I doubt I would find it that good if I read it now. So no, MZB is not in the same league as Céline, probably far from it. However reading that article in the morning prompted that musing.

How much do we want to know? How much should we know? Is it always possible to forget the worst and still enjoy the best?

You may have noticed that I have an inquisitive mind. I always want to know, to penetrate a mystery, to draw connections that would provide meaning. But I believe -- or hope -- that I'm also capable of accepting the mystery from time to time, and that, above all, I can distance my experiencing a work from the author of said work.

I guess it's easier when it comes to music, cinema/tv or plastic arts. The written words usually carry more, show more. The ghost of the author haunts the place in a way that is more explicit, more dialectical. Books contain multitude, give freedom, but they also have magical powers. There is the author's voice whispering to the reader's ear, a voice that still can be heard long after the writer's death. Do anyone want the Devil to whisper to their ear?

Jorge Luis Borges, whom I consider a literary genius, was not a supporter of Perón, and he denounced the military dictature in Argentina, but he was a conservative man. I know that. As Latin-American authors go, he didn't share Alejo Carpentier's or Pablo Neruda's, or Garcia Marques' left inclinations. We would probably have disagreed on a lot of subjects if we had discussed politics together. But still, rather decent a man, I believe. And he loved cats, which is always a plus in my book. *g*

Would I still adore his work if I ever found out that he had actually enslaved Indians, molested children or tortured dogs? Or that he had committed a crime that goes against everything he embodies: burn a library (like his evil alter-ego, the Venerable Jorge, from Umbert Eco's The Name Of The Rose)?

Could I still find the same pleasure in reading his words? Would I be able to slowly forget what I found out, and be willing to keep reading his short stories and essays?

I hope so.

Now that I think about it, I believe that part of the mysterious alchemy that defines the reading experience is not only taking over a work, but also re-creating its author.

By reading Borges, while reading Borges, I make Borges.

I think he would have liked that, he, who once wrote that every author creates his precursors, and who told the short story of a man who eventually finds out that he is the product of another man's dream.

So I leave you with the ending of "The Circular Ruins" in its online English version:

"The ruins of the sanctuary of the god of Fire was destroyed by fire. In a dawn without birds, the wizard saw the concentric fire licking the walls. For a moment, he thought of taking refuge in the water, but then he understood that death was coming to crown his old age and absolve him from his labors. He walked toward the sheets of flame. They did not bite his flesh, they caressed him and flooded him without heat or combustion. With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he also was an illusion, that someone else was dreaming him."