Simon Leys - The Hall of Uselessness - Collected Essays

121. They read classics, poetry, essays, novels, in French and sometimes in English — the range and diversity of these readings were formidable. For instance, Gide wrote (in a letter to Dorothy Bussy, 19 November 1918): “On the advice of Mme. (Edith) Wharton, my wife and I are reading aloud Two Years Before the Mast by Dana… Do you know it? Rather special, but fascinating.” (I would confidently bet that no other member of the French literary elite of the time would even have known the name of this great American classic.)

122. Sheridan, p. 411.

123. As a young man, he wrote down various resolutions for self-improvement (one is reminded of Great Gatsby!), and these already included “devout reading of Virgil” (see Journal 1, p. 48). At the end of his life, his love for Virgil (and also for Ovid’s Metamorphoses ) had intensified (see PD 3, pp. 324, 328). In 1947, visiting Germany, he found himself — for the first time in four years — without his copy of Aeneid : he immediately purchased a new one. At about the same time, Martin du Gard described him “walking in the streets at night, and stopping under lamp-posts to pursue the reading of his pocket edition of Virgil.” (See Martin du Gard, Journal 3, p. 810.)

124. PD 1, p. 50.

125. PD 2, p. 561; PD 3, p. 166.

126. PD 3, p. 364.

127. PD 1, p. 137.

128. PD 2, p. 43.

129. PD 1, p. 143.

130. PD 2, p. 416.

131. PD 3, p. 364.

132. PD 4, p. 52.

133. PD 1, p. 202.

134. PD 1, p. 169; ibid . p. 45.

135. PD 4, p. 215.

136. Journal 2, pp. 912–13.

137. PD 2, p. 51.

138. After his 1913 visit, Gide told Schlumberger: “I wish I could do something for Joseph Conrad. It is revolting to see him in his present situation. I just spent three days with him, and I have a very great affection for him. His books are not obtaining the attention they deserve: he can hardly live from his pen… When I see the sort of success enjoyed by a man like [Arnold] Bennett, in comparison with Conrad’s poverty, I am overcome with indignation. And on top of all that, Conrad feels tired, worn out. ‘Sometimes,’ he told me, ‘I pace up and down in my study-room without being able to extract one single idea out of myself. I have nothing to say anymore.’ I would like to send a present to his children. Have you any suggestion?” ( Schlum ., p. 51.)

In the course of his otherwise very congenial conversations with Conrad, Gide encountered only one point of friction: the mere mention of the name Dostoevsky made Conrad seethe with disgust and indignation; Gide was rightly puzzled (after all, the first chapter of Under Western Eyes is pure Dostoevsky!) and would have wished to pursue the discussion in a more rational manner, but, on this particular subject, all he could draw out of his highly emotional host were a few more confused imprecations. (See Essais critiques , p. 876.)

139. Essais critiques , p. 877.

140. Ibid .

141. Journal 2, p. 923; Journal 1, p. 803.

142. PD 2, p. 107.

143. Gide himself made this observation; remarking that Du Bos disliked Balzac, Daumier and Mozart, he added: “It makes sense. It should be very interesting to delineate in this way… not exactly the limits (for this would imply passing judgements), but the impossibilities of each one. It would be very revealing.” ( PD 1, pp. 347–8.)

144. Schlum ., pp. 142–3.

145. PD 3, p. 369.

146. Martin , pp. 38–9.

147. PD 2, p. 51.

148. “Tout est saucisse en Allemagne, une enveloppe bourrée de choses disparates: la phrase allemande est une saucisse, l’Allemagne politique est une saucisse, les livres de philologie et de science avec leurs notes et références, saucisses; Goethe, saucisse!” (Paul Claudel: Journal , Pléiade [Paris: Gallimard, 1968], Vol. 1, p. 223.)

149. For instance, the Tiny Lady described how Schlumberger read aloud his new novel to Gide continuously over two days; these sessions were followed by Gide’s very frank criticisms (“The book does not succeed in catching our interest,” etc….). The Tiny Lady commented: “The entire discussion was carried out in a completely fraternal spirit, without any artifice, without any touch of vanity — the whole feeling was so pure.” ( PD 2, p. 429.) On another occasion, it was Martin du Gard’s turn: he read Les Thibault for ten days — sometimes at the rate of nine hours per day! Once again, criticisms, however severe, were proffered and taken in a spirit of mutual emulation, with literary perfection as common aim. ( PD 2, pp. 537–8.) Both Schlumberger and Martin du Gard wrote very harsh letters to Gide at the time of his communist infatuation. Gide immediately telephoned Schlumberger to thank him, and he showed Martin’s letter to the Tiny Lady, adding: “Isn’t this an admirable letter?… Such force, such breath!… And I feel that he is right on many points.” ( PD 2, p. 299.)

150. Martin du Gard was very much Gide’s junior, both in years and in literary achievements; yet he received the Nobel Prize for literature ten years ahead of Gide. On learning the news, both Gide and the Tiny Lady were positively delirious with joy: “Martin, our Martin has got the Nobel Prize!… What happens to us is really fantastic!” ( PD 3, p. 48.)

151. Journal 1, p. 805.

152. PD 4, p. 213.

153. See Pascal Mercier, introduction to Schlum ., p. 22.

154. “Billet à Angèle,” in Essais critiques , pp. 289–93.

155. Reading Le Côté de Guermantes , Gide said: “It is done so well, that it makes me feel a little depressed. In comparison, my own work seems so crude!” ( PD 1, p. 71.) Sodome et Gomorrhe , however, greatly upset him: he felt that Proust had slandered homosexuality by reducing it to its effeminate manifestations. ( PD 1, pp. 98–9.) He found La Prisonnière exasperating: “It looks as if Proust were parodying Proust and the substance of the book is totally devoid of interest.” Still, he had to acknowledge: “It is of considerable importance for literature. After having read Proust, one can no longer be completely the same person again.” ( PD 3, p. 155.)

156. And yet was he really blind to Simenon’s limitations? One may doubt it. One day, Simenon, who had lunch with Gide, told him: “The main temptation I should guard myself against is…” He searched for a phrase, and Gide immediately suggested: “The temptation to fart above your arse.” “Exactly,” said Simenon. ( PD 3, p. 359.)

157. Journal 2, pp. 1, 057–8.

158. “Baudelaire et Monsieur Faguet,” in Essais critiques , pp. 248–9.

159. Criticising some pages by Duhamel, Martin du Gard was induced to extend his observations to the style of Gide himself: “The danger of being able to write well is also the ability to lend a pleasant form to thin or mediocre ideas, to ghosts of ideas… It generates the fatal temptation to give a veneer of consistency, density, weight and character to whatever comes to mind and should not deserve to be written down. Through this mechanical operation of style, one can present at little cost an appearance of thought without any effort… The shine of the varnish hides the low quality of the wood that was used.” (Martin du Gard: Journal 3, pp. 527–8.)

Gide had shown Martin a draft of the address he was going to deliver in Oxford, on being awarded a Doctorate honoris causa . Martin found that its form was very polished, but the elegance of the style could not redeem the vacuity of the content: “I told it to him very bluntly. He agreed, and for once, I regretted my frankness, for he immediately decided: ‘You are absolutely right! Tomorrow I will send them a telegram, and cancel everything!’ But I believe he will once again change his mind. As soon as I leave, it will seem to him that his speech was not so bad after all, he will read it again to himself, let his prose sing, and take delight in its subtle phrasing.” Martin guessed right: in the end, Gide went to Oxford and delivered his elegantly hollow speech. ( Ibid ., pp. 810–11.)