David Markson - This is Not a Novel

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This experimental work is an enthralling amalgamation of anecdotes, aphorisms, and quotations from writers and artists, interspersed with self-reflexive comments by the Writer who has assembled them. As the title implies, this is certainly not a novel — not in the general sense of the term. And yet a reader who follows the flow will gradually notice certain novelistic conventions insinuating themselves. Writer — as the narrator refers to himself — is tired of inventing characters and subjecting them to the rigors of plot development. Instead, historical personages from Dickens to Beethoven recur throughout the book: They re born, create, speak fondly or acidly of their own work and the work of others, and then die. (Death, in fact, is a major concern of Writer.) Works of art interlock and interrelate; diary entries, attributions, and critical comments jostle for position. But what at first appear to be random bits of historical trivia ultimately come together with a narrative logic: a beginning, middle, and end. So while Markson has jettisoned the standard conflict-and-resolution pattern of a novel, he nevertheless fashions a literary journey that gets somewhere. Indeed, the book s conclusion will come as an intensely moving surprise to those who reach it.
Does Writer even exist in a book without characters? the narrator wonders. Passing through a period of aging and self-doubt, Writer looks deeply inside himself over the course of the book and worries about his very purpose. The real question hovering in the margins of this beguiling work is, Why do I write? Many an artist suffers under the burdens of posterity, the sinking feeling that words and works will fade with the passage of time. Eventually, though, this particular Writer answers in a qualified affirmative, for he realizes himself to be the main character in his own life. That which is not a novel, he implies, is life itself; creating art is what the artist does to live. In the end, out of a shared sense of mortality and its frailties and beauties, we can only agree.

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Simone Weil’s final hospitalization was ostensibly for tuberculosis and exhaustion. Nevertheless a coroner’s report labeled her death suicide by starvation.

The woman was mad, de Gaulle said.

Mantegna used a corpse as the model for one of his Crucifixions.

Gericault used several while painting The Raft of the Medusa.

Veit Stoss died blind. And destitute.

The almost unparalleled contemporary popularity of Euripides.

Greek soldiers captured and held as slaves after the disastrous expedition at Syracuse were actually given their freedom if they could teach passages from his plays from memory.

Which many could.

George Eliot translated Spinoza. Emma Lazarus translated Judah Halevi.

Willem de Kooning’s father was a beer distributor.

An incidental notation of Malcolm Lowry’s, while describing a visit to a room used by De Quincey in the Lake District:

Smoking Prohibited.

She only said, My life is dreary

He cometh not, she said; She said, I am aweary, aweary

I would that I were dead.

Cousin Ruddy was habitually foul-mouthed.

Flannery O’Connor died of lupus.

In the century after their deaths, Ben Jonson’s name appeared in print three times as often as Shakespeare’s.

Salathiel Pavy.

Why does Joyce let Leopold Bloom think Saverio Mercadante was Jewish?

April 26, 1937. A Monday.

Which was also Guernica’s market day, drawing peasants in from the nearby countryside.

No matter how frequently, always given pause at remembering there is no color whatsoever in the canvas.

A little, plain, provincial, sickly-looking old maid. Being Charlotte Bronte, as seen by George Henry Lewes.

Robert Southey died of — quote — softening of the brain.

And what should they know of England who only England know?

Gauguin once tried to kill himself with arsenic. But vomited.

Do you think up that material when you’re drunk? Asked a cousin of Faulkner’s.

Dittersdorf, you’re not in tune.

Tintoretto died of what appears to have been stomach cancer.

Trollope died of a stroke.

Milledgeville, Georgia.

Tracts free as the Lord supplies the funds.

Frank Lloyd Wright died of a heart attack after surgery.

Hilda Doolittle died of the flu, though already assaulted by a heart attack and a stroke.

Even after Einstein on the Beach had been performed at the Metropolitan Opera, Philip Glass was driving a taxi in New York City.

Hypatia, who was battered to death by Christian fanatics.

Tantum religio potuit suadere maloram, Lucretius said.

Such are the evils that religion prompts.

Emotion recollected in tranquility.

The best words in the best order.

Vivaldi died of no one knows what. Of internal fire, the 1741 Vienna church registry having poetically settled for.

A social and moral pervert, Theodore Roosevelt called Tolstoy.

Roosevelt on Henry James: A miserable little snob.

On Thomas Paine: A filthy little atheist.

Spinoza’s tomb. At the Nieuwe Kerk in The Hague.

It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried.

S. Y. Agnon died of a heart attack.

Dostoievsky’s second wife, Anna, adding a note of charm to a recollection of Dostoievsky pawning something:

He sat there for over an hour — my poor, poor Fedya. So sweet, and so brilliant and altogether fine, and he had to sit and wait among a lot of Jews.

Stuck-groove music.

When the canvas is on the floor, I feel closer to it. Said Jackson Pollock.

Marie Corelli was Charles Mackay’s daughter. Marcia Davenport was Alma Gluck’s.

Robert Penn Warren died of prostate cancer.

Joshua Reynolds died blind.

After having been deaf through most of his life.

Only when the world itself is destroyed will the verses of Lucretius perish. Said Ovid.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan died profoundly in debt. Yet was granted a spectacular Westminster Abbey funeral.

Moliere died after bursting a blood vessel in a convulsive tubercular coughing fit and choking on his own blood.

Panta rei, ouden menel

It is very difficult to understand and appreciate the generation that follows you, Matisse said.

I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

The candle-end was flickering out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the poverty-stricken room the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely been reading together in the eternal book.

The friendship of Byron and Stendhal.

According to Herodotus, Xerxes literally ordered that the Hellespont be given three hundred lashes when a storm washed away a bridge he had only then constructed for his invasion of the West.

And as an incidental afterthought also ordered his chief engineers beheaded.

Gary Cooper died of lung cancer.

Wilhelm Reich died in Lewisburg Penitentiary.

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin died after giving birth to the infant girl who would one day marry Shelley.

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin died after giving birth to the infant girl who would one day write Frankenstein.

Fanny Brawne’s mother died in an accident in which her clothing caught on fire.

Things from which one would avert one’s eyes even in a brothel.

Said Aretino in a letter to Michelangelo condemning The Last Judgment.

Which at least three different popes subsequently came close to having removed.

Rarely remembering that it was Congreve who said Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.

Rarely remembering that it was Congreve who said Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. In the same play.

People none of whose business it is repeatedly excising the Hughes from the Yorkshire gravestone inscribed Sylvia Plath Hughes.

Moses Mendelssohn died of a stroke.

Felix Mendelssohn died of a stroke.

Slabtown, Tennessee, Grace Moore was born in.

If on a winter’s night with no other source of warmth Writer were to burn a Roy Lichtenstein — qualms?

Qualmless.

Kierkegaard was regularly beaten up by his schoolmates. Yeats aussL

Christina Rossetti died while praying.

Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore.

The Muses’ darling, Peele called Marlowe.

O Rare Ben Jonson.

So it befell in that affray that the said Ingram, in defence of his life, with the dagger aforesaid of the value of 12d. gave the said Christopher then & there a mortal wound over his right eye of the depth of two inches & of the width of one inch; of which mortal wound the aforesaid Christopher Morley then & there instantly died.

Negative capability.

Sartre died blind. Having been strabismic.

Like Menander.

Splendid rooms and elegant furnishings are for people who have no thoughts, Goethe said.

Even in a palace it is possible to live well, said Marcus Aurelius.

If you’ve got no passport you’re officially dead.

Ludwig Boltzmann took piano lessons from Anton Bruckner.

Eleanor Bull’s. Deptford Strand.

Andrew Marvell died of what was called tertian ague. Probably meaning malaria.

Which his physician misdiagnosed.

Thackeray died of what was called a cerebral effusion. Meaning either a brain hemorrhage or a stroke.

Jacob Barsimson. New Amsterdam, August 1654.

Lasse Viren.

No one, in any language, has ever written a novel that equals or even approaches Clarissa, said Rousseau.

On a shelf with the Bible, Euripides, and Sophocles, said Diderot of the same book.

Hannah Arendt died of a heart attack.

Watteau died of tuberculosis.

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