Interview with Michel LeirisAuthor(s): Madeleine Gobeil, Michel Leiris and Carl R. LovittReviewed work(s):Source: SubStance, Vol. 4, No. 11/12 (1975), pp. 44-60Published by: University of Wisconsin PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3683958 .Accessed: 26/10/2012 02:03

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"Michel Leiris"

INTERVIEW WITH MICHEL LEIRIS

Madeleine Gobeil

MADELEINE Gobeil: Michel Leiris, isn't the place that you occupy in French Literature rather exceptional? In Repertoire, Michel Butor, the novelist of the New Novel, writes that "you are not creating art for art's sake, but also that you have not renounced your true profession in the name of commitment (en-gagement)." Moreover, among your friends and admirers are writers such as Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre.

Michel Leiris: You can well imagine that I am not the only one to define my own place in French literature... In fact, I do take a certain interest in the New Novel and have, for many years, been intimately associated with Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. Meanwhile, I do not conceive of "commitment" in the same manner as they do, although I do feel that in our times a writer cannot be disinterested in politics. What I am looking for, for myself, is a properly literary form of "commitment," and not a "commitment" which would, in some way, be only a supple- ment

M.G.: This "commitment" which you speak of is reflected in your personal life; you change from book to book.

M.L.: Of course, I can say in a certain sense that my life changes and changes the book. There is also a certain poetic conception of things which transforms, or which at least colors

SUB-STANCE No. 11-12, 1975 44

Interview 45

life a little.

M.G.: How did you become involved in literature?

M.L.: My first text appeared in a small journal called Intentions published by Jouhandeau and Supervielle?The first writer that I knew personally was Max Jacob. He's a man whom I've always considered to be a truly great poet and a great writer, and who, in a tattered, fragmented life full of contradictions, had some- thing quite exemplary. He was a poet in the true sense of the word, just as Nerval was a poet, as well as Baudelaire and Rim- baud. For him, poetry was something to which his whole life was committed. It is through him that I came to know the painter Andre Masson, the one I refer to as my mentor in L'Age d'Homme; and, it is shortly thereafter, following an exhibition of Masson's work, that I made contact with Breton, and that our whole little group of friends became surrealists.

M.G.: No strict observance?

M.L.: Yes, I was one, signing the manifestos from 1924 to 1928 I got a lot out of it, and, in a certain sense, feel that I am still part of it. I've completely revised my methods. For me, it's no longer a question of automatic writing, for example. I attach much less importance to my dreams now than I did for a long time; but, all things considered, I'm essentially pursuing the same thing, what Breton called, (though I don't recall his exact words), "the point at which life and death are indistinguish- able," the place where all contradictions are resolved.

M.G.: It was to Robert Desnos that you dedicated your collection Grande Fuite de Neige.

M.L.: Robert Desnos was one of the surrealists with whom I had the closest ties. What was marvelous in his life --which can also be seen in his books-- was that he lived a "surrealist." There are things which Breton related on different occasions which may

46 Gobeil

seem implausible to those who did not live through this era, but I have witnessed them myself. Often, when with friends in a noisy setting such as a caf6, Desnos would close his eyes at will and begin improvising. This improvised text was generally of great beauty, of tremendous poetic stature. Desnos was also one of the most physically committed. Extremely brave at demonstrations, a scuffler with a gift for improvisation and retort, he confounded the adversary. In friendship, he was fraternal; and, this man, so passionately dedicated to freedom, could only be revolted by the atmosphere of the Occupation. We all know of his courage during the Resistance and of his tragic death.

M.G.: Aren't you the only surrealist writer to have known Raymond Roussel well?

M.L.: Raymond Roussel entrusted some of his papers to my father, and I knew him because he was a friend of my father's. For a long time, he came to our house almost every week to play music with him. I must have been six or eight years old when I was first permitted to attend these soirees. Roussel, who was an extraordinarily sensitive man and a faithful friend, saw me any time I asked to see him, out of consideration for my father's memory. I had steady dealings with him. I have no cause to boast of having appealed to Roussel: he received me because I was the son of a man whom he liked a great deal. We spoke as "fellow-writers" and I would send him things. It was extremely difficult to get him to speak of his own work. From time to time, an isolated remark... But, in a sustained manner, it wasn't pos- sible. Charlotte Dufrene, his confidante, had spoken to me of this trait, and I had occasion to find it out for myself. He had a gimmick for avoiding potentially bothersome questions, mean- ing those concerning his work. He would speak first! He would ask news of all sorts of things! The last time I saw him, he asked me questions about all the members of my family and friends of the family whom he had known, in a way that was perfectly mind-boggling. It was because I had tried to question him...

Interview 47

M.G.: Have you seen Roussel's plays?

M.L.: I've seen all of them. I was twelve when I saw Impressions d'Afrique. My father was a very decent man who liked Roussel tremendously and who understood absolutely nothing about Roussel's literature. He would attend them to please Roussel. His plays amused me a lot; and, at the Theatre Antoine, they were received with incredible tumult. I was a long way then from realizing just what Roussel was. I had to wait un- til after the 1914 war, when Locus Solus appeared.3

M.G.: Was it you who acquainted the surrealists with him?

M.L.: No. But I would have liked for him to find a public. It can't be said that this was his weakness, it can't be held against him --it was so vital to his person-- but Roussel was extraordi- narily avid for success. He suffered from not being recognized and gave his plays enormous publicity. Quite young, he had conceived of fame as a sort of radiance which made him into a kind of demi-god.

M.G.: Can you specify the influence which he has had on you?

M.L.: I've always admired the rigor of Roussel's style; not only the inventiveness, but the transparence and rigor of the style. After L'Etoile au front, I had congratulated him, telling him how lovely his texts were, how much I admired the concision. L'Etoile au front or certain things in the posthumous collection are as lovely as anything in Mallarm6; they attain the same dia- mond quality. Roussel admitted to me that all he wanted was to express himself in an impeccable manner, from the standpoint of both vocabulary and grammar, in order to be as clear and concise as possible. The infuence of this is not readily apparent in my own writings, which are long and have involved sentences. I can say, in all good faith, that this is not my fault! I would love writing very short books, with truly short sentences in which I could say as much... Unfortunately, what I have to say is fairly

48 Gobeil

complex, and this compels me to complicate the sentences and structure. On the other hand, what directly influenced me in Bif- fures and Fourbis was the Roussel device, the one he revealed in Comment j'ai ecrit certains de mes livresO It wasn't so much the plays on words that I retained. Plays on words, as you know, have always prodigiously interested me. What I retained was what Roussel says concerning his plays on words or sentence transformations: that they led him to "equations of facts:" the facts or materials which his word games had provided him with. His task then consisted of inventing a story which would connect these facts. This is in part what gave me the idea of using index cards; these cards being for me what the terms of the "equations of facts" were for Roussel, in other words, the materials which I had to interrelate.5

M.G.: What was your reaction to Roussel's suicide?

M.L.: Charlotte Dufrene gave me an account of it which completely upset me and which convinced me that fundamental- ly everything in Roussel tended towards that.

M.G.: As a young poet, you oriented yourself towards autobiography with L'Age d'Homme. Didn't the novel tempt you?

M.L.: A portion of L'Age d'Homme was written before my departure for Africa, from which I brought back L'Afrique Fant6me. Yes, I would like to write a novel "just like that." As a young man, around 1934 , I had occasion to start a novel. It was so totally autobiographical, the characters had so little life, that I struck me as stupid. I have nothing against novels; I am very sensitive to a good novel, but I oriented myself towards autobio- graphy. When you become oriented in this direction, you must impose extremely rigorous rules upon yourself. A failed autobio- graphy is an abominable trickery. One might conclude that I am wary of fiction, but this is not true. For, if that were true, I wouldn't adore all of Roussel. As for me, I can't get away from

Interview 49

the "I," get out of my skin, make characters appear who truly exist.

M.G.: One can sense the influence of psycho-analysis in L'Age d'Homme.

M.L.: I underwent psycho-analysis for approximately five years, and I can say that analysis taught me to see myself and to know myself better. Before, I had no sense of unity. I had the impression of doing certain things, of doing others and then not feeling there was any relation between them. I had the impres- sion of totally disparate activities. Psycho-analysis showed me the connections between these varied behaviors. Freud seems of the utmost importance to me. I've remained a surrealist in this respect. You know that one of the great desires during the sur- realist era would have been to effect a synthesis, a conciliation of Marx and Freud, the economic factor and the sexual factor. I. continue to think that a true anthropology should be based on these.

M.G.: By committing yourself to the literature of confession, you wanted to push further than Rousseau and Proust, you wanted to speak of yourself in a manner which is as dangerous as that of "the bullfighter in the arena, who braves the bull's horn at every instant," whence your famous preface to L'Age d'Homme.

M.L.: I am anxiousto clarify the question of the "bullfighter" in what I have called "Of Literature Considered as a Tauromachy." Quite a few people have been mistaken about that. In fact, if I chose this title, it was for irony... I reappropri- ated Thomas de Quincey's title: "Of Assasination Considered as one of the Fine Arts," which had been taken up again by Cocteau before L'Age d'Homme: "Of Fine Arts Considered as an Assasi- nation;" I took this title to show that literature is not a tauromachy; I was being ironic. We should try to make literature such that it would commit the author as much as the bullfighter,

50 Gobeil

who risks being gored is committed, but I do not maintain that it is so. It's a wish; we still have to devise a means of achieving this. It is here that I have a conception of "commitment" which differs from that of Sartre. I would like a "commitment"which, of itself, rather than through its political consequences, is as dangerous as that of the bullfighter facing the bull. By "danger- ous commitment" I mean a commitment which can lead some to suicide, as in the case of Nerval, of Roussel, of quite a few others, which can lead some to madness, and still others, like Rimbaud, to wreck up their lives. That's how I understand it... L'Age d'Homme was a vey limited risk compared to those I mentioned. Nonetheless, what led me to place demands upon myself, is the fact that I am married, that I love my wife a great deal, and be- cause I knew that this book could only upset her. I wanted this precisely for our own relationship, in order that it might be devoid of hypocrisy. We forget that Proust did not write his Memoirs. L'Age d'Homme represented a risk, and something quite difficult to swallow; it entailed displaying my own deficien- cies. As a rule a man tries instead to puff himself up like a rooster. It was a very meek attempt at introducing "the bull's horn." L'Age d'Homme was nonetheless a book designed to play a certain role in my life, not simply a book made "just like that"... I was completely escaping "art for art's sake" by writing it.

M.G.: What sort of reception greeted L'Age d'Homme?

M.L.: None. First of all, the book appeared in 1939, and was drowned in the war. It was re-published in 1945 . The first book to have attracted any attention was Fourbis.

M.G.: Did you have the impression that you were going further than Breton with the confession?

M.L.: I wasn't aware of it. Breton didn't go far enough in Nadja. A pious veil hangs over it. Still, he was the first, to my knowledge, to compose a novel out of facts that were strictly

Interview 51

true.

M.G.: L'Age d'Homme was dedicated to Georges Bataille.

M.L.: I was working for the journal "Documents;" I was the copy editor and my old friend Bataille was the editor-in-chief. I like him a lot, and I give him credit for the book in two respects. I owe, so to speak, the core of the book to him. Bataille, who at the same time had already written L'Histoire de L'Oeil, was planning to head a collection of erotic books. He wanted something from me, but that didn't interest me in the least. Bataille, himself, has done some absolutely admirable erotic books, but what generally displeases me about erotic books written to be published underground is that they come off as completely artificial. The characters seldom have any substance; they're placed in all kinds of postures as if they were manne- quins. Ultimately, it doesn't mean anything; it's a kind of bluff, without any real authenticity. Not wanting to do this kind of book, I proposed to Bataille to write an autobiographical piece touching on eroticism. I wrote the parts entitled "Judith," "Lucrece" and "Holopherne."

M.G.: You had discovered Cranach.

M.L.: Yes. I had come upon a reproduction of a painting by Cranach which made a great impression upon me. What I love about Cranach --and this brings me back to Roussel-- is the classicism, the extraordinary precision combined with something quite different. Then Bataille's erotic collection fizzled and I kept my chapters shelved. It was while working with Bataille that I found the Cranach reproduction, and it was also Bataille who sent me to his psycho-analyst.

M.G.: Bataille was completely unknown at the time?

M.L.: Let us say that he was very much outside of the mainstream. The first to have known Bataille was the

52 Gobeil

ethnologist Alfred Metraux. They had met at the "Ecole des Chartes."

M.G.: This confession, the project of "La Regle du Jeu" has occupied your life since L'Age d'Homme?

M.L.: Yes, it's long and I'm lazy. A little before the war the idea occurred to me of coming to terms with myself by no longer limiting myself to eroticism. L'Age d'Homme was written under the influence of Freud, who I believed held the key to everything. I wanted to explore other domains and to try to gather everything I could have in the way of properly surrealist experiences, whence the stories or narratives touching on language, the famous glissades on words; then, little by little, the project expanded. When the Occupation came, in those austere circumstances, there was a folding back upon myself in search for solid values. When I began Biffures, I realized that the kind of mosaic in L'Age d'Homme, this way of proceding with short texts, was ultimately a facile task. I wanted to do something else, to break away from mosaics and write sustained texts. I've moved in this direction to such an extent that the one, which I am in the process of completing, is a continuous work. I have completely discarded the practice of dividing books into a fairly large number of chapters, as I did in Biffures and similarly, in L'Age d'Homme. In the second book Fourbis, there are only three. Now, in Febrilles, there is only one, divided into four parts but without chapter headings.

M.G.: You give evidence of an immense power of concentration in this exploration of yourself.

M.L.: I have often thought --I believe this is found in Ignatius Loyola-- of techniques of meditation for imaginatively reconsti- tuting the crucifixion scene. I haven't applied these methods, but have thought that something of this type had to be done with memory. This is fairly close to Proust. For a memory to be written, it must be relived, it takes an effort of concentration to

Interview 53

make it relive.

M.G.: By according a very particular primacy to language.

M.L.: When I write, I apply rules, the ones which Max Jacob speaks of, in fact, those of the lyceum. Jacob would say that all philosophical and psychological vocabulary had to be avoided. For example, you could say "frustration," "alienation"... If you deny youself the use of these words, you are obliged to paraphrase, which obliges you to delve deeper into the psychological state in order to express it. As a child, I was very sensitive to words, and for me poetry is not only an equation which involves us in the marvelous, but something which is intimately related to words. It is because of this that I am so fond of Racine, and, perhaps even more so of Gerard de Nerval. Nerval is perhaps the writer that I enjoy the most. Unlike a great number of people, I am much more sensitive to Nerval than to Baudelaire. I admire Baudelaire tremendously, but Nerval affects me more.

M.G.: How do you find time to work on La Regle du Jeu in addition to your practice of ethnography?

M.L.: Ethnography takes up a lot of my time. To recall what I want to say in my books, I have a system of index cards. I have sheets on which I've jotted down memories of my childhood. These index cards go back forty years! I keep a diary, but very irregularly. I have a lot of trouble writing. The only way in which I can impart my most terrible states is retrospectively. The present hardly intervenes anywhere, except in Fibrilles which I am in the process of completing. There was a big crisis --I took barbiturates and had a hard time pulling myself out of it. This happened in the middle and it's becoming the heart of the book because it happened right in the middle... I must really have literature bolted to my body, because it was on my hospital bed, scarcely out of the coma, that I wrote some poems. Upon awakening, I immediately requested a notebook. It was the only way to catch hold of life again.

54 Gobeil

M.G.: Does your profession as ethnologist help you with litera- ture?

M.L.: I think so. I would never have succeeded in speaking of myself with such objectivity if I hadn't acquired powers of observation, and notably for indexing, since a good part of an ethnographer's time is spent establishing index cards on one fact or another.

M.G.: Is your work in ethnography necessary to you?

M.L.: I couldn't devote my entire day to literature; I would flounder; I would be so totally confronted with this problem, grinding away in every direction, that it would be catastrophic. I need to see writing as recreation. As for ethnography, I can only conceive of it as commitment. There can be no question of being an ethnologist without siding with the population which you are studying.

M.G.: This was already apparent in L'Afrique Fantime in which you challenged the myth of the voyage.

M.L.: You can't escape, I've said it before, you always remain yourself. L'Afrique Fant6me is a diary, the book of personal moods, par excellence. All the same, this journey gave me a perspective --I wouldn't dare say a knowledge-- but a perspective of civilizations which differ from the one in which we live.

M.G.: You appear to like these different civilizations which you come into contact with, but nevertheless you maintain a certain reserve, a certain respect without familiarity.

M.L.: It's perhaps a question of manners. It is very seldom that I will address a child familiarly. I treat him like a person. We speak of comradeship and friendship... Afterwards, I always have the impression that it ends abruptly. We haven't gotten anywhere.

Interview 55

M.G.: Claude Mauriac and Michel Butor speak of your "universe" in the same sense in which one speaks of Proust's universe, for example.

1

M.L.: I don't have the impression of carrying a universe within me. I have within me a certain number of things which I would like to have the time to say. And I realize as I complete Fibrilles that there is no end to it and I think I shall give up the idea of doing Fibules8 Yet, I sense that there is something vague here... as if I sensed that the final point would be death. Yes, I have a certain fear of finishing.

M.G.: Does death concern you much?

M.L.: I don't think there is anything important in which death is not in play. It is here that I come back to the bullfighter. A true poet is in mortal danger because he could commit suicide, do almost anything. Even Mallarm6, who led such an untroubled life, had the famous attack in Tournon which we know so little about, but during which 'he seems to have been in a fairly disturbing condition. Nerval hanged himself, Baudelaire was laid low.

M.G.: Don't you have a taste for disaster?

M.L.: Claude Mauriac spoke of me in this sense, of my masochism, of my taste for death. This is not true... But death is behind all great things in art or poetry.

M.G.: If you speak of yourself in depth and with little restraint in La Regle du Jeu, you seldom implicate others.

M.L.: This is one of the cases of the autobiographer's conscience. One has every right with regard to oneself. When it's a question of implicating others, much more discretion is required. In Fibrilles, I speak of many types of things, but I avoid the main point. I could not speak of the romantic

56 Gobeil

attachment which led me to this suicide attempt, because the person would have been recognized. This figure will appear more distant than other, less important ones.

M.G.: It could be said that your work gives evidence of a passionate taste for authenticity.

M.L.: Just what exactly do we mean by "authenticity?" Is it a stop-gap word? "Authenticity" has meaning in reference to something else. This African mask behind me is authentic in re- ference to a manufactured mask. What is an authentic piece of writing and what isn't? We know that an autobiography of Chateaubriand is not authentic because it contains so many absolutely false things, but there are nevertheless passages which are surely, beyond a doubt, authentic. There are also perfectly precise autobiographies which could not be qualified as authentic because they have no deep resonances. They would be more like entries in a dictionary. Authenticity is a difficult word to handle... If we take a novel, what is authentic, what isn't... An authentic work is, essentially, a work which we experience as true and beautiful.

M.G.: What contemporary works strike you as "true and beautiful?"

M.L.: In our era, I like two poets: Rene Char and Aim' Cesaire. From my generation, I prefer Georges Limbour and Georges Bataille. In a literary sense, they are the closest to me. Henri Michaux interests me, but I feel no proximity; instead, I have admiration for him. I am very fond of Sartre and Le CastorI appreciate them as philosophers, as moralists, as guides; but, I am obliged to admit that, personally, this is not what I am looking for. There is a book by Simone de Beauvoir Une Mort Tres Douce which I find admirable. I feel that, even literarily, L'Etre et le Neant is Sartre's most beautiful book. It is precisely there that we find sensational descriptions; the "Garcon de Caf&" and the "Trou de la Serrure" are prodigious! I also adore

Interview 57

Les Mouches. As for his book Les Mots, it contains evidence of an effort at writing; it is well done, and the portrayal of the family is quite compelling. But I find that the child Sartre is seen from too great a distance. In the course of an evening, Sartre spoke to me of the project for Les Mots, saying that he was going to write this book as a story which could have been written about him. Not as an immediate thing based on memories like Proust, like Rousseau earlier, or like things which I did later, but truly a biography, an objective work. This is doubtless why I see it as an object, an admirably fashioned object, but one which nevertheless remains an object. The child Sartre narrates it, but at no time do we feel the child that he was relives.

M.G.: Do you consider yourself very different from writers of the New Novel?

M.L.: Actually, quite a bit. Michel Butor is the one that I feel the closest to. I'm quite fond of Robbe-Grillet, but reproach him with his theoretical side and with stretching his own theories. In his book Dans le Labyrinthe, he begins with an extremely serious little note in which he warns the reader not to imagine anything whatever beyond what is presented. But, manifestly, everything that is presented is designed to invoke this beyond in order for the reader to see something other than what is related. Frankly, this irritates me a little.

M.G.: Although you are a great writer, you are nevertheless un- known to the general public. Would you like fame?

M.L.: In all good faith, who wouldn't like it? If you publish, it is certainly with the idea that there will be those who read and appreciate you. There is ridiculous, official fame. I spoke to you of Roussel's conception of fame: this radiance which was supposed to emanate from him and make him into a kind of demi-god... I must admit that at this delirious level --and I do mean delirious-- if I could have fame such as that, of course, become virtually immortal... But fame, as it is reasonably

58 Gobeil

understood and as it can be hoped for by'a writer, I frankly don't give a damn about. When I was very young I thought that people like Apollinaire or Max Jacob lived with a kind of halo around them, surrounded by mystery, like demi-gods. But of course, this is totally illusory.

M.G.: How can we define Michel Leiris?

M.L.: I will answer simply. Even when I was concerned only with poetry, what always interested me was lyrical poetry, the "I," the state of the soul, the state of the conscience of the poet himself which is the theme of poetry. For me, there is no solution of continuity between my surrealist texts which have always been, to a certain extent, autobiographical and what I have done since: La Regle du Jeu, my writings on art and literature, and my ethnographic works.

(Paris - 1966) Translated by Carl R. Lovitt

NOTES (by the editor)

1Concerning this notion of "commitment" for Michel Leiris, cf. "De la litterature consideree comme une tauromachie," preface to L'Age d'Homme, p. 15, Gallimard, 1946.

2These first texts by Michel Leiris were republished together in Simulacres (1925), and are included in the volume Mots Sans Mimoire (Gallimard, Paris, 1969).

3Concerning the relations between Michel Leiris and Raymond Roussel, cf. Fibrilles, p. 241:

To banish ornaments in order to treat the words as something other than wind. How can this rule be recon- ciled with my love for the baroque and for a profuseness whose necessity is to escape necessity? And would I be

Interview 59

able to distinguish between the accessory and the essential(even for myself), knowing that all kinds of in- genious ways of stringing things out --while using the most concise style-- have been the levers of creation for someone like Raymond Roussel and that connecting pins visible to the naked eye served him as pitons for scaling the highest summits?

As well as in Fibrilles, p. 9:

At the time of the trip around the world which he took by paying serious attention only to the panorama which unfolded within him, an extremely marginal represent- ative of our mandarin intelligencia, Raymond Roussel (...) the author of the "abracadadabrantes" Impressions d'Afrique...

See also Pierre Chappuis' Michel Leiris (Seghers, 1974), pp. 57-61.

4cf. Brise'es (Mercure de France, 1966), pp. 58-61.

5cf. 4 index cards for Biffures in Michel Leiris by Pierre Chappuis( Section on documents, pp. 32-33).

60n the relations between Leiris and Bataille see especially Georges Bataille's "Le surrealisme au jour le jour," part 2, in "Change" #7, Dec., 1970, pp. 85-87.

7Claude Mauriac: see L'Allitterature Contemporaine. Albin-Michel, 1957. The section devoted to Michel Leiris is on pp. 61-75. In the 1969 edition, this section is on pp. 69-88. This text exists in English: The New Literature, Claude Mauriace, translated by Samuel I. Stone. New York, George Braziller, Inc., 1959, pp. 61-73 Michel Butor: "Une Autobiographie Dialectique" in "Critique," Dec., 1955. This essay has been included in Repertoire I, Ed. de Minuit, 1960 and in Essais sur les Modernes, Gallimard, 1964 (Coll. Iddes, 1967).

8This has since become the fourth tome of La R#gle du Jeu: Frele Bruit, in course of completion.

60 Gobeil

9cf. the preface of L'Age d'Homme: "De la litterature consid6rde comme une tauromachie," p. 17, Gallimard, 1946.

10This is Simone de Beauvoir's surname. Concerning Michel Leiris' relations with Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, cf. La Force de L'Age, Simone de Beauvoir, Gallimard, 1960, pp. 573-613.

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