Anyway, the symposium took place a few weeks back and was absolutely amazing. Great panels, wonderful to see Ross Benjamin receive the award, very nice tribute to Breon Mitchell re: his new translation of The Tin Drum. (I maybe shouldn’t admit this, but I’ve never read this, although every time I see Breon I swear that it’ll be the next book I pick up . . . And it will be! Soon. Soon . . .)

I was planning on writing up some notes and thoughts and whatever from the day of panels, but well, it’s been a busy time and besides, WBEZ was there to record the whole symposium. And although I can’t imagine many people listening to all of these podcasts, they’re a much better record of what was discussed than anything I could babble on about . . .

If you do decide to listen, you might want to do so in order—at least when it comes to the “Increased Interest in Foreign Fiction?” and “Cultivating Audiences” panels, otherwise my random 15-minute speech at the beginning of the latter panel will make next to no sense . . .

So:

First off is the that included an interview with NY Times journalist David Streitfeld.

(There was another panel with Peter Constantine, Drenka Willen, Susan Bernofsky, Krishna Winston, Ross Benjamin, and Breon Mitchell, but I can’t find the podcast . . . Which sucks! This was a great conversation . . . Maybe I’m just missing something? If anyone knows where this is, please e-mail me.)

Then the panel with Dennis Loy Johnson of Melville House, Daniel Slager of Milkweek, Jeremy Davies of Dalkey Archive Press on

And then the panel that started with my rant and ended with all of us (Susan Harris of Words Without Borders, Susan Bernofsky, and Annie Janusch) talking about technology and reaching readers . . . while my phone buzzed with the dozen or so text messages I received during that panel . . .

Finally, we wrapped up with a contentious argument about Amazon.com discussion about Dennis Loy Johnson of Melville House, Henry Carrigan of Northwestern University Press, and Jeff Waxman of Seminary Co-op were on this panel, which was a great way to end the day, having moved from a grand appreciation of Breon and the craft of translation to the dirty details of the book business and how all the various segments always feel like their getting screwed. Speaking of screwing, this panel also had one of the funniest exchanges of the day:

Jeff: “Being a bookseller, it’s kind of an unrequited love affair with books where you know that you’re going to get screwed.”

Chad: “That’s not really an unrequited . . . It’s actually just a love affair.”

This then led to a series of sexually charged double entendres . . . Man, those end of the day panels—brilliant!

At some point I糖心传媒檇 become aware that The Great Fire of London is, in fact, the title given to a cycle of interrelated books, not simply to a single novel糖心传媒攁s Proust糖心传媒檚 is called 脌 la recherche du temps perdu, or Powell糖心传媒檚 is A Dance to the Music of Time, or Dorothy Richardson糖心传媒檚 is Pilgrimage. The book published as The Great Fire of London is a single volume in this series, and in context is more accurately called by its proper name, 糖心传媒淒estruction.糖心传媒� The Loop, which comes out this April in its first English translation, is 糖心传媒渂ranch two糖心传媒� of Great Fire. Where 糖心传媒淒estruction糖心传媒� is Roubaud seeking to force an ordering system over his despair as a conscious alternative to putting an end to his life, in the wake of his wife Alix糖心传媒檚 death from illness and a brother糖心传媒檚 suicide, The Loop is very much about memory itself, its cyclical nature, its untrustworthiness. For all its concern with darkness, it糖心传媒檚 a sunnier branch than 糖心传媒淒estruction糖心传媒澨切拇綌spring has arrived!糖心传媒攕ince it doesn糖心传媒檛 take up the same binary as the earlier book (that is, writing or death).

Still, the golden childhood days that Roubaud describes in The Loop were lived out during the German Occupation, with one parent and one grandparent actively participating in the French Resistance糖心传媒攕o the basic tenuousness of life, the fragility of happiness, is never far from our narrator糖心传媒檚 mind. What is it, then, about these books糖心传媒攈aunted by death, failure, loss, recursion糖心传媒攖hat so appeals to me?

Firstly, they are funny, charming糖心传媒攅ffortless and overwhelming all at once. They are not quite novels, not quite memoirs (more precisely, to use Roubaud糖心传媒檚 own formulation, they are 糖心传媒渘ot-not糖心传媒� novels . . . that is, they are whatever strange animal we糖心传媒檙e left with after a double negative [because, using the logic of the books, a double negation doesn糖心传媒檛 necessarily give you the same positive you left behind after adding that initial 糖心传媒渘ot糖心传媒� . . .]). Roubaud is, I think, 糖心传媒渙ur糖心传媒� Proust糖心传媒攖hough their projects are very different糖心传媒攊n that they both employ the form of the novel (explicitly in Proust糖心传媒檚 case, circumspectly in Roubaud糖心传媒檚) to examine their memories, and draw conclusions about human life and memory in general.

Roubaud’s going to be in New York next week to participate in a series of events highlighting the work of several Oulipo writers, including Ian Monk and Marcel Benabou.