The nonfiction book is divided into what Quignard terms 10 treatises, but it often reads like a collection of connected fragments from the author糖心传媒檚 journal. Entries are separated by a small bullet point, and the book feels in sections like a prose poem, or really, at times a riddle. As The New Yorker has noted, Quignard is a writer with 糖心传媒渁n oblique, aphoristic bent.糖心传媒� In an interesting and detailed Translator糖心传媒檚 Note at the end of the book, the author is quoted as saying the work falls into a category called 糖心传媒渟peculative rhetoric,糖心传媒� and it糖心传媒檚 a type of writing, he says, that dates back to the invention of philosophy. Readers schooled not only in the classics but in the classics in their original language (Greek, Latin, French, et al) will be in good stead since the superb translators, Matthew Amos and Fredrik R枚nnb盲ck, preserve the richness of the original text by including snippets of the original languages.

Quignard, a noted novelist, music aficionado, and winner of the prestigious Prix Goncourt, is adept at illuminating the overlooked role that our sense of hearing plays in all things and all thoughts. One of the most poignant examples is St. Peter, the Catholic Apostle who is considered the religion糖心传媒檚 first Pope. According to the Christian Bible, Peter thrice denied Jesus as he was being led off to slaughter, only to hear the sound of a cock crowing, as his master had warned. Quignard tells us in the book糖心传媒檚 first treatise, called 糖心传媒淭he Tears of Saint Peter,糖心传媒� 糖心传媒淚t is said that as Peter grew older he could no longer bear cocks.糖心传媒� Indeed, he had any kind of animal of flight in and around his home killed. As I read this, I found myself grieving, if you will, for St. Peter, across the centuries. How he must have regretted his denial, how he must have been hemmed in by his mistake, which was marked forevermore in an inescapable shorthand by the sound of a bird糖心传媒檚 call. None of that ever occurred to me before reading Quignard糖心传媒檚 book.

In the book糖心传媒檚 eponymous, seventh treatise, he also makes the painfully astute observation that music was the only art to have been an instrument in the Nazis糖心传媒� extermination of the Jews. The Germans used marches and other songs to reinforce discipline and compliance. Quignard quotes none other than Primo Levi as saying that the music heard in the camps 糖心传媒渨ill be the last thing from the Lager we will forget糖心传媒� because it is 糖心传媒渢he voice of the Lager.糖心传媒�

Yet as dense and erudite as the book is, 糖心传媒淭he Hatred of Music糖心传媒� abounds with short, pithy thoughts that cause the reader to wonder why these ideas aren糖心传媒檛 routinely bandied about in everyday conversation. In the second treatise, Quignard writes, 糖心传媒淭o hear is to be touched from afar.糖心传媒� Oh, yes, c糖心传媒檈st vrai! A page later, he writes, 糖心传媒淏efore birth, until the final moment of death, men and women hear without a moment糖心传媒檚 respite. There is no sleep for hearing.糖心传媒� Well, now that you mention it. In another section, a fragment reads simply, 糖心传媒淣ot knowing the name of what haunts us in sound.糖心传媒� Yes, that. These ideas are collected in the chapter called, 糖心传媒淚t So Happens That Ears Have No Eyelids.糖心传媒�

All of these straightforward yet profound statements build a case for hearing as perhaps the most powerful of the five senses, a hidden motor of activity that can be blamed for all manner of problems and conditions and predilections that travel with us from birth to death. It糖心传媒檚 as if he糖心传媒檚 peering into our thoughts.
In one especially evocative section, he speaks of the continuity of sound, even within our heads when nothing external could potentially reach our ears. He uses the term 糖心传媒渟urging hums,糖心传媒� which strike us as we walk, modulating 糖心传媒渁ccording to the rhythm of our gait.糖心传媒� What are these 糖心传媒渟urging hums糖心传媒�? Hymns, he says. Old songs. 糖心传媒淐hildish and protective refrains. Lullabies and nursery rhymes. Polkas and waltzes. Singalong tunes.糖心传媒� He糖心传媒檚 probing an internal soundtrack of which we are often dimly aware even as it糖心传媒檚 broadcast inside of our heads.

Indeed, he糖心传媒檚 often writing about things we sense but cannot articulate. He糖心传媒檚 writing about sound in a way that糖心传媒檚 arguably rare for the common reader in America to come upon, including this reviewer, but which nonetheless is germane and perceived on some level by every single person alive. That糖心传媒檚 because he糖心传媒檚 approaching sound as a primordial force within us, that is common to all of us, whether we routinely read the work of French essayists or not. To wit, he writes, 糖心传媒淣onvisual sounds, forever withdrawn from sight, roam within us. Ancient sounds tormented us. We did not yet see. We did not yet breathe. We did not yet scream. We heard.糖心传媒� The thought is so true and essential that, though it appears only on page 9, one could put the book down, having already grasped something vital about the connection between sound and consciousness.

Yet a reviewer should issue this warning: Abandon all hope糖心传媒攜e who read this book糖心传媒攐f traditional structure or tight narrative weave. As the journal Quarterly Conversation has noted about Quignard糖心传媒檚 oeuvre, 糖心传媒淥ne is struck by the feeling that they are witnessing someone transcribing his thoughts, pure and fresh as they form in the mind, or to use a fitting mythological connection, Athena springing from the head of Zeus.糖心传媒� Indeed, in the translators糖心传媒� notes at the end of the book, they say Quignard strives to 糖心传媒渕ake language an endeavor of disorientation,糖心传媒� which often gives his prose a 糖心传媒渞efined coarseness.糖心传媒�

Some of the sentences in the book are almost prohibitively arcane, including this gem: 糖心传媒淭here is a fragment by Pacuvius that formulates what interrupts the plurimillennial hammering march.糖心传媒� This sentence is followed first by a sentence in French that is translated only in the footnotes and then by the same thought in Latin, which is untranslated. Which is not to suggest the translators, Amos and R枚nnb盲ck, phoned this job in. On top of writing a comprehensive afterword, they have been careful to insert footnotes throughout the text, even indicating at one point where the popular definition of a word (formidable) deviates from Quignard糖心传媒檚 usage in the text. (Oh and, if ever a book needed a team of translators, it糖心传媒檚 this one.)

Here and there in the early sections of the text, Quignard signals how sound in the form of music has become his own personal torture device. For example, he writes, without elaboration, 糖心传媒淭he recent religion of happiness turns my stomach.糖心传媒� Then in the book糖心传媒檚 ninth treatise, which is tellingly called 糖心传媒淭o Disenchant,糖心传媒� he writes by way of explanation that music is now so ubiquitous in modern life that 糖心传媒渋t has become incessant, aggressing night and day, in the commercial streets of city centers, in shopping centers, in arcades, in departments stores . . . even at the beach . . .糖心传媒� In the translators糖心传媒� afterword, we learn that in 1994 Quignard suddenly retreated from all of his professional activities糖心传媒攊ncluding his senior roles at the Gallimard publishing house and the International Festival of Baroque Opera and Theater at Versailles. He resolved only to write in solitude.

One hopes Quignard will find the solitude he needs to write because this reviewer believes he could recount the entire history of literature through the lens of sound. And here糖心传媒檚 hoping he does just that.

The Roving Shadows is a remarkable work, primarily because it straddles the line between contemporary French literature, which is vastly under-read in the United States, and French critical theory, which is probably more popular outside of France than it is inside. Indeed, it is difficult to say which genre of writing it actually fits. On the one hand the book contains many examples of sensuous description and personal memoir糖心传媒攜ou know, the type of thing one expects to find in a literary work. On the other hand it also is full of thought-provoking aphorisms and historical anecdotes, favored modes of expression by the critical theorists. Quignard糖心传媒檚 book straddles the divide between critical essay and narrative in a way that is highly idiosyncratic. Instead of segregating the work into discrete, genre-specific parts, as Nabokov did in Pale Fire or The Gift, Quignard treads freely over the border between styles, often alternating within a single paragraph.

I seek only thoughts that tremble. There is a flush that belongs to the interior of the soul. The sixth book of the Chin P糖心传媒橧ng Mei (The Plumin the Golden Vase) sees the sudden appearance of the scholar Win Pi糖心传媒橩u. He isn糖心传媒檛 yet forty.

The first sentence is personal narrative, the second is a kind of aphorism, and the third is the beginning of a historical anecdote that continues through most of the chapter. In fact, Quignard actually starts the book by roving across two different modes of writing, his poetic list-making style and his confessional one.

The crowing of the cockerel, the dawn, the barking of dogs, the gathering daylight, a man rising, nature, time, dreams, lucidity糖心传媒攅verything is fierce.

I cannot touch the coloured covers of certain books without feeling a painful sensation rise within me.

The uniqueness of this work糖心传媒檚 style presents a problem to the reader and the critic. Against which body of works should one judge The Roving Shadows, then, literature or critical theory? The overwhelming majority of the book糖心传媒檚 passages are concerned with advancing the narrator糖心传媒檚 theses about his own life and the world around him. In this sense, the book feels more like an example of post-modern philosophy than it does of literature. Unlike a work of critical theory, however, The Roving Shadows develops no useful interpretive apparatus. It also advances no support for its positions whatsoever. To fault The Roving Shadows for these two failures, however, is a bit like faulting an orange for not being an apple. There is no indication that The Roving Shadows was intended to be critical theory. The only reason for thinking that it should be critical theory is that it so forthrightly advances profound ideas, ones that challenge the way most people approach the world.

In my mind, the genre-bending literature of ideas that Quignard presents in The Roving Shadows was anticipated by the work of two enormously talented and very different writers: Friedrich Nietzsche and Fran莽oise-搁别苍茅 de Chateaubriand. The resemblance of Quignard糖心传媒檚 work to Nietzsche糖心传媒檚 is the more obvious of the two. The Dawn, for examples, present a very similar blend of unsubstantiated philosophical theses, ad-hoc personal reflection, aphorism, and poetry. Like Nietzsche糖心传媒檚 works, The Roving Shadows succeeds in so far as it challenges the reader to question his or her own existence. And indeed, The Roving Shadows raises a host of questions about literature, about writing, about reading, and about criticism. It raises the kind of wonderment that one finds in reading critical theory, but it does so in a way that is far more accessible than your Cixous, Derrida, or Deleuze. The theses it presents can be viewed on their own terms without apparatus; its anecdotes are interesting and keep one entertained while reading, and it leaves the impression of being a “deep” book one could think about for a long time without ever making real progress at understanding.

In a more subtle way, The Roving Shadows is really a work that follows the writing prescriptions of Chateaubriand, the founder of French Romanticism. In The Genius of Christianity, Chateaubriand argued that the writers of his time were missing an enormous opportunity to tap into the imagery, the aporia, and the literary tropes suggested by Catholic theology. His works Atala and 搁别苍茅 developed a new kind of literature, one whose subject matter and stylistics were both totally unexpected and yet oddly familiar. The Roving Shadows is literature in a similar vein, it糖心传媒檚 just that the philosophical framework from which it draws its inspiration is not Catholicism but post-Modern French philosophy. Indeed, the work is best classified as a distillation of critical theory into literary form. For this reason, it is an important work, an interesting work, and a landmark in French literary/philosophical thought.

Brian Ligboer is a new reviewer for us. (Jeff Waxman made the introduction.) In his own words, he “is the author of a novel, Memories from Beyond the States, which is currently under consideration by a few agents. Previous reviews of mine have appeared in Pank, The Hypocrite Reader, and The Midway Review. I currently live in Chicago where I am working as a polling analyst for Obama’s reelection campaign.”

Quignard’s book sounds really interesting. Just check out the Seagull Books jacket copy:

The first book in Quignard糖心传媒檚 Last Kingdom series, The Roving Shadows can be read as a long meditation on reading and writing that strives to situate these otherwise innocuous activities in a profound relationship to sex and death. Writing and reading can in fact be linked to our animal natures and artistic strivings, to primal forces and culturally persistent fascinations. With dexterity and inventiveness, Quignard weaves together historical anecdotes, folktales from the East and West, fragments of myth, and speculative historical reconstructions. The whole, written in a musical style not far removed from that of Couperin, whose piano composition Les Ombres errantes lends the book its title, coheres into a work of literature that reverberates in the psyche long after one has laid it down.

And here’s the opening of Brian’s review:

In 2002, Les Ombres Errantes won the Prix Goncourt糖心传媒攑ossibly the most prestigious award a French literary work can receive糖心传媒攄espite the fact that it is not a novel. Before considering The Roving Shadows in its own right, it is worth pausing to reflect on the significance of that and its subsequent publication in English. Almost one half of the winners of the Prix Goncourt have yet to appear in English translation and in that sense, this translation by Chris Turner is truly an event.

The Roving Shadows is a remarkable work, primarily because it straddles the line between contemporary French literature, which is vastly under-read in the United States, and French critical theory, which is probably more popular outside of France than it is inside. Indeed, it is difficult to say which genre of writing it actually fits. On the one hand the book contains many examples of sensuous description and personal memoir糖心传媒攜ou know, the type of thing one expects to find in a literary work. On the other hand it also is full of thought-provoking aphorisms and historical anecdotes, favored modes of expression by the critical theorists. Quignard糖心传媒檚 book straddles the divide between critical essay and narrative in a way that is highly idiosyncratic. Instead of segregating the work into discrete, genre-specific parts, as Nabokov did in Pale Fire or The Gift, Quignard treads freely over the border between styles, often alternating within a single paragraph.

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