Showing posts with label Absurdism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Absurdism. Show all posts

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Witold Gombrowicz, Trans-Atlantyk - They’re Only Pretending to Use the Urinals: Comic Moments in Literary Fiction




Witold Gombrowicz’s novels are chock full of absurdity, so perhaps it’s natural that we find some hilarious moments thrown in. His writing styles are highly original, and his own personal philosophical concepts underlie the characters and events in his fiction, providing a lot of depth to what may appear to be silly, farcical stories on the surface.

Any look one takes at Gombrowicz invariably focuses on his unique biography, but in Gombrowicz’s novel Trans-Atlantyk, Gombrowicz himself presents to his readers the most fateful decision of his life. Of course, Trans-Atlantyk is absurd, fantastical, and written in an archaic Polish form as a mockery (the English translation is written in a kind of ersatz 17th Century English), but it does feature a narrator named Witold Gombrowicz, who finds himself sent to Buenos Aires as a Polish literary representative, and when World War II breaks out in Europe with the Nazis invading Poland, Witold does not choose to get back on board the ship with the others and return to Europe to join the war. He remains in Argentina for dubious reasons, just as the real Witold Gombrowicz did, where he found himself poor, unable to speak Spanish, and in exile for more than 20 years. (He also wasn’t doing himself any favors by writing a novel in Polish that could only be read by his fellow Polish émigrés, but using such ancient Polish that it was difficult for even them to read, and insulting the whole Polish immigrant culture in Argentina while he was at it! It seems safe to say he didn't get into writing for the money!)


As Jerzy Jarzebski writes in The Exile and Return of Writers from East-Central Europe: A Compendium, "All of the actions of the protagonist-Gombrowicz described in the novel are outrageously unworthy and dishonorable from the point of view of the patriotic tradition of emigration." This fits in with Gombrowicz’s iconoclastic themes. The novel pits the “Fatherland” against the “Sonland.” In the book’s introduction, Stanislaw Baranczak describes Gombrowicz’s decision thus, “What Gombrowicz the narrator refuses to suffer any more—taking the dramatic yes-or-no question of his return as an opportunity to make a clean break with his half-hearted compliance—is the overwhelming power of stereotype, of What Is Expected from You, of (to use the term Gombrowicz adopted in his essays and diary) Form.”

I’d just like to note that my Gombrowicz quotes are from the original translation of Trans-Atlantyk by Carolyn French and Nina Karsov, but a second translation by Danuta Borchardt was published in 2014. This article in the Quarterly Conversation discusses the two versions.

Nevertheless, highly relevant to our discussion here—to this entire Comic Moments in Literary Fiction series on this blog—Susan Sontag writes in the introduction to the new translation, “[Gombrowicz's] third, tongue-in-cheek, message has a more universal portent: issues between individuals and nations can be so horrific that nothing but humongous laughter may deliver salvation."


The narrator Gombrowicz of Trans-Atlantyk finds a job with other Polish émigrés, and he has a lot of dealings with three of the employees (The Baron, Ciumkala, and Pyckal), who the narrator finds quite buffoonish. They encounter him at a dance hall and insist on buying him drinks. They start arguing with each other about who will treat Gombrowicz, and Gombrowicz tries to give them the slip by excusing himself to the restroom, but he can’t get away:

“...and I quickly made off. I enter the Privy, they after me. There was one man who was making water into a Urinal. I to a urinal. They to urinals. But when that man who had been making water left, they jointly at me.” 
(FYI, this is all [SIC] per above note on his style and all ellipses are in the original)

Now that they have Gombrowicz alone, the three employees try to give money to each other, which can be used to treat Gombrowicz so they can get into his good favor:

“And Ciumkala to the Baron: ‘Here, have six hundred.’ And Pyckal to Ciumkala: ‘Here seven hundred, have seven hundred. Take when I’m giving!’ They take cashes out, brandish them under noses for themselves, for me, and press them each on the others! Haply they are Madmen!
“I reckoned then that, although they are giving these Cashes each to the others amongst themselves, they would fain give me these Cashes to purchase my favor . . . save that they feel awkward for want of daring with me. Ergo I say: ‘Do not fever yourselves, Gentles, easy, easy.’ Yet they were but seeking a way to press these Cashes on me, and at length the Baron clasped his head: ‘Aye me, my pocket is torn. I’d better give my Cashes to you as I may lose them!’ . . . and he started to press the Cashes on me. Seeing that, the others also press theirs: ‘My pocket is torn, too. Take mine’ —‘And mine.’ Say I: ‘For God’s sake, gentles, to what end do you give?’ . . .But at this moment someone came in for the need, so they to Urinals, unbutton, whistle, as if naught, as if for the need . . . Only when that someone who had come in went out, they at me again, and since they have become more daring, they indeed thrust the Cashes on me and ‘Take, take’ they chorus. Say I: ‘In the name of the Father and the Son, gentlemen, to what end do you give, what purpose you your cashes with me?’ In this moment, however, someone came in for the need, so they to Urinals, whistle . . . but as soon as we were left alone, again they lept at me and Pyckal roared: ‘Take, take when you are given, take, take for he has three hundred or four hundred Millions!’—’Take not from Pyckal; take from me,’ cried the Baron, whirring and buzzing as a wasp, ‘from me take, as, for God’s sake, he may have even four hundred or five hundred Millions!”


This plays out like a side-splitting skit in my mind’s eye. At first, they’re trying to be coy with the money to impress Gombrowicz, but then they realize someone is coming into the bathroom and they all run to a urinal and cartoonishly whistle, pretending to use the facilities until that guy leaves. Then, like a cartoon character coming up with a new scheme, one of them says there’s a hole in his pocket, so Gombrowicz should take the money, and like clowns, the others say they’ve also got holes in their pockets and shove their money at him—But they all need to put the money away and rush to a urinal as they realize someone else is entering the restroom!

This goes on for a while longer until they finally wear him down:

“Wishing not to be disagreeable any longer, I let them press the Cashes on me. Then all to urinals as Someone was just coming in.”


Things after this continue to intensify for the narrator, as the guy he’s there with shoves him some money under the table and tells him to invite his countrymen over to drink with them, and the wild ride continues, but the scene in the bathroom really tickles me. I also noticed the ingenious way Gombrowicz uses the “In the name of the Father and the Son” curse like a standard “OMG!” curse, but it serves the double purpose to reinforce the struggle between Fatherland and Sonland that lies at the heart of the narrative. If you liked the taste of Gombrowicz offered through this wacky scene, you would certainly enjoy reading more. An easier read would be his novel Ferdydurke (translates to something like “Fiddle-Faddle”). The hook is that an adult’s old schoolteacher shows up at his house and transforms him back into a little kid.




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Joseph Patrick Pascale - How to Get a Promotion When Your Boss Is Trying to Kill You (Accurate Accounts of Office Work: Book 1), a comic literary novel coming from Waldorf Publishing on September 1, 2018


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Other Entries in the Comic Moments in Literary Fiction Series:

See also:

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Comic Moments in Literary Fiction #1: There Are No Cups in Kafka’s Amerika

"Sword? One supposes a mistake, since Kafka never saw the monument. Yet it grows increasingly clear that Karl has landed in a nightmarish new world where everything is slightly off-kilter, skewed and disorienting. A bridge over the Hudson connects New York to Boston." (Quote WP | Image-Vanished Empires)

There’s plenty of reasons to laugh, so this series will explore the hilarious, laugh-out-loud moments found in serious, literary fiction. Even if you’re someone like Franz Kafka, exploring existential dread and the absurdity of everything, you might as well laugh along the way. For instance, it’s widely reported that when Kafka gave a reading of the first chapter of The Trial — in which Joseph K. awakens to some detectives in his room, eating his breakfast, placing him under arrest for an unnamed crime (they don’t have the authority to tell him what he’s accused of), and telling K. that he can go about his day, although the court will keep an eye on him — Kafka could barely get through the reading because he was laughing so hard. David Foster Wallace wrote a great essay on Kafka’s humor and why Americans often don’t get catch the jokes, if you’d like to delve into that topic.



But for now, it’s my way of introducing a new series I’d like to try on this blog, in which I share moments I found particularly hilarious from works of literary fiction. We're using comic in the contemporary usage of "funny," not the tragedy/comedy plot classifications (we might be laughing at some tragedies in this series!) To start with one from Kafka, I’d like to share a scene from his first novel, often called Amerika, although The Missing Person is a more accurate title and translation. Like all three of his novels, it’s unfinished. It’s the story of Karl, a hapless young man whose parents ship him off to his rich uncle in the United States after he’s sexually assaulted by a maid. Kafka never actually visited America, and this isn’t supposed to be an accurate representation, but his own Kafkan version of the United States. For instance, as Karl arrives in New York, he “saw the Statue of Liberty, which he had been observing for some time, as if in a sudden burst of sunlight. The arm with the sword now reached aloft, and about her figure blew the free winds.” 


Karl has all sorts of bizarre adventures, but whenever I think about the novel, I remember this little moment and chuckle to myself. Karl has just spent the night at an inn with a couple of questionable characters, and now it’s the next morning:

“At last an innocent little boy came along and had to stretch up tall in order to hand the Frenchman the coffeepot. Unfortunately, there seemed to be only one coffeepot available, and it was impossible to get the boy to understand that they would like some glasses too. So only one person at a time could drink while the others stood beside him, each awaiting his turn. Although Karl had no desire to drink, he did not wish to hurt the feelings of the other two, and so, when his turn came, he simply stood motionless, holding the coffeepot to his lips.

By way of farewell, the Irishman threw the coffeepot onto the stone tiles; they left the building unobserved and left out into the thick yellowish morning fog” (Kafka translated by Mark Harman). 


It’s a small, inconsequential moment, but when I think of those guys standing there, waiting for their turn to drink out of the spout of the coffeepot—and Karl not wanting to, but drinking to be polite—I just burst out into laughter. 

And even though it's a silly detail, we can also read classic Kafka themes in the scene. We see that communication is impossible. This runs throughout Kafka, just think of the "Message to the Emperor" that can never be delivered or the law meant only for you that you can never find out (in "Before the Law"/The Trial). Here, we see it even affects something as mundane as trying to drink a cup of coffee. We also see people doing things they don’t want to do out of some perceived expectation, the kind of behavior taken to the extreme in "The Judgement." There’s so much packed into one little, hilarious scene. I'll have to fight the urge to recreate the moment next time I have guests over for coffee! 

For the next entry in this series, we'll look at some Witold Gombrowicz!

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Joseph Patrick Pascale - How to Get a Promotion When Your Boss Is Trying to Kill You (Accurate Accounts of Office Work: Book 1), a comic literary novel coming from Waldorf Publishing on September 1, 2018


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See also:

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Forcing the Imagination to Do the Impossible: Nikolai Gogol’s “The Nose”

Some reflections on magical realism via Nikolai Gogol


A monument to "The Nose" in St. Petersburg - Image courtesy Alessandro Gallenzi

It would be easy to brush aside the absurd impossibilities of Nikolai Gogol’s “The Nose” as merely a dream or illusion, but the story’s narrator—who sometimes butts his own nose into the story to tell the reader exactly what is going on—will have none of this. As the narrator concludes, “Say what you may, but such events do happen—rarely, but they do.” Kovalyov, our poor noseless protagonist, also questions that these events could actually be happening to him. “It is impossible for a nose to disappear, no way. I must be dreaming or hallucinating.” However, after he pinches himself and screams, “The pain assured him completely that he was acting and living in reality.” So there can be no question about the fact that there are elements of the supernatural occurring in this story. It is made quite clear to readers so that they don’t dismiss utter nonsense as merely a dream. The reader must understand that this is a portrayal of real life.

Having been written in 1836, “The Nose” is perhaps the prototypical magical realist story. That is why Gogol repeatedly tells the reader that these events are real, and this is not a dream. Since readers have not yet encountered magical realism, he needs to tell them how to read it. In other magical realist stories, there are not these repeated assurances that the events are real because it is made clear from the portrayals in the writing that they are to be taken as real, but that is only because authors like Gogol paved the way. As editors David Young and Keith Hollaman write in the anthology Magical Realist Fiction, “Gogol is simply too important to ignore. If Russian fiction, as someone has remarked, came out of Gogol’s overcoat, then magical realism might be said to have come out of his nose.” The editors considered “The Nose” such an important story for magical realism that, to ensure the story started off their anthology in the best way possible, they commissioned a new translation of the story by Olga Markof-Belaeff solely for their book. 



Nikolai Gogol - Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

As an introduction to magical realism, the story seems to start out realistic and progressively become less realistic. A couple discovers a nose in a loaf of bread? Improbable, but not magical. A man’s nose is missing and he can see no sign that it’s been removed? We’re slipping away from reality. A nose is walking around the city like a fancy gentleman? Now that’s completely magical.

Readers of this story hunting to analyze symbols are drawn to themes of castration and penis loss. While I can see some evidence for this in the story, I am disinclined to focus on this. Like the best stories, it welcomes many interpretations, yet defies them all. The loss of a nose seems fundamentally different from the loss of genitalia. All people have noses, it is immediately apparent if the nose is missing, and it is not easy to disguise one’s face. The fact that it is a nose is crucial to the fabric of the story, and noses are a recurring theme in Gogol. As Gary Saul Morson states


“Everything is olfactory in Gogol, who had quite a schnoz himself.” 

When the nose takes on the habit of strolling through the Tauride Palace gardens, one lady “requested a special letter to the supervisor of the Palace gardens that he show this rare phenomenon to her children and, if possible, provide an explanation that would be edifying and instructive to the youths.” This seems to be Gogol anticipating what the critics would be asking about his story (Perhaps demands for a clear and useful meaning of their stories are a plague that magical realist writers always have to deal with. I can’t help but think of one of my favorite lines from Isaac Bashevis Singer’s story “A Friend of Kafka,” “Jacques, yesterday I read your Kafka’s Castle. Interesting, very interesting, but what is he driving at? It’s too long for a dream. Allegories should be short.”)

However, Gogol has his answer for these critics before the story is over. “Utter nonsense is going on in the world. Sometimes there is no verisimilitude at all,” the narrator informs us. And the opinionated narrator questions the author himself, “No, I don’t understand it at all, I absolutely don’t. But what is even stranger and even more incomprehensible is the fact that writers pick such topics. I must admit this is completely inconceivable … there is absolutely no benefit to the community … there is no benefit.” So much for an edifying explanation! Gogol’s story defies critical analysis and embraces absurdity.

Aside from the fact that it is hilarious, which is difficult to write about without making it not sound funny, my favorite thing about this story is the way Gogol forces the reader’s imagination to imagine things that don’t make sense. He’s masterful at it in this story, and studying his craft helps me think about how I can push the boundaries of readers’ imaginations in my own stories. 


Gogol writes, “An indescribable event had occurred in front of his eyes. A carriage had stopped at the entrance, its doors opened, a gentleman in uniform jumped out holding his head low and ran up the steps. What horror and, at the same time amazement, seized Kovalyov when he realized that it was his very own nose!” Gogol claims that the event cannot be described; nevertheless, he describes it. He goes on to describe it further in terms that are specific about the details, yet entirely omitting any explanation of how this whole situation works: 

“Two minutes later, the nose did in fact come out. He was wearing a gold-embroidered uniform, suede breeches, and a sword. Judging by his plumed hat, he held the rank of state councilor.” 

Aside from the uproarious detail that the nose now outranks our protagonist, leaving him trembling and afraid to address this “gentleman,” we have no choice but to picture this nose in our mind. We have a vivid description of the uniform topped with a hat, and we know he appears to be a gentleman, he somehow held his head down, yet he is also still recognizable as Kovalyov’s nose. Is he a tiny nose floating in these clothes or is he a giant nose with arms and legs? Gogol refuses to consider such details. Lest we think Kovalyov is just crazy, when the policeman eventually recaptures the nose he says, “And the odd thing is, I took him for a gentleman also. But, fortunately, I had my glasses and saw immediately that he was a nose.” What’s more, he states, “‘Knowing that you need him, I brought him with me...Your nose is just as it used to be.’ / Saying this, the constable reached into his pocket and pulled out the nose wrapped in a piece of paper.” His speech implies that some transformation must have taken place, but everything is entirely unclear. We are forced to imagine a nose with a fake passport attempting to leave the country, and somehow looking like a distinguished gentleman yet also just a regular nose upon closer inspection. The whole thing is so utterly absurd, supernatural, and impossible that it can’t possibly be explained, and yet because it is written that this is the way it happens, the reader has no choice but to keep reading and allow their imagination to fill in these impossible chasms in logic.

With this story, Gogol pushed the boundaries of realism into the new realm of magical realism and showed that when writing about the impossible, readers' imaginations will have no choice but to follow behind. I knew that the nose was crucial to this story, but during my research, I learned that noses are crucial to Gogol’s whole oeuvre. Gogol once wrote in a letter, “sometimes I am seized by a frenzied desire to transform myself into one big nose … whose nostrils would be as large as pails so that I can imbibe as much . . . as possible.” Furthermore, “In ‘The Diary of a Madman,’ the insane hero decides that people’s noses have all emigrated to the moon; in ‘Nevsky Avenue’ we read of ‘mustaches to which the better part of a lifetime is devoted.’
 With this whiff of these stories, I must dive deeper into Gogol.

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For my style of magical realism, check out the story I co-authored with Suany CañarteSome Girls Prickle Back,” published in Birkensnake.