completely obsessed with isabelle huppert, of course she is erika and emma
I think I should first state, although I'm imagining regular readers of this blog might have already figured this out, that I am a ridiculous person. A ridiculous quixotic human being, prone to grandiose fantasies and falling in love deliriously, like a Madame Bovary. So much of literature + publishing +academia mirrors the Oedipal relationship, but more than the Oedipal, the Oedipal-erotic. Does that make any sense? Isn't the Oedipal always erotic? I don't fucking care. Even if it's a mother you're trying to suck up to (sucking is erotic). Whenever I contact someone and try to explain that my existence is worthwhile, what I've excreted is worthwhile, I feel I'm back to being rejected by the terrible boys. Love me. Please. Love me. I will fuck you to make you love me. I will let you fuck me to make you love me. I will let you not use a condom as long as you love me. And my love becomes incorporation, cannibalistic, vampiristic, I want to swallow you whole, I want you to dive down my hole, that's how much I want to love you.
Anyway. I have just read Avital Ronell's Crack Wars, and I had this experience, this experience much like Elizabeth Smart browsing in the London bookshop and coming upon George Barker (I LOVE whenever I google Elizabeth Smart the Mormon hidden girl comes up instead, esp. since it's like the Internet is listening to the contents of my brain, no I'm not being Schreber, but I have been thinking of today Elizabeth Smart on Oprah's white couch, as I'm mimicking the scene for Shadow, and how it's really like gathering around this wound culture, I reread the Mark Seltzer lazily in the bathtub last night, the spectacle of the torn body, and that's what we want to know, we are curious about a once-closed, virginal body, but Oprah doesn't ask any sex/violation talk, but we are gathered around her trauma looking for a rupture). But anyway. Like Elizabeth Smart, the REAL Elizabeth Smart, the Canadian poetess, By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept, the most glorious passage derived from the Bible ever written, about her love affair with Barker, and when she read his poetry she asked him and his wife to move to California, and they did.
And I'm having the same experience with Avital Ronell. I inhaled her cracked-out, crazy, awesome, book on literature about addiction, and literature as addiction, hallucinogen, and so much about Madame Bovary, it was oedipal-edible-erotic, and I just wrote her a crazy email (well, not crazy, very boring and ordered) but asking her if I can move to New York and take classes with her at NYU even though I have the French and German of a not-very-smart child, a very dumb child, well, a mute child, I have the French and German of a mute French or German child. Or like mute but can say one word: Like Mutter (Maman).
I just googled her more, as I am stalking her, and I came upon the faculty overview at the European Graduate School, where she is, also: Chantal Ackerman, Catherine Breillat, Bracha Ettinger, Margarete von Trotta, Cixous, seriously all of my faves. I love that Tracey Emin is a "Professor of Confessional Art." What do you do? I'm a professor of confessional art.
How do you go to this school? Is it very expensive? Do they give you a degree?
Anyway, I'm getting off topic. I read Crack Wars and wrote Avital Ronell asking if I could move to NY and audit classes with her. Of course we have like $400 and John has a job but anything could happen, right?
But perhaps I should write about Crack Wars? As this is a blog about literature, n'est ce pas?
She ties so much into my consideration of the bulimic, she calls Nietzsche the "great vomiter," also Flaubert a bulimic.
Hamlet, De Quincey, Emma Bovary, Balzac, Baudelaire, William Burroughs, Artaud (and scores of others) urged upon us a thinking of human nourishment. If they were not quite vegetarians, they tried to nourish themselves without properly eating. Whether injecting themselves or smoking cigarettes or merely kissing someone, they rerouted the hunting grounds of the cannibalistic libido. In a certain manner of conscious monitoring, they refused to eat - and yet they were always only devouring, or drinking up the toxic spill of the Other.
I love what she writes about Madame Bovary, the second half of the book is a consideration of how Madame Bovary follows the "structure of addiction," a novel of interiorizing violence, of devouring intoxication (of literature, love, sadness) and in Shadow my new Mommy, my Mrs. Von R, is intoxicated by cheap bodice rippers and television, she is flushed and intoxicated with adulterous dreams so she doesn't pay much attention to the fact that the daughter is gone and the father is always in the cellar, she is my Madame Bovary.
And Ronell too points out that Madame Bovary is a fiction about fiction, as is my Shadow, those who consume convenient fictions, extending to the "vital lies" Ibsen writes that a family must tell. But also literature as hallucinogen, compulsion.
From this point onward, literature presents itself now as an addictive substance, now as a kind of birth control pill, simulating pregnancies of the imagination, keeping the body pen to comestible fictions. In any case, as she downs literature, her palate adjusts to these plates with their cutting traces. She consumes literature without end.
C'est moi. (I am a French enfant in the mirror stage)
Also: I have copied down a line, somewhere else, in French, by Deleuze, which again, I have an infantile grasp of, that I have Monkey parrot.
Si vous êtes pris dans le rêve de l’autre, vous êtez foutu.
(if you are in the dream of another, you are fucked)