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Our Assessment:
B : mishmash of stories, but with a nice sharp edge to it See our review for fuller assessment.
From the Reviews: - Return to top of the page - The complete review's Review: Twenty-One Days of a Neurasthenic finds narrator Georges Vasseur doing what is expected of him in August, even if his enthusiasm for going with the flow is limited: I am traveling, which bores me tremendously, and I am traveling in the Pyrenées, which turns my general boredom of travel into a heightened form of torture.He travels to a city identified only as X, a city that exists solely for tourism, a place where: "there are neither streets, nor houses, nor native occupants, only hotels, seventy-five hotels". Our neurasthenic narrator isn't quite on a cure in this pseudo-resort-town -- cynical from the start, he makes quite clear he couldn't possibly find anything restorative in this kind of environment -- but suggests a good way of whiling away his time and ours would be in: "introducing you to some of my friends, some of the people with whom I rub elbows here, all day long". Promisingly; They're like most people, some grotesque, others merely repugnant; in short, perfect scum whom I would not recommend young ladies to read about.Nominally a novel, Twenty-One Days of a Neurasthenic barely patches together its many disparate stories -- episodes from the lives of a large cast of characters that Vasseur/Mirbeau parade here. It is a work of its times, populated by actual figures and with current events often addressed -- notably the (not yet concluded) Dreyfus affair. Translator Justin Vicari explains in his Preface that he tried to: "build the explanation of references into the text" in some cases, and there are also some endnotes, but Twenty-One Days of a Neurasthenic is packed with real-life figures, references, and allusions and the line between fact and fiction is often a thin and wobbly one. It is a text that lends itself to far-reaching exegesis; as is, contemporary English-reading readers are left missing much of the background that would be helpful in understanding just how sharp and deep Mirbeau's depiction goes. To take just one chapter -- VI -- Georges Leygues was very much the politician described here (he would go on to very briefly serve as prime minister) and, for example, the Comédie-Française really did burn down in 1900 (though Leygues was surely not quite as directly responsible for that as Vasseur/Mirbeau claim). The critique and comic presentation of the full-of-himself know-it-all/do-everything politician is amusing even without greater familiarity with the background of this real figure -- "I am gifted with the sort of moral levitation which lifts me up and lets me soar above petty, trivial things ..." -- but surely many of the details are lost. Nearing the end of his stay, Vasseur complains about: "all those poor, ridiculous or miserable bastards who did not distract me from my ennui for one second", but he's exaggerating here, having found constant and repeated distraction -- even if often only the sort to complain about. He revels in this broad mix of characters, and what goes for one goes for many: His pompous stupidity, and his ego all out of proportion to his talent, are always an endless source of amusement.Many of the stories are related in conversation, but Vasseur/Mirbeau occasionally resort to what amounts to simple transcription, allowing some of these characters to tell their stories or make their confessions. These range all over the place, giving Twenty-One Days of a Neurasthenic a constantly straying feel -- a critique of the times and society the overarching theme, but Mirbeau going at it from oh so many angles. What makes the book is Mirbeau's sharp invention and pen. The absurdities he imagines are often wonderfully conceived, and beautifully turned. So for example, there's American millionaire Dickson-Barnell who finds no joy in his great wealth. Even his cigars are made of gold leaf -- "It occurred to me that smoking gold would be the height of luxury", he explains -- but even he has to admit: "it's the worst thing in the world, my dear sir ... It's absolutely unsmokeable..." So far, so good, and that's amusing enough, but Mirbeau doesn't leave it at that: Again, he shrugged in such a broadly demoralized way that the entire universe seemed to be collapsing around him ... Then he said, sighing and dragging out every syllable in a tone whose deep misery cannot be adequately represented on the page: "Everything -- alas ! -- is unsmokeable ..."Another story has old Baron Kropp wanting to give the ultimate symbol of his love to his mistress, Snowball -- a ring forged from iron painstakingly collected from his blood ("They opened and drained my veins to extract it ..."), a unique token. But, of course, in Mirbeau's telling, Snowball isn't one to quite properly appreciate such romantic gestures. The story is pitch-perfect in its over-the-top absurdity and dark, deflating final turn. "Books are where ideas go to die", one of the characters quotes another, but Mirbeau does his best to stimulate continued engagement in his own work. Yes, Twenty-One Days of a Neurasthenic is almost entirely critical and cynical of fin de siècle French society and the politics (and art, etc.) of the day, but, despite his occasional complaints, Mirbeau's protagonist practically revels in it too. Snidely, even cruelly -- but also buoyantly: even three weeks in such company won't sink him or pull him under. Vicari occasionally (over)reaches in trying to capture Mirbeau's tone (and the varied voices on display here), but has (re)produced a lively volume that is, for all its long-forgotten references and allusions, still an enjoyable read today. And in what is admittedly a large and uneven pile of stories there are some real, memorable gems -- of invention and expression, too. - M.A.Orthofer, 20 August 2015 - Return to top of the page - Twenty-One Days of a Neurasthenic:
- Return to top of the page - French author Octave Mirbeau lived 1858 to 1917. - Return to top of the page -
© 2015 the complete review
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