Taking inspiration from one of my more organised friends, I'm planning on spending at least part of my summer contemplating my dissertation, so as not to find myself overburdened come next May. However, having had to desperately rush in order to get my preliminary title handed in - in order to meet the deadline - I panicked, which is why 'Experiments in Narrative Structure' is going to be my focus. An interesting topic, to be sure, but one that comes attached with numerous difficulties - at the moment, not only is my outline much too general, but actually selecting texts is no easy feat either.
It was this process that led me to Georges Perec's Life A User's Manual, a novel that fits my own brief perfectly, in that in terms of execution, it is both unconventional and hugely ambitious. Presented as a historical document - complete with index and chronology - it tells the story of the Rue Simon-Crubellier apartment block, and all the people who have ever been a part of the building. Perec takes the reader from room to room, describing everything - fixtures, fittings, furniture and all - in extensive detail in order to set the scene, before relaying the stories - which range from the relatively mundane to the bizarre - of those who have lived there. Indeed, description is a device Perec uses throughout, eschewing dialogue almost completely, a bold move that pays off because Perec crafts such a vivid narrative, leaving little to the imagination, as is appropriate for a novel presented as a definitive account.
It seems somehow fitting that I chose to read this novel the same week I saw Synecdoche, New York. Both pieces share the thematic link of death as a natural consequence of life - as the only possible ending to every story - whilst at the same time managing to celebrate the capacity of the human spirit. Caden Cotard is the sort of obsessive whose vision would have been perfectly at home in Rue Simon-Crubellier; after all, the novel spends a fair amount of its time dealing with obsession, an emotion the very nature of which means that a large number of the tales are devoid of happy endings; as each new story begins, you find yourself waiting for the 'but' that frequently signifies imminent tragedy. Never is this more apparent than in the story of Percival Bartlebooth, a central character of sorts whose fate is emblematic of much of the narrative. A millionaire concerned that his wealth will consign him to a life of idle boredom, he concocts a scheme that is entirely self-defeating, but will serve to keep him occupied for the rest of his days. He spends ten years learning the art of watercolour painting, before heading out on a twenty-year long world tour, during which time he produces five hundred paintings. Upon completion, each one is sent to an expert puzzle-maker, who converts each of them into a seven-hundred-and-fifty-piece jigsaw. Returning from his travels, Bartlebooth begins to put the puzzles back together, with each completed puzzle being converted back into a watercolour painting, before then being sent back to the place where it was created, where it undergoes a process that renders it as nothing more than the blank sheet of paper it once was so long ago.
The nature of this plan means that Bartlebooth, as intended, leaves no visible mark on the world, a desire on his part that is filled with a sense of melancholy and defeatism - after all, is there not within us all a longing to be remembered? In undertaking such a time-consuming yet ultimately useless task, Bartlebooth impresses upon the reader the suggestion that most of us end up leaving no lasting impact on the world whatsoever - he has fully accepted this as truth, and so dedicated his life to something which ends up removing him from society, whilst ostensibly leaving no trace of his existence. Yet that isn't the whole truth; after all, Bartlebooth's influence is felt throughout the novel, and he has clearly had an impact on a great number of people - not just those living within Rue Simon-Crubellier, but those who heard of the man purely by accident, such as the art critic Charles-Albert Beyssandre, whose interference eventually undermines the success of Bartlebooth's plan. The idea that all of the stories within the novel are connected even whilst they appear to be self-contained is crucial to its success, creating a sense of community that illuminates proceedings, and the air of inevitability of failure that hangs over the novel never detracts, because the journeys the characters undertake almost always have meaning, which lessens the impact of their eventual failure, whilst also ensuring that any successful outcome is a cause of great contentment to the reader.
In contemplating Perec, Warren Motte and Jean-Jacques Poucel defined the four directions that the author claimed to have pursued in his writing: "a concern for the everyday and its details; a tendency toward confession and autobiography; an impulse toward formal innovation; and a desire to tell engaging stories." Life A User's Manual is a triumphant blend of all of these elements, and has to be considered one of the most significant twentieth century literary achievements.
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