lundi 17 janvier 2011

Eric Bogosian, PERFORATED HEART, New York, Simon & Schuster, 2009, 271 pages.

Still, I like spending time in that barn. I once thought I'd turn it into a studio, a serene place in which to write, but the sheer pretentiousness of the move turned me against it. It's an old-fashioned affectation. Something that "serious" writers did back in the day of the federal works programs. Arthur Miller. Clifford Odets. The "artist" migrates from the smoke-filled city, finds a run-down farm, then writes in "the country." Bellow was different, he remained in his beloved Chicago. So Jewish to find resonance in the "country." Why is that? Because Jews are afraid of the wilderness, in it they see danger. Raccoons.
It's all gesture. Turn a barn into a writing studio. Turn a country house into an office. Everything represents something else. Even my money is symbolic. What is money? Sure, for the poor it's a solution to a problem. But for me? A symbol only. I lose sleep over this new book. Why? Because it's not selling? What should I care? I don't need the royalties or the kudos. I need the symbolism of the sales. It would be better if I didn't care anymore. Like a dog who has been fixed and lies on the couch all day. Forgets what he once was.
I write at the kitchen table. It's enough.
(p. 76-77)

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