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"Not only one of the frankest of autobiographies, but also a brilliantly written book, Leiris' Manhood mingles memories, philosophic reflections, sexual revelation, meditations on bullfighting, and the life-long progress of self-discovery."— Washington Post Book World"Leiris writes to appall, and thereby to receive from his readers the gift of a strong emotion—the emotion needed to defend himself against the indignation and disgust he expects to arouse in his readers."—Susan Sontag, New York Review of Books
218 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1939
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1,305 people want to read
About the author
Michel Leiris
148 books82 followersBorn in Paris in 1901, Michel Leiris was a French surrealist writer and ethnographer. In the 1920s he became a member of the surrealist movement and contributed to La révolution surréaliste. In those years, he wrote a surrealist novel: Aurora.
After his exit from the surrealist group, he teamed up with Georges Bataille in the magazine Documents.
After his exit from the surrealist group, he teamed up with Georges Bataille in the magazine Documents.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 44 reviews
February 17, 2024
Michel Leiris recounts the story of his childhood, adolescence and youth as if he writes an anamnesis – the case history of a patient – and he does it very inventively and analytically.
Immersed since his early childhood in the culture and various arts the boy was full of childish fears and illusions so his phantasmagoric visions and dreams implicitly shaped his future psychology and personality of a man.
The boy grows up and he finds himself between Scylla and Charybdis, between two types of female mentality – between Lucrece, who, in order to flee disgrace, took her own life and Judith, who, in order to win, readily passed through disgrace…
Milieu influences the development of our consciousness the same way soil influences the growth of plants.
I attach no excessive importance to these recollections from various stages of my childhood, but it is convenient for me to collect them here at this moment, for they are the frame – or the fragments of the frame – within which everything else has been set. Much more decisive, it seems to me, were certain precise facts, some whose influence I have never doubted (those relating to the theater and particularly to the opera), others whose more secret significance has been revealed to me only fortuitously, in the light of a painting by Cranach representing two particularly alluring female figures: Lucrece and Judith.
Immersed since his early childhood in the culture and various arts the boy was full of childish fears and illusions so his phantasmagoric visions and dreams implicitly shaped his future psychology and personality of a man.
As for The Tales of Hoffmann, I was fascinated because there was something to “understand” about the story, pretty much as with Parsifal. Three heroines – the doll Olympia, the courtesan Giulietta, the singer Antonia – are presented in three independent tales each of which constitutes an act; at the end, all three, products of Hoffmann’s imagination which, under the power of alcohol, has invented all three tales, turn out to be only three images of one and the same woman: the actress Stella, with whom Hoffmann is hopelessly in love. Just before the curtain falls, a huge cask lights up, and in it appears the Muse who sweetly consoles Hoffmann, asleep with his head on the table. This triple incarnation, in various aspects, of an inaccessible woman – in all three cases as well as in reality – must have been one of the first molds in which my notion of the femme fatale was formed. An automaton that is broken, a courtesan who betrays, a singer who dies of tuberculosis, such are the avatars through which the contemptuous creature passes in Hoffmann’s reverie, changing shape like the Medusa in whom each man believes he recognizes the woman he loves.
The boy grows up and he finds himself between Scylla and Charybdis, between two types of female mentality – between Lucrece, who, in order to flee disgrace, took her own life and Judith, who, in order to win, readily passed through disgrace…
Nothing seems more like a whorehouse to me than a museum. In it you find the same equivocal aspect, the same frozen quality. In one, beautiful, frozen images of Venus, Judith, Susanna, Juno, Lucrece, Salome, and other heroines; in the other, living women in their traditional garb, with their stereotyped gestures and phrases. In both, you are in a sense under the sign of archeology; and if I have always loved whorehouses it is because they, too, participate in antiquity by their slave-market aspect, a ritual prostitution.
Milieu influences the development of our consciousness the same way soil influences the growth of plants.
August 17, 2020
I cannot help but feel a little disappointed whenever reading something authored by a fellow anthropologist that strikes me as being crass, non-empathetic, and callous in the end.
Then again, the beginning of the 20th century was a different time, when exploring the darker recesses of the soul was considered to be more 'true' than anything. So I guess Michel Leiris is a product of his times and intellectual circles (though there are still some surrealists I love).
The author's brutal honesty (I detected no amount of self-serving or self-gratifying disclosures) and his willingness to be scrutinized not in the best light are worthy of a nod, as well.
But the rest of this collection of essays, focusing on appalling female archetypes and the way he sees them, his violent fantasies and urgings - it's all not just unsavory, but signaling a dire need for therapy.
Then again, the beginning of the 20th century was a different time, when exploring the darker recesses of the soul was considered to be more 'true' than anything. So I guess Michel Leiris is a product of his times and intellectual circles (though there are still some surrealists I love).
The author's brutal honesty (I detected no amount of self-serving or self-gratifying disclosures) and his willingness to be scrutinized not in the best light are worthy of a nod, as well.
But the rest of this collection of essays, focusing on appalling female archetypes and the way he sees them, his violent fantasies and urgings - it's all not just unsavory, but signaling a dire need for therapy.
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July 6, 2010I am too tired of Leiris' sexually charged self-analysis to say much here. The author's intellect is on ravaging display throughout--but so is his sexism, his narcissism, his fascination with really fucked up female archetypes and the romance of self-annihilation. Insofar as being terrifically, HORRIFICALLY exposed, Leiris' book is a beautiful accomplishment. But also I am exhausted and I sort of never want to encounter this dude again.
September 21, 2024
Etnoloog Michel Leiris schreef deze bekentenisliteratuur met als doel de volledige waarheid over zichzelf, hoe beschamend die ook is, bloot te leggen. De auteur neemt ons mee langs enkele beslissende momenten uit zijn kindertijd, jeugd en vroege volwassenheid die aan elkaar hangen door steeds terugkerende motieven: angst, moord, bloed, mythe, verwonding, liefde, schaamte, ... Los van een stukje stierengevechtapologie was "L'âge d'homme" - zoals de Franse titel van "Arena" luidt - een leeservaring zoals ik ze graag heb: verrassend, macaber, eerlijk en obsessief. Eén van de meest intrigerende werken in de schitterende Privé-domein-reeks. Freud zou zich trouwens serieus geamuseerd hebben met Leiris op zijn sofa. 4.75/5
"Ik leg mijn vriendin uit hoe nodig het is zich met behulp van zijn kleding door een muur te omringen."
"In 1933 keerde ik terug, één mythe had ik in ieder geval de nek omgedraaid: dat reizen een uitweg kon zijn."
"Zoals al mijn vrienden weten ben ik een specialist, een maniak van de bekentenis."
"Als ik op straat loop mijd ik samenscholingen, het zien van menselijk bloed op klaarlichte dag maakt me panisch."
"Ik leg mijn vriendin uit hoe nodig het is zich met behulp van zijn kleding door een muur te omringen."
"In 1933 keerde ik terug, één mythe had ik in ieder geval de nek omgedraaid: dat reizen een uitweg kon zijn."
"Zoals al mijn vrienden weten ben ik een specialist, een maniak van de bekentenis."
"Als ik op straat loop mijd ik samenscholingen, het zien van menselijk bloed op klaarlichte dag maakt me panisch."
August 30, 2020
Üç yıldızı çevirmen ve yayınevi emekçileri için verdim. İnsan kendi özgeçmişini yazarken böyle yazmamalı kanaatindeyim. Kitap, yazarın otobiyografi ve itirafları konularını içeriyor.
February 6, 2017
1,5 stars.
February 10, 2025
Je n’aime pas les autobiographies, mais j’ai aimé ce livre.
Pour ses images, ses associations, ses références, son cynisme aussi.
Mais surtout pour la phrase : Leiris pourrait parler de tout et son contraire, je le lirai quand même, tant il écrit bien.
Bémol pour le côté bourgeois blanc privilégier, ntm Michel j’enlève une étoile
Pour ses images, ses associations, ses références, son cynisme aussi.
Mais surtout pour la phrase : Leiris pourrait parler de tout et son contraire, je le lirai quand même, tant il écrit bien.
Bémol pour le côté bourgeois blanc privilégier, ntm Michel j’enlève une étoile
April 24, 2009
The author is something of a misogynist pig/ egomaniac, and I despise him. Period. Ugh. I hate this class on French autobiographies.
March 25, 2013
A must read if you're obsessed with analysing your "self", your love life, or just enjoy a masterful autobiography.
July 4, 2019
"I resembled a clown more than a tragic actor" encapsulates this perfectly. I can't believe how many books about men talking about sex are considered "literature"
December 19, 2009
Leiris' best book! Fascinating, sometimes very funny, and ultimately moving in its own peculiar fashion. I read this book first when I was in my early 20s, again a decade later, and now, at 42, I've read it again, and each time I've discovered new truths (and new sadnesses) in it that only my own aging could have disclosed...
April 8, 2021
If autobiographies are to be written at all, thus should those be written!
March 31, 2024
Les lamentations d'un homme sur son enfance... Une sorte d'auto analyse sans recul ni magie littéraire.
J'ai dû passer à côté !
J'ai dû passer à côté !
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July 4, 2022A pleasant read. Self-exposure, emotional analysis, memoirs and introspection about sexuality come together in a flowing and frankly charming way. Back when I had only read a few dozen pages I was feeling already quite taken by his writing. A small manifesto of the "own" and it just got better and better and better.
November 4, 2023
Manhood is one of those strange novels that, presumably at one point, were culturally significant and emotionally resonant, but are just too contemporary to survive the passage of time and the changing of culture. When I read Susan Sontag's review of the novel, I had the impression of reading something 'shocking,' something that would amaze me by its rawness and honesty and whatever else. This was not the case.
Manhood is the ramblings of a certain Frenchman, Michel Leiris, born rather privileged in the early 20th century, who seemed to float around aimlessly until eventually settling in the new occupation of anthropologist. Much of the ramblings center around him making narrative of his fixations, sexual or otherwise (but mostly sexual), and tying them all with ribbons into one cohesive, rather convenient whole. Added on top of all that is some self-flagellation of the 'shocking' kind, where Leiris mocks himself without really outright defending himself.
As far as I understood, what is intended to be shocking is the self-flagellation without defense and the frank, somewhat degenerate presentation of his sexual obsessions, as well as his failures with women and the impotence he struggles from.
Problem is, the degeneracy he displays is simply not shocking enough for me to really care; thanks to the internet, I've long since accepted that sexual degeneracy and failure exists in the world, and his kind is uninteresting to me. His obsession with making narrative, tying every single aspect of him into neat little boxes, is also unappealing and unrelatable to me, and that is what he mostly engages with when it comes to his sexuality, bringing everything back to his beloved Lucrece and Judith. That said, someone finding their sexual 'awakening' and fixations in stories of antiquity is kind of interesting; it's certainly one of those things that wouldn't happen much nowadays.
As for the self-flagellation, I could not take it seriously. With how self-obsessed and unaware he seemed, it never came across as 'genuine': it always seemed like he was simply playing up a trope he felt appropriate for the moment and himself; it seemed vain and uninteresting, just like the rest of him.
What really stuck out to me most was his view on women, the core of which he never challenged despite spending much of the novel harping on the women in his life. While not specifically uncommon for his time—or even that shocking—it really did strike me just how much he glorified women without ever being able to reconcile with the fact that, just like him, they were human beings.
Still, it was pretty well written, and some of the lines got a laugh out of me with just how blunt and absurd they were.
Manhood is the ramblings of a certain Frenchman, Michel Leiris, born rather privileged in the early 20th century, who seemed to float around aimlessly until eventually settling in the new occupation of anthropologist. Much of the ramblings center around him making narrative of his fixations, sexual or otherwise (but mostly sexual), and tying them all with ribbons into one cohesive, rather convenient whole. Added on top of all that is some self-flagellation of the 'shocking' kind, where Leiris mocks himself without really outright defending himself.
As far as I understood, what is intended to be shocking is the self-flagellation without defense and the frank, somewhat degenerate presentation of his sexual obsessions, as well as his failures with women and the impotence he struggles from.
Problem is, the degeneracy he displays is simply not shocking enough for me to really care; thanks to the internet, I've long since accepted that sexual degeneracy and failure exists in the world, and his kind is uninteresting to me. His obsession with making narrative, tying every single aspect of him into neat little boxes, is also unappealing and unrelatable to me, and that is what he mostly engages with when it comes to his sexuality, bringing everything back to his beloved Lucrece and Judith. That said, someone finding their sexual 'awakening' and fixations in stories of antiquity is kind of interesting; it's certainly one of those things that wouldn't happen much nowadays.
As for the self-flagellation, I could not take it seriously. With how self-obsessed and unaware he seemed, it never came across as 'genuine': it always seemed like he was simply playing up a trope he felt appropriate for the moment and himself; it seemed vain and uninteresting, just like the rest of him.
What really stuck out to me most was his view on women, the core of which he never challenged despite spending much of the novel harping on the women in his life. While not specifically uncommon for his time—or even that shocking—it really did strike me just how much he glorified women without ever being able to reconcile with the fact that, just like him, they were human beings.
Still, it was pretty well written, and some of the lines got a laugh out of me with just how blunt and absurd they were.
March 18, 2024
1.5 stars. Neither an autobiography nor a collection of essays, this is rather a chronicle of mental illness and an expression of what we in the twenty-first century would call toxic masculinity. Leiris takes as his masculine models toreros and pimps, which might be an accurate depiction of a certain type of unfortunate adolescent mentality. His view of women is equally adolescent, categorizing them as either temptresses, victims upon which to inflict violence, sexual objects, or castrators of male virility. Despite his learned references to classical canon and seemingly insightful self-analysis, he reduces the women in his life to an over-generalized, simplistic dichotomy represented by Lucrece and Judith. He doesn’t use these archetypes to better understand universal traits, but rather as a way of rationalizing his own hang-ups.
Leiris casually unveils an uncomfortable menagerie of traumatic life experiences and sexual dysfunctions as if they are supporting evidence for his disturbed theories rather than cries for help. By the end of book, he acknowledges this directly, claiming to see a psychoanalyst after he half-seriously considered castrating himself, which makes me wonder if he should have handed this manuscript to his therapist rather than his publisher.
Leiris claims in his Afterword that he was trying to “expose himself” (in every sense of the word) so that his liberation might free others – another rationalization that works equally well for the artist or the cult leader! In her initial review of this book, Susan Sontag called it “brilliant and repulsive” – but that second adjective was conveniently removed when her review became the Foreword for a new edition years later. How ironic, considering Leiris’ autobiography is supposed to be flaunting brutal truths.
I agree with the brutal part, at least.
Leiris casually unveils an uncomfortable menagerie of traumatic life experiences and sexual dysfunctions as if they are supporting evidence for his disturbed theories rather than cries for help. By the end of book, he acknowledges this directly, claiming to see a psychoanalyst after he half-seriously considered castrating himself, which makes me wonder if he should have handed this manuscript to his therapist rather than his publisher.
Leiris claims in his Afterword that he was trying to “expose himself” (in every sense of the word) so that his liberation might free others – another rationalization that works equally well for the artist or the cult leader! In her initial review of this book, Susan Sontag called it “brilliant and repulsive” – but that second adjective was conveniently removed when her review became the Foreword for a new edition years later. How ironic, considering Leiris’ autobiography is supposed to be flaunting brutal truths.
I agree with the brutal part, at least.
February 12, 2025
8.5/10 - I really expected to dislike this book given what I knew about Leiris’s misogynistic fantasies, but I actually found it very enjoyable primarily because it was totally exposing, and seemed honest in a way that was not self serving. The quote a number of other reviewers have noted - “I resembled a clown more than a tragic actor" ” - also stuck out to me and sums up the level of unflattering exposure Leiris abuses himself with. I found its frank discussion of sexuality and violent fantasy oddly comforting because I think most, perhaps almost all, people have some thoughts like this. It was a relief that he didn’t try to make that part of him appear acceptable and it seems like a useful way of shedding habitual shame, although I don’t think it was ultimately successful for Leiris, who wrote a number of other works going over similar personal issues.
Overall I think this books (largely sexual) content is best understood in the context of early 20th century French Catholicism and moral values, a time when masculinity and virility was supposedly in crisis and birth rates were falling. This work reminded me of the violence present in religious morality that would make a strong impression on any child. The surrealist group Leiris was part of rejected the patriotic and religious moral urgings to reproduce in favour of varied lifestyles, although their acceptance certainly had limits.
On the other hand, I can entirely understand why some readers would not enjoy this book, as it can be repetitive and its narrator/author is brutally honest in a way that can be uncomfortable or appear almost gratuitous. It is definitely an example of how surrealist art and literature prioritised the male perspective, especially in sexuality. But this is true of so much art and literature I find it hard to be mad at Leiris specifically even if he is an extreme example.
Overall I think this books (largely sexual) content is best understood in the context of early 20th century French Catholicism and moral values, a time when masculinity and virility was supposedly in crisis and birth rates were falling. This work reminded me of the violence present in religious morality that would make a strong impression on any child. The surrealist group Leiris was part of rejected the patriotic and religious moral urgings to reproduce in favour of varied lifestyles, although their acceptance certainly had limits.
On the other hand, I can entirely understand why some readers would not enjoy this book, as it can be repetitive and its narrator/author is brutally honest in a way that can be uncomfortable or appear almost gratuitous. It is definitely an example of how surrealist art and literature prioritised the male perspective, especially in sexuality. But this is true of so much art and literature I find it hard to be mad at Leiris specifically even if he is an extreme example.
February 2, 2020
A wiecie, co jest najzabawniejsze? Ja naprawdę nie pamiętam, dlaczego kupiłem tę książkę. Od roku mniej więcej stała na półce, przeżyła remont, wędrowała z kąta w kąt, aż w końcu ją złapałem i w trzy dni przeczytałem.
To pamiętnik. Specyficznie rozumiane memuary Michela Leirisa, francuskiego pisarza, etnologa, krytyka sztuki, przyjaciela awangardowych malarzy i poetów. Pamiętnik-sesja terapeutyczna, który miał pomóc autorowi w pełni zrozumieć samego siebie, dotrzeć do najgłębszych pokładów jestestwa, być może uleczyć... "Wiek męski" powstał bowiem jako efekt długiej terapii psychoanalitycznej, której poddał się Leiris w latach 1929-35.
Być może jest to najzwyklejszy w świecie ekshibicjonizm, ale zawsze podejrzewałem siebie o skłonności do odsłaniania się (już samo to zdanie jest tego dowodem). Jednak czy w dzisiejszych czasach owo odsłanianie się ma jakikolwiek sens i wartość? Wydaje się być nudnym rytuałem potwierdzającym, że wszyscy jesteśmy tacy sami, podobne fobie i traumy możemy w sobie nosić, łączą nas nerwice, depresje, niezagospodarowane pragnienia. Odsłanianie się staje się walutą, przy pomocy której płacimy za uwagę innych. A tej chorobliwie potrzebujemy.
Mój ojciec pił, matka wyszła po fajki i nie wróciła, bracia wąchali klej, w wieku dwunastu lat pierwszy raz odprawiłem czarną mszę... Takimi opowieściami wabi się i kaptuje dziś bliźnich. To już nie dziwi. Nic a nic.
Tak więc "Wiek męski" uznany wszem i wobec za wstydliwe świadectwo młodości francuskiego intelektualisty jawi się dzisiaj jako dość niewinny, raczej bezpieczny zbiór "odkryć". Mogą one rozczulić współczesnego odbiorcę przyzwyczajonego przecież do wszelkiej maści prywatnych obrzydliwości, jakie serwuje mu dzisiejsza kultura.
Ok, do rzeczy. Książka nie wzbudziła we mnie entuzjazmu, chociaż miała kilka naprawdę fascynujących momentów. Na przykład wzruszająca wyliczanka/litania kobiet lekkich obyczajów, z którymi nie udało się autorowi stracić dziewictwa. Bywał za to przez panny te pogryziony, poturbowany, rozpijany, oszukiwany, zarzygiwał gotowe na miłosne uniesienia łóżko, często nie udało się dowieść męskości w newralgicznym momencie.
Przyszło mi do głowy, że przed II wojną światową burdele stanowiły wyjątkowo często odwiedzane przybytki i młodzi mężczyźni nie widzieli w podobnych wizytach niczego nadzwyczaj niemoralnego, zaś syfilis (lub inna malownicza dolegliwość) był po prostu wpisany w koszty.
Z innych przyjemności Leiris opisuje niesamowitą atmosferę panującą w Paryżu po zakończeniu I wojny światowej. Nam data 11 listopada kojarzy się bez wyjątku pozytywnie, pompatycznie i "na baczność", dla francuskiego autora jest to początek hipnotyzującego energetycznego spleenu lat dwudziestych, które kojarzył z inwazją muzyki jazzowej (przypomnijmy sobie "Dancing" Pawlikowskiej-Jasnorzewskiej), snuciem się od knajpy do knajpy, piciem na umór, nawiązywaniem przelotnych platonicznych romansów. Leiris znajduje wtedy przyjaciół - mężczyznę i kobietę - z którymi tworzy przedziwny pozbawiony cienia erotyzmu związek, którego fundamentami była miłość do tańca, igranie ze śmiercią (co i rusz ktoś z tego towarzystwa deklaruje, że idzie popełnić samobójstwo) oraz szeroko rozumiany ekscentryzm.
Duch "Słońce też wschodzi" Hemingwaya wieje nad tą partią wspomnień Leirisa, ale Amerykanin przy całym swoim mistrzostwie formalnym wydaje się być rozwodniony. Francuz na kilku zaledwie stronach dotknął absolutu, uchwycił tę wzruszającą melancholię młodości, która nie ma z sobą co zrobić. Oj, to jest inspirujące, jest...
Dodajmy do tego jeszcze cudownie poetycki opis Aleksandrii, kilkanaście dziwacznych historii z dzieciństwa autora i... I to wszystko, co uznałbym za godne uwagi. I tak dużo.
Reszta, wciśnięta pomiędzy wyżej wymienione fantastyczne fragmenty, nie budzi już takiego zachwytu. Pisarz znęca się nad mitologicznymi i biblijnymi postaciami, rozpracowuje przy ich pomocy prywatne obsesje, dopasowuje do wydarzeń z młodości, czyni z nich patronów wyborów życiowych. Ciężkie to jak wyjątkowo wytrawne czerwone wino, którym delektują się znawcy i koneserzy. Ja wolę lżejsze, białe, półsłodkie.
Tak czy siak polecam dla wyżej wymienionych atutów. Poważna książka. Można się z nią pokazać w towarzystwie i wzbudzić nielichy szacunek.
Czołem!
To pamiętnik. Specyficznie rozumiane memuary Michela Leirisa, francuskiego pisarza, etnologa, krytyka sztuki, przyjaciela awangardowych malarzy i poetów. Pamiętnik-sesja terapeutyczna, który miał pomóc autorowi w pełni zrozumieć samego siebie, dotrzeć do najgłębszych pokładów jestestwa, być może uleczyć... "Wiek męski" powstał bowiem jako efekt długiej terapii psychoanalitycznej, której poddał się Leiris w latach 1929-35.
Być może jest to najzwyklejszy w świecie ekshibicjonizm, ale zawsze podejrzewałem siebie o skłonności do odsłaniania się (już samo to zdanie jest tego dowodem). Jednak czy w dzisiejszych czasach owo odsłanianie się ma jakikolwiek sens i wartość? Wydaje się być nudnym rytuałem potwierdzającym, że wszyscy jesteśmy tacy sami, podobne fobie i traumy możemy w sobie nosić, łączą nas nerwice, depresje, niezagospodarowane pragnienia. Odsłanianie się staje się walutą, przy pomocy której płacimy za uwagę innych. A tej chorobliwie potrzebujemy.
Mój ojciec pił, matka wyszła po fajki i nie wróciła, bracia wąchali klej, w wieku dwunastu lat pierwszy raz odprawiłem czarną mszę... Takimi opowieściami wabi się i kaptuje dziś bliźnich. To już nie dziwi. Nic a nic.
Tak więc "Wiek męski" uznany wszem i wobec za wstydliwe świadectwo młodości francuskiego intelektualisty jawi się dzisiaj jako dość niewinny, raczej bezpieczny zbiór "odkryć". Mogą one rozczulić współczesnego odbiorcę przyzwyczajonego przecież do wszelkiej maści prywatnych obrzydliwości, jakie serwuje mu dzisiejsza kultura.
Ok, do rzeczy. Książka nie wzbudziła we mnie entuzjazmu, chociaż miała kilka naprawdę fascynujących momentów. Na przykład wzruszająca wyliczanka/litania kobiet lekkich obyczajów, z którymi nie udało się autorowi stracić dziewictwa. Bywał za to przez panny te pogryziony, poturbowany, rozpijany, oszukiwany, zarzygiwał gotowe na miłosne uniesienia łóżko, często nie udało się dowieść męskości w newralgicznym momencie.
Przyszło mi do głowy, że przed II wojną światową burdele stanowiły wyjątkowo często odwiedzane przybytki i młodzi mężczyźni nie widzieli w podobnych wizytach niczego nadzwyczaj niemoralnego, zaś syfilis (lub inna malownicza dolegliwość) był po prostu wpisany w koszty.
Z innych przyjemności Leiris opisuje niesamowitą atmosferę panującą w Paryżu po zakończeniu I wojny światowej. Nam data 11 listopada kojarzy się bez wyjątku pozytywnie, pompatycznie i "na baczność", dla francuskiego autora jest to początek hipnotyzującego energetycznego spleenu lat dwudziestych, które kojarzył z inwazją muzyki jazzowej (przypomnijmy sobie "Dancing" Pawlikowskiej-Jasnorzewskiej), snuciem się od knajpy do knajpy, piciem na umór, nawiązywaniem przelotnych platonicznych romansów. Leiris znajduje wtedy przyjaciół - mężczyznę i kobietę - z którymi tworzy przedziwny pozbawiony cienia erotyzmu związek, którego fundamentami była miłość do tańca, igranie ze śmiercią (co i rusz ktoś z tego towarzystwa deklaruje, że idzie popełnić samobójstwo) oraz szeroko rozumiany ekscentryzm.
Duch "Słońce też wschodzi" Hemingwaya wieje nad tą partią wspomnień Leirisa, ale Amerykanin przy całym swoim mistrzostwie formalnym wydaje się być rozwodniony. Francuz na kilku zaledwie stronach dotknął absolutu, uchwycił tę wzruszającą melancholię młodości, która nie ma z sobą co zrobić. Oj, to jest inspirujące, jest...
Dodajmy do tego jeszcze cudownie poetycki opis Aleksandrii, kilkanaście dziwacznych historii z dzieciństwa autora i... I to wszystko, co uznałbym za godne uwagi. I tak dużo.
Reszta, wciśnięta pomiędzy wyżej wymienione fantastyczne fragmenty, nie budzi już takiego zachwytu. Pisarz znęca się nad mitologicznymi i biblijnymi postaciami, rozpracowuje przy ich pomocy prywatne obsesje, dopasowuje do wydarzeń z młodości, czyni z nich patronów wyborów życiowych. Ciężkie to jak wyjątkowo wytrawne czerwone wino, którym delektują się znawcy i koneserzy. Ja wolę lżejsze, białe, półsłodkie.
Tak czy siak polecam dla wyżej wymienionych atutów. Poważna książka. Można się z nią pokazać w towarzystwie i wzbudzić nielichy szacunek.
Czołem!
March 26, 2022
(3.5)
The way he describes his mind and body is what I imagine would arise in a Victorian who, as an infant, was fed a slurry of flour and water in place of formula.
“If it is a beautiful day, I am filled with anxiety: it’s a bad sign that the weather should be so fine, what terrible event is in store? Similarly, if I take any pleasure at all, I calculate my chances of paying for it in the near future, a hundred times over! for fate is nothing but a usurer.”
“…I cannot help noting with what exactitude this meeting of symbols corresponds to what for me is the profound meaning of suicide: to become at the same time oneself and the other, male and female, subject and object, killed and killer-the only possibility of communing on with oneself.”
“Poetic inspiration seemed to me an altogether rare piece of luck, a momentary gift from heaven which it was the poet’s responsibility to be in a state to receive by means of an absolute purity, and by paying with his misery for the fortuitous benefit of this manna.”
The way he describes his mind and body is what I imagine would arise in a Victorian who, as an infant, was fed a slurry of flour and water in place of formula.
“If it is a beautiful day, I am filled with anxiety: it’s a bad sign that the weather should be so fine, what terrible event is in store? Similarly, if I take any pleasure at all, I calculate my chances of paying for it in the near future, a hundred times over! for fate is nothing but a usurer.”
“…I cannot help noting with what exactitude this meeting of symbols corresponds to what for me is the profound meaning of suicide: to become at the same time oneself and the other, male and female, subject and object, killed and killer-the only possibility of communing on with oneself.”
“Poetic inspiration seemed to me an altogether rare piece of luck, a momentary gift from heaven which it was the poet’s responsibility to be in a state to receive by means of an absolute purity, and by paying with his misery for the fortuitous benefit of this manna.”
May 29, 2023
I first read this unique work at age twenty-two, almost fifty years ago, after my first physical relationship backfired, a two-month affair that my more experienced partner saw as an initiation.
As I'm now on my third attempt at a novel based on this experience, I reread Manhood as a kind of research./ Just before reading this book, I wished I'd been born in an earlier era free of the distorted romantic images and "true love" dished out by Hollywood and TV Land in my '50s childhood. Well, Leiris set me straight on that count, as he'd gotten warped by the distortions of classic theater and art. Manhood's "sexist" title notwithstanding, its confessional nature could prove therapeutic to any sensitive individual, male or female, gay or straight, whose adult relationship(s) have been undermined by childhood impressionability. When the book was considered for reprint thirty years ago, Leiris refused to change the title. In the interim, media and public discourse have gotten so dumbed-down that some readers doubtless take the book's ironic subtitle literally.
As I'm now on my third attempt at a novel based on this experience, I reread Manhood as a kind of research./ Just before reading this book, I wished I'd been born in an earlier era free of the distorted romantic images and "true love" dished out by Hollywood and TV Land in my '50s childhood. Well, Leiris set me straight on that count, as he'd gotten warped by the distortions of classic theater and art. Manhood's "sexist" title notwithstanding, its confessional nature could prove therapeutic to any sensitive individual, male or female, gay or straight, whose adult relationship(s) have been undermined by childhood impressionability. When the book was considered for reprint thirty years ago, Leiris refused to change the title. In the interim, media and public discourse have gotten so dumbed-down that some readers doubtless take the book's ironic subtitle literally.
December 27, 2021
Portrait sans complaisance (une fois écarté le plaisir de l'exhibitionnisme) d'un homme victime de ses petites névroses mythologiques.
Un éloge :
Le courage de montrer sa bassesse sans mensonges, ou du moins le plus honnêtement possible, dans un style froid de table d'opération. Chose d'autant plus remarquable que Leiris est porté, de son propre aveu, à la sublimation et au tragique
Une critique :
Peut-être pouvait-il y avoir encore quelque chose de décisif dans la mise en récit de sa vie sexuelle au début du XXe siècle. Aujourd'hui rien de moins surprenant, de moins risqué que de cette "prise de risque" là. A cet égard ce livre a mal vieilli.
Un éloge :
Le courage de montrer sa bassesse sans mensonges, ou du moins le plus honnêtement possible, dans un style froid de table d'opération. Chose d'autant plus remarquable que Leiris est porté, de son propre aveu, à la sublimation et au tragique
Une critique :
Peut-être pouvait-il y avoir encore quelque chose de décisif dans la mise en récit de sa vie sexuelle au début du XXe siècle. Aujourd'hui rien de moins surprenant, de moins risqué que de cette "prise de risque" là. A cet égard ce livre a mal vieilli.
October 4, 2024
"I bear in my hands the disguise by which I conceal my life. A web of meaningless events. I dye it with the magic of my point of view. A fly crushed between my fingers proves my sadism to me. A glass of alcohol drained in one gulp raises me to the level of Dostoevski's great drunkards...I am neither more nor less pure than anyone else, but I want to see myself as pure...How would I dare look at myself if I did not wear either a mask or distorting lenses?"
June 2, 2024
3,5. Puedo entender por qué es posible que este libro genere rechazo y siento que va decayendo, pero el planteamiento inicial me ha parecido muy interesante. Puede resultar repetitivo y sus acercamientos al psicoanálisis y a ciertos arquetipos de lo femenino no me han entusiasmado, pero está claro que no es un libro (auto)complaciente.
September 13, 2021
Really very unpenetrating
October 26, 2022
an ok read, pretty interesting.
November 7, 2022
Un drama boy qui s'écoute trop penser
January 19, 2023
ça va c'était hella bien, pshartek pour l'autobiographie
December 14, 2023
C’est pas mal, un peu long sur la fin mais j’ai tout de même bien aimé.
March 31, 2024
leiris va te faire foutre !!!! pire livre que j'ai du étudier pour les cours (avec bel ami)
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