‘Lost’ books, we believe, are all those which have been contemplated, dreamt about, conceived, but not put down on paper; those which are not recorded, that is are not ‘sealed’, as one does when ratifying a legal statement, or even as one marks an unruly pupil down on the detention list.
Yet they are infinitely more beautiful, certainly, than others which become mired in their very inscriptions. For they are unsullied, immaculate, contemporaneous with their surge, intact and unexhibited. They remain untouched by the work of the phrase, not yet damaged by the patience and effort of the line.
There is no deferment.
No loss or consequences . . .
Can this myth be trusted?
Why did Rousseau, when writing the Confessions, still pretend to adhere to it, even as he was in the process of inventing the phrase (the effective phrase, with pen in hand) which knows how to harness this materialization.
I slip such a page from the Confessions (Book IV) into the vast dossier of this mythology which the celebration of the ‘virtual’ has since only caused to take root:
In all of the details of my life which have slipped from my memory, my greatest regret is not to have kept a diary of my travels. Never have I thought so much, never existed or experienced so much, or been myself so much, if I dare say so, as when travelling alone and on foot. Something about walking animates and enlivens my thoughts. When I stay in one place I find thinking almost impossible; my body needs to be shaken up for my mind to be stimulated . . . I take charge of nature as a whole; my heart, wandering from object to object, is united and identified with what pleases it, surrounded with charming images and intoxicated with delightful feelings. If I amuse myself by describing them in order to focus them, what vigour of portrayal, what freshness of hue, what energy of expression I am able to give them! I’m told this can be found in all of my works, even though they were written during my declining years. Oh, if they had seen those descriptions of my earliest youth, those prepared during my travels, which I composed and I have never written! . . . Why not write them, you say? ‘But why should I?’ is my answer. Why should I take away the actual charm of my rapture, to tell others of what I enjoyed? What do I care about readers, an audience, or the whole world, as I soar into the sky? Anyway, did I have pen and paper with me? Had I thought of it, nothing would have come. I don’t anticipate ideas; they come when it pleases them, not when it pleases me. Either they come in a crowd, overwhelming me with their number and their strength, or they don’t come at all. Ten volumes a day would not have been sufficient. How would I have had the time to write? On arrival, my only thought was to eat well. And on leaving my only thought was to walk well. I felt a new paradise was awaiting me at the door. I just thought of going to seek it out.
François Jullien. Philosopher and sinologist, Jullien is Professor at Université Paris Diderot, member of the Institut universitaire de France and Director of the Institut de la pensée contemporaine. The English translation of his Les Transformations Silencieuses (The Silent Transformations) has been published by Seagull Books and of Cette étrange idée du beau (This Strange Idea of the Beautiful) is forthcoming.
One Response
Leave a Reply