Édouard Levé (1965–2007)
Forfatter af Suicide
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Autoportrait (#formatpoche) (French Edition) 1 eksemplar
Inédits 1 eksemplar
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Almen Viden
- Kanonisk navn
- Levé, Édouard
- Fødselsdato
- 1965-01-01
- Dødsdag
- 2007-10-15
- Køn
- male
- Nationalitet
- France
- Fødested
- Paris, France
- Dødssted
- Paris, France
- Erhverv
- writer
photographer - Priser og hædersbevisninger
- Villa Médicis Hors-les-Murs (2004)
Bourse d’encouragement du Centre National des Lettres (2004)
Medlemmer
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Suicide af Édouard Levé
The Art of Death. Listened to some Basinski and Kali Malone while reading. Will your eventual suicide close the loop and endow it with coherence? Do you prefer a ‘natural’ death where you frame death or do your personal aesthetics support the enervated cessation of the over abundance of your elan vital? Better to cut the loop in a drastic spectacle so as to heuristically establish a headstand of a biography where the blood pools yet the loop is refashioned and complete? Suicide is gay.
Levé has a unique way of inviting his readers into his melancholy; reading this, I was reminded of Suicide and what I can only term—and this is a project on which I'm currently working as well—Levé's performance of melancholy. While many people feel that depression, melancholy, and despair are highly individualized emotional states that the majority do not speak about, Levé channels some of the confessional school in his work (both photographic and literary) but suggests that he needs an interlocutor in order to fully feel his way through the anguish.
Which is not to say that Autoportrait is a depressing read; like Suicide, it is full of a macabre humor and a very dry wit. I think it was wise on the part of Lorin Stein to render the title in the original French rather than as "self-portrait": the quick, declarative sentences here are almost machine-like in their monotony at first. It is almost as if Levé is confessing mechanically and automatically rather than organically, but as the confessions continue we see some repetitions (we even see a few places where Levé contradicts himself while still insisting on speaking only the truth) and we acclimate ourselves to Levé's confession.
We get to know him inside and out through this short 120-page book, in fragments and at random. One comes away from Autoportrait feeling as though one has learned all there is to know about this man's life, his thoughts, his views on art and his work, his obsessive meanderings about his body, his childhood memories, his sex live, his hatred for the color green in interior design, and a host of other desires, worries, joys, and regrets that make Levé who he is. It also makes one wonder, as a reader, what this strange yet intimate relationship is between Levé and his reader, what is this insistent need for company in the midst of chaos.… (mere)
Which is not to say that Autoportrait is a depressing read; like Suicide, it is full of a macabre humor and a very dry wit. I think it was wise on the part of Lorin Stein to render the title in the original French rather than as "self-portrait": the quick, declarative sentences here are almost machine-like in their monotony at first. It is almost as if Levé is confessing mechanically and automatically rather than organically, but as the confessions continue we see some repetitions (we even see a few places where Levé contradicts himself while still insisting on speaking only the truth) and we acclimate ourselves to Levé's confession.
We get to know him inside and out through this short 120-page book, in fragments and at random. One comes away from Autoportrait feeling as though one has learned all there is to know about this man's life, his thoughts, his views on art and his work, his obsessive meanderings about his body, his childhood memories, his sex live, his hatred for the color green in interior design, and a host of other desires, worries, joys, and regrets that make Levé who he is. It also makes one wonder, as a reader, what this strange yet intimate relationship is between Levé and his reader, what is this insistent need for company in the midst of chaos.… (mere)
La felicidad me precede
La tristeza me sigue
La muerte me espera.
No había visto el contexto de este libro. Me atrapó y me comió dos viajes completos a mi trabajo. Hay cosas que me arrastran o capaz me hacen sentir identificada como si estuviese leyendo el horóscopo o perfiles según el mes que naciste.
Hay cosas que en verdad no puedo explicar, sobre todo lo que me pasó con este libro. Me hubiese gustado saber que pasó con el entorno de este autor después de ver todo lo que envolvió después de entregar esto a su editor.
No lo recomiendo, pero tampoco hay que dejarlo pasar. Ami al menos, me dejó una sensación de vacío infinito.… (mere)
La tristeza me sigue
La muerte me espera.
No había visto el contexto de este libro. Me atrapó y me comió dos viajes completos a mi trabajo. Hay cosas que me arrastran o capaz me hacen sentir identificada como si estuviese leyendo el horóscopo o perfiles según el mes que naciste.
Hay cosas que en verdad no puedo explicar, sobre todo lo que me pasó con este libro. Me hubiese gustado saber que pasó con el entorno de este autor después de ver todo lo que envolvió después de entregar esto a su editor.
No lo recomiendo, pero tampoco hay que dejarlo pasar. Ami al menos, me dejó una sensación de vacío infinito.… (mere)
Als een vriend een einde maakt aan zijn leven, roept dat bij de auteur veel vragen op
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