----
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view. With the publication in 1958 of his first novel, Claude Ollier was immediately associated with the group of writers who came to be known in the 1950s and 1960s as the Nouveau Roman or New Novelists. Although these writers (Alain Robbe-Grillet, Michel Butor, Claude Simon, and others) differed significantly from each other, they shared some important common denominators: a questioning of narrative form, of point of view, of temporality, of representation in fiction. Like his contemporaries, Ollier was interested in fiction's capacity for problematizing its own conventions, while at the same time proposing formal innovations that would challenge the ways in which fiction is usually read, evaluated, and categorized. However, Ollier's work soon took on a configuration that made it both unique and exemplary with respect to the New Novel movement: after completing his second novel in 1961, Ollier decided to link all his novels in an ongoing fictional "cycle" which would form, with subsequent books, a serial investigation into the nature and functioning of fiction itself.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view. Eventually comprising eight works, with the last published in 1975, the cycle was entitled Le Jeu d'enfant (translatable as Child's Play or Child's Game). The eight books are divided into two cycles of four novels each and are linked to each other in a complex pattern of recurring characters, structures, situations, and passages. The principal thread binding all the works is eventually revealed to be a single protagonist who undertakes, in various guises, a voyage of investigation in a foreign setting. Analogously, the author and reader can be seen as exploring the nature of texts which become more and more alien with respect to traditional narrative forms and conventions.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view. The cycle's impetus is thus a dual one: it seeks both to reflect upon its own nature as fiction and to challenge the foundations of narrative convention by proposing alternatives to traditional forms and procedures. Thus Ollier's cycle addresses many of the important theoretical questions raised by the New Novel movement and, indeed, by much of the intellectual inquiry of recent years: what happens to the traditional protagonist in experimental fictions? to what extent is the author in control of the writing process? what is the role of the reader with respect to these demanding, ambiguous works? what, finally, is the nature and origin of a fictional text? These interrogations take place in works of high artistic quality where meticulous construction combines with lyric skill to create memorable fables of reading and writing.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view. Since the appearance in 1975 of the last volume of Le Jeu d'enfant, Ollier has published eight books, and a ninth is in progress at the time of this writing. These works vary in format and subject. While echoing some of the subjects and concerns of Le Jeu d'enfant, these more recent texts deal in new ways with the questions of perception and memory in relation to writing. Although its quality and interest are undisputed, Ollier's work has to date received considerably less critical attention than that of his contemporaries among the New Novelists. The reason for this comparative lack of analysis lies, perhaps, in the difficult and rigorous unity of Ollier's major cycle, whose scope, size, and intricacy make special demands upon the critic. -- Dictionary of Literary Biography
Note: Claude Ollier also appeared in Robert Bresson's film Un Femme Douce (1969), playing the doctor of Dominique Sanda's character Elle.
Claude Ollier, Réminiscence
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.![]()
The Mise-en-Scène (Dalkey Archive Press)
First published in France in 1958 and winner of the prestigious Prix Medecis, The Mise-en-Scène takes place in the mountains of Morocco when the French still controlled North Africa. An engineer named Lassalle has been sent from France to plan a road through the mountains. Although Lassalle seems to be successful, he finds out that another engineer, Lessing, has preceded him, and that Lessing, as well as others, may have been murdered.
The novel is a detailed inquiry into the meaning of actions and the impossibility of determining what happens. Lassalle prepares to return home uncertain of whether what he has witnessed is a series of coincidences or part of a sinister plan to keep him ignorant. His uncertainty is shared by the reader, who is kept guessing and wondering at what he thinks he knows but cannot be sure of.
In part a detective novel and in part an investigation into the nature of knowledge, The Mise-en-Scène is controlled by a tone and style that are truly remarkable. -- DA
"It is remarkable that it has taken thirty years for a translation of La Mise-en-Scène to appear . . . This novel comes as close to perfection as a novel ever can; not a word or sentence is wasted, and the reader could continue unearthing symmetries and resonances for a very long time." —Ivan Hill, Times Literary Supplement
"One of the best as well as the most influential of the French New Novelists . . . Skillfully translated by Dominic Di Bernardi . . . The novel is a demonstration of the complexity of reality, and the impossibility of knowing for certain the true meaning of a chain of events . . . A rich voyage of discovery of the human psyche . . . by one of the most original authors in modern France." —Washington Post
Excerpt:
When he got up to close the window—because of the lizards scurrying over the lattice work of the mosquito net, making the mesh rustle under their claws—the whole room was plunged into darkness. Meanwhile, the moon rose behind the mountain, lighting up the hill. It is most probably this brightness which made him reopen his eyes. The light and noise, no matter how faint, disturb his sleep. With the window closed, the howls of the dogs and jackals still penetrate the room, coming from the hollow of the olive grove or the foothills of the mountain, answering each other endlessly; at times the answer is long in coming, but comes it does without fail—haunting, uniform.
Right cheek pressed against the pillow, and the iron bed so low, he has the impression of lying at floor-level. Every time he opens his eyes, he spots the wall map which is reduced, at this hour, to the schematic outline of a plant, of an animal or a dwarf tree: a lush ball on the left, another sparer one on the right, linked to the former by an almost horizontal network of fibers.
But this makes short shrift of a night’s rest. How to fall back to sleep under such conditions? It is better to turn over on your left side, nose against the wall. It is the only way he has of escaping the light, since he cannot prevent it from coming in: the blinds do not close. They informed him of this as soon as he arrived: the first one has broken blades, and the second is clinging to the wall by only a single hinge—he verified this himself during his tour of the house.
With his shift in position he experiences the same short-lived relief, a soothing sensation which fades very quickly. The window is shut, the air inert, the heat damp and unremitting. He would gladly throw the sheets off, but for the few mosquitoes which a while ago successfully edged their way in and are now hovering about in the vicinity of the bed. All the same, by enclosing himself, he made up for the defects in the mosquito net: the movable frame, badly fit together, is off kilter by nearly an inch; several links of the mesh have been snipped or torn open. But this satisfaction is fleeting. Caution would dictate methodically checking every path of entry: the chinks between the badly fitted tiles, the gaps under the doors, the condition of the roughcast, the inner covering of the closet, not to mention the great weak point of the system—the fireplace. The first precaution to take would be to have blocked off for the duration of the torrid season. For all that, this room is exposed to every kind of surprise and, when all is said, in its present state does not offer the slightest protection.
He has nevertheless been notified, on several occasions. of the minor hazards, spiders being among them. They described various species to him: those with black bodies and long hairy legs, others with a yellowish hue, very dangerous. The majority were supposedly harmless. But the very idea of touching their legs with this lips or his eyelids was enough to terrify him—as was the thought that they could remain motionless for hours at a time, clinging to the ceiling, before dropping themselves down onto the sheets. With the reptiles, the problem was more complex, more controversial. How many stories had he been told, and some of them were beyond question, others suspect . . .
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.![]()
Disconnection (Dalkey Archive Press)
In two interconnected, alternating stories, Claude Ollier has written a disturbing, haunting, apocalyptic novel that brings together the end of the Third Reich with the closing of the twentieth century. The first is the autobiographical story of Martin, a French student conscripted into a munitions factory in Nuremberg in the middle of World War II. The other is the story of a nameless writer, a Robinson Crusoe-like figure who inhabits a twilight world where civilization has collapsed. -- DA
"The moral and psychic disjunctions occasioned by World War II have long been the source of much of Europe's best fiction. In Germany, it is the novelistic terrain of Gunter Grass and Heinrich Boll, in France of Claude Simon, Alain Robbe-Grillet and Claude Ollier. In his latest novel, Mr. Ollier, a major force behind the nouveau roman, a literary movement born out of the Resistance, meditates on Germany's totalitarian past . . . To suggest history's deeper discontinuities, Mr. Ollier shatters the traditional narrative form, preferring fragments to sustained storytelling . . . [F]ull of fine, splintered poetry, Mr. Ollier's aphoristic style has been carefully rendered in Dominic Di Bernardi's skillful translation." —New York Times Book Review
Excerpt:
He knows that memory will betray him. Later on. Will deceive, will delude him.
Will distort the scenes, shuffle their order.
Knows it already. Has learned this, already.
Knows that what in this place he sees, hears, will be poorly safeguarded, poorly protected, poorly restored. Will be mixed up, later on.
Dashed, riddled. Or erased.
But Martin isn’t any less observant. All eyes: facades, banderoles, poster; towers, walls, old roofs.
But listens that much more keenly, all ears, to fix the locations, as far as possible, save these sounds, fanfares, trolley bells, clicking footsteps.
Hears the voice in the distance, from the loudspeaker, already hears the noise. Seemingly hears it, hasn’t reached the Ring yet, from this point hears only voices calling, the din of motors, shouts.
Passes the Ring a little farther on and the deep ditch, Marientor, the door in the ramparts, ears pricked up, picks up the pace, stepping quickly.
The real voice now, funneled inside the old street, a summer mist on the cobblestones of Lorenzstrasse, slick and glistening, a dampness, a decent shower.
At the bend in the street catches sight of the church, massive, with golden spires, Lorenzkirche, its nave damaged.
Goes around the edifice and returns to the main street, Königsstrasse, the people on the sidewalk, in small groups, seem less hurried than he, on their way down to the river.
Others pass on bicycles, in boots, feathered hats, rare cars, five o’clock, today the factories closed earlier, the stores, the offices.
Doesn’t believe his eyes, Martin simply finds himself here, in this city, not quite one whole week, walking on these cobblestones, he’s too going down toward the river, can spot the bridge, soon crosses the flower-decked bridge.
The voice is everywhere now, fills the square, the old city center, indeed, that’s the voice, that’s the one. Emphatically bursts forth, rings out, echoes.
When he comes into the square, Goebbels has already begun to speak. He’s there on the platform, with the dignitaries, green overcoat, has kept on his cap, too big for him, face furrowed, obstructed by the microphones, shouts very loudly.
Doesn’t believe his ears, what’s happening to him, this tribute seen so often before the war on screens, newsreels of childhood, adolescence, here in motion, very close, brandishing a fish, renowned actor, self-assured, haranguing at the top of his lungs.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.![]()
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.![]()
(l. to r.) Alain Robbe-Grillet, Claude Simon, Claude Mauriac, Jérôme Lindon, Robert Pinget,
*
p.s. Hey. I'm in Tokyo. Well, I'm probably on a jet heading towards Tokyo and trying unsuccessfully to get some sleep. I'm just guessing because I wrote this pre-flight. Up above is the Claude Ollier Day that strangely disappeared the last time I tried to post it during my recent Scandinavia-based blog vacation. Assuming it gets to you this time, please enjoy.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
The Basics:
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
With the publication in 1958 of his first novel, Claude Ollier was immediately associated with the group of writers who came to be known in the 1950s and 1960s as the Nouveau Roman or New Novelists. Although these writers (Alain Robbe-Grillet, Michel Butor, Claude Simon, and others) differed significantly from each other, they shared some important common denominators: a questioning of narrative form, of point of view, of temporality, of representation in fiction. Like his contemporaries, Ollier was interested in fiction's capacity for problematizing its own conventions, while at the same time proposing formal innovations that would challenge the ways in which fiction is usually read, evaluated, and categorized. However, Ollier's work soon took on a configuration that made it both unique and exemplary with respect to the New Novel movement: after completing his second novel in 1961, Ollier decided to link all his novels in an ongoing fictional "cycle" which would form, with subsequent books, a serial investigation into the nature and functioning of fiction itself.Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Eventually comprising eight works, with the last published in 1975, the cycle was entitled Le Jeu d'enfant (translatable as Child's Play or Child's Game). The eight books are divided into two cycles of four novels each and are linked to each other in a complex pattern of recurring characters, structures, situations, and passages. The principal thread binding all the works is eventually revealed to be a single protagonist who undertakes, in various guises, a voyage of investigation in a foreign setting. Analogously, the author and reader can be seen as exploring the nature of texts which become more and more alien with respect to traditional narrative forms and conventions.Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
The cycle's impetus is thus a dual one: it seeks both to reflect upon its own nature as fiction and to challenge the foundations of narrative convention by proposing alternatives to traditional forms and procedures. Thus Ollier's cycle addresses many of the important theoretical questions raised by the New Novel movement and, indeed, by much of the intellectual inquiry of recent years: what happens to the traditional protagonist in experimental fictions? to what extent is the author in control of the writing process? what is the role of the reader with respect to these demanding, ambiguous works? what, finally, is the nature and origin of a fictional text? These interrogations take place in works of high artistic quality where meticulous construction combines with lyric skill to create memorable fables of reading and writing.Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Since the appearance in 1975 of the last volume of Le Jeu d'enfant, Ollier has published eight books, and a ninth is in progress at the time of this writing. These works vary in format and subject. While echoing some of the subjects and concerns of Le Jeu d'enfant, these more recent texts deal in new ways with the questions of perception and memory in relation to writing. Although its quality and interest are undisputed, Ollier's work has to date received considerably less critical attention than that of his contemporaries among the New Novelists. The reason for this comparative lack of analysis lies, perhaps, in the difficult and rigorous unity of Ollier's major cycle, whose scope, size, and intricacy make special demands upon the critic. -- Dictionary of Literary BiographyNote: Claude Ollier also appeared in Robert Bresson's film Un Femme Douce (1969), playing the doctor of Dominique Sanda's character Elle.
____________
Claude Ollier, Réminiscence
____________
Claude Ollier's books in English:
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
The Mise-en-Scène (Dalkey Archive Press)First published in France in 1958 and winner of the prestigious Prix Medecis, The Mise-en-Scène takes place in the mountains of Morocco when the French still controlled North Africa. An engineer named Lassalle has been sent from France to plan a road through the mountains. Although Lassalle seems to be successful, he finds out that another engineer, Lessing, has preceded him, and that Lessing, as well as others, may have been murdered.
The novel is a detailed inquiry into the meaning of actions and the impossibility of determining what happens. Lassalle prepares to return home uncertain of whether what he has witnessed is a series of coincidences or part of a sinister plan to keep him ignorant. His uncertainty is shared by the reader, who is kept guessing and wondering at what he thinks he knows but cannot be sure of.
In part a detective novel and in part an investigation into the nature of knowledge, The Mise-en-Scène is controlled by a tone and style that are truly remarkable. -- DA
"It is remarkable that it has taken thirty years for a translation of La Mise-en-Scène to appear . . . This novel comes as close to perfection as a novel ever can; not a word or sentence is wasted, and the reader could continue unearthing symmetries and resonances for a very long time." —Ivan Hill, Times Literary Supplement
"One of the best as well as the most influential of the French New Novelists . . . Skillfully translated by Dominic Di Bernardi . . . The novel is a demonstration of the complexity of reality, and the impossibility of knowing for certain the true meaning of a chain of events . . . A rich voyage of discovery of the human psyche . . . by one of the most original authors in modern France." —Washington Post
Excerpt:
When he got up to close the window—because of the lizards scurrying over the lattice work of the mosquito net, making the mesh rustle under their claws—the whole room was plunged into darkness. Meanwhile, the moon rose behind the mountain, lighting up the hill. It is most probably this brightness which made him reopen his eyes. The light and noise, no matter how faint, disturb his sleep. With the window closed, the howls of the dogs and jackals still penetrate the room, coming from the hollow of the olive grove or the foothills of the mountain, answering each other endlessly; at times the answer is long in coming, but comes it does without fail—haunting, uniform.
Right cheek pressed against the pillow, and the iron bed so low, he has the impression of lying at floor-level. Every time he opens his eyes, he spots the wall map which is reduced, at this hour, to the schematic outline of a plant, of an animal or a dwarf tree: a lush ball on the left, another sparer one on the right, linked to the former by an almost horizontal network of fibers.
But this makes short shrift of a night’s rest. How to fall back to sleep under such conditions? It is better to turn over on your left side, nose against the wall. It is the only way he has of escaping the light, since he cannot prevent it from coming in: the blinds do not close. They informed him of this as soon as he arrived: the first one has broken blades, and the second is clinging to the wall by only a single hinge—he verified this himself during his tour of the house.
With his shift in position he experiences the same short-lived relief, a soothing sensation which fades very quickly. The window is shut, the air inert, the heat damp and unremitting. He would gladly throw the sheets off, but for the few mosquitoes which a while ago successfully edged their way in and are now hovering about in the vicinity of the bed. All the same, by enclosing himself, he made up for the defects in the mosquito net: the movable frame, badly fit together, is off kilter by nearly an inch; several links of the mesh have been snipped or torn open. But this satisfaction is fleeting. Caution would dictate methodically checking every path of entry: the chinks between the badly fitted tiles, the gaps under the doors, the condition of the roughcast, the inner covering of the closet, not to mention the great weak point of the system—the fireplace. The first precaution to take would be to have blocked off for the duration of the torrid season. For all that, this room is exposed to every kind of surprise and, when all is said, in its present state does not offer the slightest protection.
He has nevertheless been notified, on several occasions. of the minor hazards, spiders being among them. They described various species to him: those with black bodies and long hairy legs, others with a yellowish hue, very dangerous. The majority were supposedly harmless. But the very idea of touching their legs with this lips or his eyelids was enough to terrify him—as was the thought that they could remain motionless for hours at a time, clinging to the ceiling, before dropping themselves down onto the sheets. With the reptiles, the problem was more complex, more controversial. How many stories had he been told, and some of them were beyond question, others suspect . . .
____________
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Disconnection (Dalkey Archive Press)In two interconnected, alternating stories, Claude Ollier has written a disturbing, haunting, apocalyptic novel that brings together the end of the Third Reich with the closing of the twentieth century. The first is the autobiographical story of Martin, a French student conscripted into a munitions factory in Nuremberg in the middle of World War II. The other is the story of a nameless writer, a Robinson Crusoe-like figure who inhabits a twilight world where civilization has collapsed. -- DA
"The moral and psychic disjunctions occasioned by World War II have long been the source of much of Europe's best fiction. In Germany, it is the novelistic terrain of Gunter Grass and Heinrich Boll, in France of Claude Simon, Alain Robbe-Grillet and Claude Ollier. In his latest novel, Mr. Ollier, a major force behind the nouveau roman, a literary movement born out of the Resistance, meditates on Germany's totalitarian past . . . To suggest history's deeper discontinuities, Mr. Ollier shatters the traditional narrative form, preferring fragments to sustained storytelling . . . [F]ull of fine, splintered poetry, Mr. Ollier's aphoristic style has been carefully rendered in Dominic Di Bernardi's skillful translation." —New York Times Book Review
Excerpt:
He knows that memory will betray him. Later on. Will deceive, will delude him.
Will distort the scenes, shuffle their order.
Knows it already. Has learned this, already.
Knows that what in this place he sees, hears, will be poorly safeguarded, poorly protected, poorly restored. Will be mixed up, later on.
Dashed, riddled. Or erased.
But Martin isn’t any less observant. All eyes: facades, banderoles, poster; towers, walls, old roofs.
But listens that much more keenly, all ears, to fix the locations, as far as possible, save these sounds, fanfares, trolley bells, clicking footsteps.
Hears the voice in the distance, from the loudspeaker, already hears the noise. Seemingly hears it, hasn’t reached the Ring yet, from this point hears only voices calling, the din of motors, shouts.
Passes the Ring a little farther on and the deep ditch, Marientor, the door in the ramparts, ears pricked up, picks up the pace, stepping quickly.
The real voice now, funneled inside the old street, a summer mist on the cobblestones of Lorenzstrasse, slick and glistening, a dampness, a decent shower.
At the bend in the street catches sight of the church, massive, with golden spires, Lorenzkirche, its nave damaged.
Goes around the edifice and returns to the main street, Königsstrasse, the people on the sidewalk, in small groups, seem less hurried than he, on their way down to the river.
Others pass on bicycles, in boots, feathered hats, rare cars, five o’clock, today the factories closed earlier, the stores, the offices.
Doesn’t believe his eyes, Martin simply finds himself here, in this city, not quite one whole week, walking on these cobblestones, he’s too going down toward the river, can spot the bridge, soon crosses the flower-decked bridge.
The voice is everywhere now, fills the square, the old city center, indeed, that’s the voice, that’s the one. Emphatically bursts forth, rings out, echoes.
When he comes into the square, Goebbels has already begun to speak. He’s there on the platform, with the dignitaries, green overcoat, has kept on his cap, too big for him, face furrowed, obstructed by the microphones, shouts very loudly.
Doesn’t believe his ears, what’s happening to him, this tribute seen so often before the war on screens, newsreels of childhood, adolescence, here in motion, very close, brandishing a fish, renowned actor, self-assured, haranguing at the top of his lungs.
____________
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
(l. to r.) Alain Robbe-Grillet, Claude Simon, Claude Mauriac, Jérôme Lindon, Robert Pinget,
Samuel Beckett, Nathalie Sarraute, Claude Ollier
Claude Ollier's books @ Dalkey Archive Press
A Claude Ollier Bibliography
Claude Ollier interview
Claude Ollier @ P.O.L. Editeur
Video: Claude Ollier reads from his novel Reminiscence
Video: Claude Ollier w/ Bernard Pivot on French TV, 1982
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____________
Further:
Claude Ollier's books @ Dalkey Archive Press
A Claude Ollier Bibliography
Claude Ollier interview
Claude Ollier @ P.O.L. Editeur
Video: Claude Ollier reads from his novel Reminiscence
Video: Claude Ollier w/ Bernard Pivot on French TV, 1982
----
*
p.s. Hey. I'm in Tokyo. Well, I'm probably on a jet heading towards Tokyo and trying unsuccessfully to get some sleep. I'm just guessing because I wrote this pre-flight. Up above is the Claude Ollier Day that strangely disappeared the last time I tried to post it during my recent Scandinavia-based blog vacation. Assuming it gets to you this time, please enjoy.