Boris Vian Les Fourmis Pdf Merge
A cocky black cat that drinks cognac and can't stay out of holes, a hyperactive plumber who pulls out all the stops, an expiring jazzman who sells his sweat, a green soldier who moves into a terribly serious position - these are a few of the outrageous and poignant creations of Boris Vian in Blues for a Black Cat and Other Stories. Julia Older makes available for the first A cocky black cat that drinks cognac and can't stay out of holes, a hyperactive plumber who pulls out all the stops, an expiring jazzman who sells his sweat, a green soldier who moves into a terribly serious position - these are a few of the outrageous and poignant creations of Boris Vian in Blues for a Black Cat and Other Stories. Julia Older makes available for the first time in English this collection of his short fiction, which was originally published as Les Fourmis in 1949. It is a delightful introduction to the work of a much-admired French poet, playwright, and song-writer whose celebrity has continued to grow since his untimely death in 1959. These early stories, written in 1944 and 1945, reveal that Vian was already a master of black humor, wordplay, elegant understatement, and leaps of fancy. 'Blues for a Black Cat,' bubbling with Vian's sense of mischief and evocative of his love for jazz, shows the seamier side of postwar Parisian night life.
'The Plumber' is the nightmare of every citizen who has been incommoded by expensive repairmen. 'Pins and Needles' conveys Vian's daring opposition to World War II (his song 'The Deserter' later would be censored by the government for inciting sentiment against the French-Algerian conflict). The other stories - 'Cancer,' 'Dead Fish,' 'Journey to Khonostrov,' 'Blue Fairy Tale,' 'Fog,' 'Good Students,' and 'One-Way Street' - are marked by the same verbal Niagaras, zany sexual encounters, and absurd situations. But, as Julia Older points out, parody only heightens the masked terrors of war, poverty, ill health, and unemployment that hound the bizarre protagonists of Vian's fablelike narratives.
Second re-read. Same thoughts as before. The only issue I have is the peculiar translation in a story titled: Dead Fish. The objects the protagonist fishes for are here referred to as 'brains'. I have read another translation in a different language, where the translation referred to them as 'stamps' as in postage stamps, which made a lot more sense. Not sure how this would happen, but that is the only problem I have with this book.Original review follows:In Blues for a black cat, Boris Vian's Second re-read.
Same thoughts as before. The only issue I have is the peculiar translation in a story titled: Dead Fish. The objects the protagonist fishes for are here referred to as 'brains'.
I have read another translation in a different language, where the translation referred to them as 'stamps' as in postage stamps, which made a lot more sense. Not sure how this would happen, but that is the only problem I have with this book.Original review follows:In Blues for a black cat, Boris Vian's literary genius shines with rare intensity impossible to find in modern works. While I read a few of Vian's works in the past, revisiting this book was the perfect escape from the mundane world of today's literature. Without getting into any plot or revealing too much about this compilation of short stories, Blues for a black cat, is an insane, entertaining, humorous, profound, powerful avant-garde literary rarity.
Vian's style remains unique decades after the original publication, and while seemingly incoherent on the surface, it is intentionally so. Vian plays with words and objects, breathing life into them, making them take on a life vastly different from what we are used to, changing directions and staying on track at the same time, and inserting a deep incision in to our consciousness. Through humor, Vian touches upon uneasy topics - shallow interpersonal communications, lack of spirituality, empty lives. And above all, our humanity. Humanity, with its faults, seems to be a common thread throughout Vian's works (at least those I had the chance to read). The list of subjects in this book will be too long, but one story will forever remain, in my opinion, one of the best short stories written about WWII (or any war for that matter) - Pins and Needles.As Vian himself says: 'Routine dulls impressions.' Readers be assured, there is nothing dull about his writing.
His prose is full of gems, his ramblings are amusing, his literary rebellion is unrepeated by the generations of writers that came after him. While not pure surrealism, his approach to reality, to make the most mundane breathe with a new life, is fascinating.Julia Older's excellent translation finally brings this important piece to the English speaking audiences.Blues for a black cat would be a great sample of Vian's work for those not familiar with this author. And now, here's some Boris Vian!I first ran into Vian's work in 's excellent anthology BLACKWATER (a story called 'Dead fish', included here) and was intrigued by the idea of a surrealist novelist (as the Surrealists generally found that the structured, long-form narrative concept of the novel did not mesh well with the interior, psychological, non-narrative aims of Surrealism). I also thought his titles sounded interesting (who wouldn't want to read something called FROTH ON THE And now, here's some Boris Vian!I first ran into Vian's work in 's excellent anthology BLACKWATER (a story called 'Dead fish', included here) and was intrigued by the idea of a surrealist novelist (as the Surrealists generally found that the structured, long-form narrative concept of the novel did not mesh well with the interior, psychological, non-narrative aims of Surrealism). I also thought his titles sounded interesting (who wouldn't want to read something called FROTH ON THE DAYDREAM?).
So, I bought this compilation of short stories a number of years ago and just got around to it now.I imagine that for a lot of casual readers (those expecting narratives, plots and characters) work from writers like Boris Vian must seem both enigmatic and superfluous - 'what's the point? It all seems so aimless'. For me, though, exposing myself to writing like this serves as a periodic reminder that the skill, art and craft of writing encompasses so much more than the codified, marketable and acceptable forms. You can do anything with words on paper, depending on the order you put them in and the culture you inhabit. The surrealists were interested in capturing internal moods, unconscious processes and the secret ways we create our world through hidden drives and external cultural pressures.
Vian seems to grow out of the Surrealist approach (I'm sure an expert could illuminate more of that observation. Or prove me wrong), with comedic and absurdist touches spread throughout these delirious, playful stories. Some darker tones often creep through, complimenting and underscoring the breezy approach with some real weight and cruel satire. This is unbounded writing (which also implies that it is, by definition, not for everyone).The pieces contained in BLUES FOR A BLACK CAT (a beautifully designed volume in the French Modernist Library series from University Of Nebraska Press) are masterful little confections of nonsense (with that occasional, expertly deployed, bitter note), yet some are surprisingly moving all the same.
The climax of 'Blue Fairy Tale' (in which the lead character's romantic hopes are dashed and his heart broken - presumably due to his hesitation and shyness) is in no way undone by the fact that this sad state of affairs was preceded by a sprawling, dream-like description of a drive through surreal countryside, half as much inside the characters' own heads as without. Nor is the delicate charm of the piece in any way made false through the poetically beautiful last line: 'They tried to close the Major's door, but salt water tears had rusted the hinges fast.'
Similarly, this odd, freewheeling and, again, playful tone is so well-generated and sustained by Vian that we easily accept the fact that the lead in the following piece, 'The Fog', (a seemingly shell-shocked neurotic just released from the asylum as cured, who ends up murdering his downstairs neighbor during a moment of frozen time) is himself murdered by The Major from the preceding story (having been rendered invisible and cantankerously murderous after being ignored by both the reader and author in the previous story). Understand, the stories are in no way connected, there's no world-building going on here, instead it seems as if The Major jumped over the page break following 'Blue Fairy Tale', to invade the ending of 'The Fog' and throw the lead from a bridge (for those who need a solid, internal reason, the shell-shocked man is crazy as a loon and is believed to have committed suicide). Even this bit of meta-textual fun is not presented in a heavy 'literary' way: it seems just another random, easily-accepted aspect of a narrative that reads like it unspooling from the author's mind right onto the page.Teasing meaning from these tales is difficult and, in most cases, seems besides the point (although they do seem to be symbolic wrestlings with modern anxieties, frustrations and the stupidities of culture and bureaucracy).
'Pins and Needles' is a simultaneously funny and grim war journal, describing constant death and mayhem in an offhand, cartoonish manner, but it ends on a note both poignant and blackly comic, a perfect symbol of the vicious absurdity of modern warfare. 'The Plumber' concerns a man who turns his bathroom over to the titular character, even though nothing is broken (and since nothing gets fixed, that works out all right then!).
'Blues For A Black Cat' follows a group of people who rescue a talking cat from the sewer and take him to a bar where he drinks them under the table. It is a story peopled by bizarre caricatures who might have some greater symbolic meaning (or perhaps not) - when two drunk Americans vomit in the pattern of the stars and stripes, one assumes something more is going on.' Cancer' concerns the dissolution and death of a jazz musician who plays 'the curlish flute' (Vian was a jazz fan and wrote and recorded songs) while 'Dead Fish' involves the abusive relationship between a hideous boss and his cringing underling who is paid to go fish little brains out of pools (this is a startlingly cruel and yet touching story, the latter aspect assisted by the inclusion of the underling's only loving companion, the never-described 'living thing'). 'Journey TO Khonostrov' moves its multiple characters around like figures in an equation as it tells of a group of friends in a small train compartment who decide to torture a taciturn stranger (and when I say torture, I mean torture).
In most of Vian's works there are moments of violence, but they are treated either cartoonishly or with deliberate distance, as in 'Good Students', a satire of the police, wherein two trained cadets go about their mundane lives of eating and love affairs, all while blithely brutalizing the populace. It's very well done. Finally, the book concludes with 'One Way Street', a slightly longer piece notable for mentioning some characters from earlier stories (Peter Gna from 'Blues For A Black Cat' and, yet again, 'the Major') and featuring the dangers of calling your friend away from his work to attend a dinner party.This is quite an entertaining volume and it should be sought out by all lovers of odd, dark-humored or just plain inventive writing. In Boris Vian's collection of short stories, the surrealism comes abruptly, without warning: in the middle of a normal set of events, strange things begin to happen, not strange in the sense of ghost stories, but in an unpredictable manner, orchestrated by the author's abundant imagination. I played along and followed the winding paths of dreamlike happenings, enjoying most of the stories. In a smaller or larger degree, they were all filled with violence, but Vian's black humour makes it way In Boris Vian's collection of short stories, the surrealism comes abruptly, without warning: in the middle of a normal set of events, strange things begin to happen, not strange in the sense of ghost stories, but in an unpredictable manner, orchestrated by the author's abundant imagination.
I played along and followed the winding paths of dreamlike happenings, enjoying most of the stories. In a smaller or larger degree, they were all filled with violence, but Vian's black humour makes it way more bearable.My favorite stories? Journey to Khonostrov, Good Students, The Plumber and Blues for a Black Cat.
There was a time I would have been much more interested in these stories. The author of the introduction labels them of the surreal school and also throws references to Alfred Jarry in. I found very few pieces of literature in translation that were tied to the various schools (a few plays, a few poems, references to novels and writers I could not locate). There is also reference to the writers in the College of Pataphysique and Absurdism.
Sarte was a friend and a fan of Vian.The stories are There was a time I would have been much more interested in these stories. The author of the introduction labels them of the surreal school and also throws references to Alfred Jarry in. I found very few pieces of literature in translation that were tied to the various schools (a few plays, a few poems, references to novels and writers I could not locate). There is also reference to the writers in the College of Pataphysique and Absurdism. Sarte was a friend and a fan of Vian.The stories are fun.
Eliminer Les Fourmis
They do read like the enthusiastic writing of an immature twenty year old. It that sense I liked Pins and Needles and Blue Fairy Tale. I don’t care that I skimmed the last 3 stories.
I’m counting it as completely read because I suffered through it for over three months despite finding it almost unreadable.As with any book, I’m sure there is an audience out there. Bizarre characters whose actions made no sense in completely absurdist situations are not my thing. The least “out there” story in the book may be the titular “Blues for a Black Cat” - in which a talking cat drinks himself to death in a bar.Why, you may I don’t care that I skimmed the last 3 stories. I’m counting it as completely read because I suffered through it for over three months despite finding it almost unreadable.As with any book, I’m sure there is an audience out there. Bizarre characters whose actions made no sense in completely absurdist situations are not my thing. The least “out there” story in the book may be the titular “Blues for a Black Cat” - in which a talking cat drinks himself to death in a bar.Why, you may ask, would I stick with a book for so long when I wasn't enjoying it?
I've been good lately about moving on if I don't connect in a reasonable time. But this book was short, it was a souvenir from Paris, and it has a black cat on it. None of which are good enough reasons. A collection of surrealist short fiction, well-written and just as eccentric and riotous as jazz, the music of choice of its erstwhile author, once was. There are some rather interesting moments here and there, but all in all, I was less than impressed with the stories - which are, incidentally, really easy to imitate: try it, and see for yourselves. Their seemingly haphazard structure hearkens back to dream logic and old, old magic tales, where the flow of storytelling and the inventiveness of A collection of surrealist short fiction, well-written and just as eccentric and riotous as jazz, the music of choice of its erstwhile author, once was.
Boris Vian L'ecume Des Jours
There are some rather interesting moments here and there, but all in all, I was less than impressed with the stories - which are, incidentally, really easy to imitate: try it, and see for yourselves. Their seemingly haphazard structure hearkens back to dream logic and old, old magic tales, where the flow of storytelling and the inventiveness of the storyteller reigned supreme over any other content the tale could have had.
And it was fine, since they were rooted in the collective consciousness of a community, but their twentieth-century progeny became self-serving and pointless, not to mention nihilistic, using black comedy as and end in itself - patches of genuine joy here and there could have illuminated the tales, but sadly, it didn't happen. I simply couldn't connect to any of them, save for a borderline obsessive urge for burning through the bunch, wondering what madcap invention will be thrown at me in the next paragraph, which is, for me, the sole redeeming feature of Vian's fiction. I'd recommend Alfred Jarry's The Supermale instead: the same inventiveness, but far more food for thought.
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Les Fourmis Rouges
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