'The difficult thing is to manage both to renew your writing while always writing the same book, all at once. I like the idea of doing both all at once, all at once black and white, hot and cold, not gray or lukewarm, but both hot and cold. That’s what makes literature what it is (unlike politics, for instance): the simultaneous possibility of two opposite things, instead of a middle ground (gray, lukewarm). Such a juxtaposition of opposed extremes creates ambivalence and ambiguity, and that’s another essential literary quality.' -- Jean-Philippe Toussaint
'What are we to make of a man who wishes nothing more than to spend the rest of his life in his bathtub; a man who organizes imaginary international dart tournaments in his hotel room, playing out every contest in that solitary but nonetheless gripping struggle until valiant Belgium finally wins; a man who, recognizing that Venice is gradually sinking into the sea at the rate of thirty centimeters per century, complaisantly jumps up and down on the sidewalks of the city in order to accelerate that process; a man who tries to structure his life such that it resembles a Mondrian painting; a man who willingly confesses to any number of neuroses, obsessions, and personal quirks, but steadfastly refuses to tell us his name; a man who, though a native speaker of French, reads Pascal in English translation and attends a public reading of Proust in German. Such a man, most will agree, is an excellent candidate for confinement. And indeed, happily enough, he is confined—between the covers of Jean-Philippe Toussaint's first novel, La Salle de bain (The Bathroom). There, he plays the role of hero to the best of his dubious abilities.' -- Warren Motte, Context
* Jean-Philippe Toussaint Official Website
* Jean-Philippe Toussaint Information in English
* Jean-Philippe Toussaint's books @ Dalkey Archive
* 'Stabbing the Olive', Tom McCarthy on Jean-Philippe Toussaint @ LRB
* Jean-Philippe Tousaint's 'Zidane's Melancholy', a meditation on the headbutt
* 'About 5,000 Reasons to Read Jean-Philippe Toussaint'
* Jean-Philippe Toussaint interviewed @ WFtC
* Jean-Philippe Toussaint @ Facebook
Media asides
Excerpt: J-PT's' Faire l'amour, une lecture japonaise' (2:10)
Excerpt: JP-T's 'La Sevillane' (3:39)
J-PT visits the University of Rhode Island (2:36)
La cuisine de J-PT (4:39)
The book
'First published in France in 1985, The Bathroom was Jean-Philippe Toussaint's debut novel, and it heralded a new generation of innovative French literature. In this playful and perplexing book, we meet a young Parisian researcher who lives inside his bathroom. As he sits in his tub meditating on existence (and refusing to tell us his name), the people around him—his girlfriend, Edmondsson, the Polish painters in his kitchen—each in their own way further enables his peculiar lifestyle, supporting his eccentric quest for immobility. But an invitation to the Austrian embassy shakes up his stable world, prompting him to take a risk and leave his bathroom . . .' -- Dalkey ArchiveExcerpt
1. When I began to spend my afternoons in the bathroom I had no intention of moving into it; no, I would pass some pleasant hours there, meditating in the bathtub, sometimes dressed, other times naked. Edmondsson, who liked to be there with me, said it made me calmer: occasionally I would even say something funny, we would laugh. I would wave my arms as I spoke, explaining that the most practical bathtubs were those with parallel sides, a sloping back, and a straight front, which relieves the user of the need for a footrest.
2. Edmondsson thought there was something desiccating in my refusal to leave the bathroom, but this didn't stop her from making life easier for me, providing for the needs of the household by working part-time in an art gallery.
3. Around me were cupboards, towel racks, a bidet. The washbasin was white; a narrow shelf projected above it, and on the shelf lay toothbrushes and razors. The wall facing me, studded with lumps, showed cracks, and in places cavities pitted the lifeless paint. One crack seemed to be gaining ground. I spent hours staring at its extremities, vainly trying to surprise it in action. Sometimes I made other experiments. I would scrutinize the surface of my face in a pocket mirror and, at the same time, the movements of the hands on my watch. But my face let nothing show. Ever.
4. One morning I tore down the clothesline. I emptied all the cupboards and took everything off the shelves. After piling all the toilet articles into one large refuse bag, I began moving part of my library. When Edmondsson came home I greeted her book in hand, lying with my feet crossed up on the faucet.
5. Edmondsson finally alerted my parents.
6. Mom brought me pastries. Sitting on the bidet with the open box wedged between her legs, she arranged the pastries in a soup plate. I thought she seemed ill at ease, she'd been avoiding my eyes ever since she came in. She raised her head with a weary sadness, made as if to say something but didn't, picked out the eclair, and bit into it. You need some distraction, she told me, sports, I don't know. She wiped the corners of her mouth with her glove. There's something suspicious about the need to be diverted, I replied. When I added, almost smiling, that there was nothing I feared less than diversions, she saw there was no use arguing with me and, mechanically, held out a napoleon.
7. Twice a week I would listen to the radio broadcast of the day's play for the French soccer championship. The program lasted two hours. From a studio in Paris the announcer would orchestrate the voices of the reporters covering the matches in the different stadiums. Believing that soccer gains in the imagining, I never missed these dates. Lulled by warm human voices, I would listen to their reports with the lights off, sometimes with my eyes closed.
8. A friend of my parents was passing through Paris and came to see me. From him I learned it was raining. Stretching out an arm toward the washbasin, I suggested he take a towel. Best the yellow, the other one was dirty. He dried his hair carefully and at length. I didn't know what he wanted from me. When the silence had begun to seem permanent, he told me the latest about his professional activities, explaining that the difficulties he had to contend with were insurmountable since they were linked to incompatibilities of temperament among persons at the same hierarchical level. Fiddling nervously with my towel, he strode up and down alongside the bathtub and, fired by his words, became more and more intransigent. He began to threaten and vociferate. In the end he accused Lacour of irresponsibility. I am trying to do the impossible, he said, the impossible! And nobody gives a damn.
9. I dressed very simply: tan cotton trousers, a blue shirt, and a solid tie. The fabric fit my body so becomingly that, fully dressed, I looked powerfully, elegantly muscular. I lay down, relaxed, eyes shut. I thought about a White Lady—the dessert—a scoop of vanilla ice cream with a coat of scalding chocolate poured over. I'd been thinking about it for some weeks. From a scientific point of view (I'm not a food enthusiast), I saw this combination as a glimpse of perfection. A Mondrian, Unctuous chocolate on iced vanilla, hot and cold, substance and fluidity. Imbalance and rigor, exactitude. Chicken, despite my deep affection for it, cannot compare. No. And I was just about to fall asleep when Edmondsson came into the bathroom, spun around, and held out two letters. One of them was from the Austrian embassy. I opened it with a comb. Edmondsson, who was reading over my shoulder, pointed to my name on the invitation. Knowing neither Austrians nor diplomats, I said it was probably a mistake.
10. Seated on the edge of the bathtub, I was explaining to Edmondsson that perhaps it was not very healthy, at age twenty-seven going on twenty-nine, to live more or less shut up in a bathtub. I ought to take some risk, I said, looking down and stroking the enamel of the bathtub, the risk of compromising the quietude of my abstract life for... I did not finish my sentence.
11. The next day I left the bathroom.
----
*
p.s. Hey. Monday's promise of newness is always kind of nice. ** 'Stoopid Slapped Puppies', You can be my WC advisor. In fact, presto-change-o ... you are. I'll try to say draw not tie. Football instead of soccer is hard given my American association of that word with the world's most boring, lunkheaded sport, but I'll try. I've tried saying foot like French people do, but it makes me feel like a wannabe. So, who's your team? England, Spain, or a surprise? I think I need to find a new one because mine (France, Holland) are going to wipe out, I guess. Most writers don't read their work very interestingly. Kathy Acker was great at it. Awesome about the readings and maybe zine through the Valencia bookshop, clearly. And, yeah, turn those skate shop events into a worldly or Parisian thing at least. Oh, I was going to say something about your post, but, hm, I suddenly realize I should do that on your blog and not way over here. Bad habit. Watch for it. Later, gator. ** David Ehrenstein, Your filling a FaBlog post with a wordless stack of Godard trailers was strangely or maybe not so strangely moving. Oh, I'm excited because the long awaited new film ('L'Illusionist') by Sylvain Chomet, who made the exquisite 'Triplets of Belleville', opens here on Wednesday, and its screenplay is a never filmed script by Jacques Tati, all of which just sounds so potentially amazing. ** Bernard Welt, Oh, well, there you go, or rather there I didn't go. The impossible meeting happened. I can't believe I never saw or don't remember that episode, having been a devotee of both series as a sprout. Film and sex theory ... like what? ** Stan_cz, Hey. Un-nice trip line up actually since all I want to do right now but hold up and finish my novel. But I shouldn't complain. Yeah, Compton-Burnett is a singular and far, far too scarcely read and discussed god. Mm, I'm not sure re: the medical advice. The Ear Clinic sounds about right. When I hear the word clinic, I think not that expensive, but I don't know. You don't have a phone, right? 'Cos I'd say call the clinic and see what their prices are, I guess? Sorry, I wish I knew more. ** Frank Jaffe, That Japanese joint does sound super special. I would basically just have to order dessert, I guess, unless they have vegetable tempura. That's my Japanese restaurant saving grace. You leave tomorrow, right? Are you taking a ton of luggage? ** Ken Baumann, Hey, Ken! Thanks re: the post. If only novels were as easy to sneak secret messages into and/or decode or rather over-decode as Subway ads. That's my dream. Okay, I'll try the Bansky doc with the widest eyes possible. Sorry about your cold. Summer colds are somehow the worst. My novel with the lowest word count would definitely be 'Period'. I don't remember the exact word count, but it was low, poetry book low. Why do you ask? ** Sypha, Tomorrow's 'Imperial Bedroom' day in the USA, eh? God knows when the France will get its and my chance. Its shortness just makes me more excited, but you know my appetite. You'll probably be the first d.l. to get through it. Do keep us in the loop. ** Oscar B, Dumbo's really sad, yeah. Sadder than Bambi, if you ask me. Nice day outside, eh? What are you up to? ** Dorna, Hey, pal. I think I'm just diligent and obsessive in some particular way, and, as a consequence, all of us get a lucky break. My novel would beg to disagree. I watched a bit of that Guyotat interview -- thank you! --and French fluent Yury helpfully deigned to watch a bit of the bit with me, but he said that not knowing Guyotat's work, I probably understood it as well as he did. It stopped raining and the sky is sterling silver. I really miss LA. ** JW Veldhoen, Wowzer, am I glad I brought up your hand the other day. That was fruitful. I'm going to try to do things like that more often. My hands are just hands -- biggish, semi-piano fingered, chewed nails, obedient enough. ** Sisimao, Wait ... Sissy Mao! I get it! Nice one. ** Alan, Yeah, really great if the post comes together. I'll be happy. Wow, really gorgeous review of Kristina Born's novel. I wouldn't know how to tackle that book as a reviewer. Well, now I do. Love your thing about its slide from channel surfing to crisis. Key and brilliant. Also very cool to see you writing for The Rumpus. Yeah, very cool, very beautiful, Alan. Everyone, writer/blog auteur/etc./d.l. Alan has reviewed Kristina Born's 'One Hour of Television', one of my very favorite novels of last year, on the Rumpus, and you should read what Alan wrote, 'cos it's very sharp and pretty, and read the novel itself too, actually. But, first things first, here's the review. ** Amccartney, Hey, Alistair. I really hope to get to LA this summer. That's a plan. I'm just trying to get my schedule figured out so I can. Like I said, we're going to apply for a tourist visa for Yury and, ha ha, come together during his work vacation, if possible. If not, I'll come solo. Yeah, I'm in the same state of knowing the basics of my novel by heart thanks in my case to relentless rereading and fiddling. I fall asleep every night to the turnings and tweakings of its narratives. I'd love to reread 'Catcher in the Rye' ere long. I agree that it's one of the truly unparalleled novels. Hey to Tim, and much love to you both, and I hope I'll get to finally see you before too, too long. ** Misanthrope, Oh, I think the subliminal messages and backmasking thing is just a lot of super fun poppycock. I definitely think you can hide things, and they can sneak into a viewer/ reader/ listener, and my novels are packed with such things, but I don't think we unknowingly listen or read backwards and forwards at the same time or whatever. No, I'm not interested in writing my memoir. You know I wanted to write my autobiography with a ghost writer like Michael Jordan or whoever at one point, but no publisher was interested. I don't really think I could think of someone who could write my biography particularly well. I doubt I'd have a choice even if such an unlikely thing were to happen. I still want to write my book about George Miles. I think you know I applied for grant to do it, but I got turned down. I don't know how I'll ever be able to do it the way I want. It's not like there's any money or all that much interest out there in the idea. I will, though, someday and somehow. ** L@rstonovich, I had a sprained big toe once. That shit hurts and debilitates big time. It's not as comical as it sounds. Man, sorry, big guy. You don't have to smoke your stuff in public in Amsterdam if you don't want. You can just score. ** Syreearmwellion, Hey. That Kindle thing on your blog is awesome. Everyone, that link is recommended. I'll scroll down and read the new poems when my hands are more free than they are right now. You and I have the same 'kicks' sources except my cigarettes are just Camel Wide Lights. Manson was the musical advisor on 'Lost Highway'. Problem for me. I find his stuff superficial, samey, and too blatant. Plus, I could easily live happily and forever without ever looking at that make-up job and contac lens again. You'd think he had them tattooed on or something. ** Postitbreakup, If I weren't gay but rather just an ass- and floppy hair-fetishist, that would explain a lot. What to write about? Always the thing that's most fucking you up and scaring and fascinating you at the time. That's my way anyway. Your shit story? Hm, I'm blanking out, sorry, The p.s. does that to me. Where was it, and how would I have read it? Your Lego bin, dang, I should have guessed! Well, should I take your sort of advice and skip your last two comments? Hm. It's hard to know what to say other than I'm so sorry that the situation is causing you such suffering. I mean, there's a perfect example of why it's so not a great idea to develop more than friendship feelings for someone who's straight. He wants the casual if close, sometimes flakey if inherently reliable friendship with you that he seeks and needs from guys, and the mixing and matching of priorities that come with his notion of friendship clash with his status as your top priority. You can't compete with his girlfriend no matter what you do, and if that Rich guy now seems like interesting or fun company to him, you can't force your dislike into Rich into his head and priorities. Friends go with the flow and roll with the punches, and that's what he wants from you, and I don't think there's much you can do about that, really. Yours is a really hard situation to be in, and, if you want to stay close with him, I think your only option is to come to peace with the fact that this is who he is now. I'm sorry, man. ** Paul Curran, As I'm sure I've mentioned here before. I had my name legally changed from SEX, BLOOD, DEATH, FUCK to Dennis Cooper when I was three years-old. Regrets, I've had a few. Painful for England, whoo hoo for the USA! Not that I'm rooting for the USA. Not that I'm not either. Any team but Germany. I hate the German team for some reason. And the Italian team too, those Zidane killing cry babies. ** Steevee, If only life were like a paranormal investigation TV show, sigh. ** Bill, Hey, or rather yeh. I don't foresee the 14th being overly frantic for me. What's done will be done by them. I'll just be doing whatever Avignonians do on Bastille Day, meaning not a whole lot, probably, so that should be A-okay. ** Oliver, Hey, Oliver! Great to see you. Yeah, totally, it's the minds of the messages' discoverers that's the truly interesting part. Deconstructing that need to search is where the really fun part begins, for me at least. You saw 'Trash Humpers', lucky you. I keep looking for it to open over here, but there's just no sign so far. You good? What's new? ** _Black_Acrylic, You mean you'd rather not create negative energy with a bad review? That's understandable, if so. I'm assuming it wasn't a dislikable enough event to be an affront to your sense of right and wrong or something so irksome that you feel it needs to be put in its proper low place or whatever. ** Steven Trull, Wouldn't you like to know. ** The Dreadful Flying Glove, Hey. That piece about Plaid is just wonderful. Due to my LA roommate/ best friend Joel's huge love of Plaid, I actually know the track 'Milh' by name and very well, well enough that I'm going to transfer it from my old iPod onto my iPhone and slap the headphones on myself not long after I dot this long paragraph's final i. Dude, that's a killer piece of writing and detective work there. I bow to you until my nose scrapes my keyboard. Everyone, if you retain even a smidgen of childlike wonder and were even mildly charmed by the weekend's post, you really, really need to read this post/piece of writing by one of our resident geniuses The Dreadful Flying Glove. Seriously, make it so. ** Inthemostpeculiarway, Well, one of the reasons the Water Wiggle died an early death was that, rather than flying magically and dangerously through air like in the commercials, it spent most of its time flopping around on the ground. Do Slip 'n' Slides still exist? They had their problems too, but none so fatal. Hopefully, the shower I will be taking just after I finish the p.s. will be my last shower taken in a cramped, flooding hell. But we'll see. Oh, that's kind of unnerving about everyone knowing about you and your guy but, I don't know, it's kind of nice in a way, isn't it? Sweet or something? And him making a public choice of you over the girlfriend is sweet too. Am I seeing sweetness where there is less? What do you think? You're such a night owl. Yury is too. I'm such an early bird trying to swipe the worm kind of guy. But the dead of night has its worms too, I'm sure. I hope your ear stops this all ringing and clogging nonsense. What does it think it is, a brain or something? My weekend: A whole bunch of novel work, of course. It was relentless and too slow moving, but, yeah, same old. I guess I must have gone out and bought food and cigarettes 'cos that just seems logical. I talked to this friend of mine Laurence who's translating the 'TIHYWD' texts into French for the subtitles, and I tried to help her figure out how to change some lines that are heavily reliant on English language tricks and associations, and I think she decided on a solution, although I think it's going to ruin my little language tricks, which is sad, but can't be helped, I guess. On Sunday, Oscar and I walked to the Centre Pompidou to see this new show there called 'Dreamlands' about utopian architecture (theme parks, Las Vegas, Dubai, etc.) and it was the best art show I've seen in a long time, so that was cool. I'd forgotten to buy enough food for the weekend on Saturday so, on my way back, I tried the few supermarkets that are always open on Sunday, but none of them were open for some crazy weekend. So, I was fucked. Then I remembered that when Yury and I moved back to Recollets a year and a half ago, I'd used this microwavable pack of rice as packing material because it was like a little pillow, and I had just put it on a shelf here absentmindedly, and it was very dusty, but I ripped it open just in case, and the rice was still totally fine, which is creepy, so I microwaved it and dumped some cheese and vegieburger stuff in it, and I did not go hungry as I'd feared I would. Worked some more. Did some blog post-related stuff. Watched some World Cup on TV. Talked to a couple of friends, made plans to meet up this week. I got about five calls within the course of two hours from a blocked number, and I didn't answer them 'cos blocked numbers make me suspicious, and whoever called didn't leave a voice message, so I hope it wasn't Vincent Kartheiser or someone from the Nobel Prize committee or something. Oh, I think that's quite enough of my weekend. Everything else was even more trivial. How were your ear and day today? ** Joseph, You doing the World Cup experience? I'm mostly just doing it because everybody here can hardly talk about anything else right now. Congrats on the place to live! What a relief! DC's first straight friendly gay bar?! Wtf! First? The others have a no entering without flouncing policy? Never heard of such a thing. Weird. Here? Just work work work, mostly. When I'm working on a novel, my life becomes simultaneously less boring to think about and more boring to describe. Funny, that. ** Creative Massacre, Ah, you'll get to France before too, too long. I can feel it. Never seen 'Weeds', no. Know about it, wish I could watch it. The thing is, I hate watching things on my laptop because I basically live 90% of my life looking at it, and our TV is so primitive you can't even plug a DVD player into it. Sucks to be me when it comes to TV. Nice to see you, buddy. ** Justin, I did do a day on them before, but it was probably before most of the d.l.s around here were born. I mean before your d.l. parts were born. You sent me the story? Cool, I'll go find it. Thanks! I never saw 'Bruno'. It seemed meh. I've never watched 'True Blood'. Has it gotten better or something? I remember when it started everyone I know was saying it was watchable but meh. ** You-x, I'm okay at multi-tasking, it turns out. Yeah, I have friends/ couples who break up for fractions of a second all the time. I guess it's exciting or something. I usually don't break up with people until we do. I'll try the Beach House album again but loud. It sounded kind of uninvigorated, and maybe volume was the issue. Oh, I think the subliminal messages stuff is just a blast, basically. I suppose their effect is kind of transcendent of dumb thrilldom since I eat them up. They just seem like little magic tricks to me, or like magic tricks crossed with gag gifts. Plus, I'm sure they key into my big interest in writing encoded fiction. In that sense, they're utopian, I guess. If only encoding were that easy, or something. I don't know. Chuffed to see you, man. ** Changeling, Hey. Oh, I read your new piece, and I'll, like, leave a comment over there. I was going to do that here, but then I realized this morning that's kind of like an atheist praying. Wow, that made no sense at all. When I get to the bottom of the p.s., I sometimes get kind of loopy. Your tardiness is not a problem, rest assured. Worrying about that is like ... an atheist praying, ha ha. No, seriously, I'll just be pleased at whatever point you send it along. The doll clip: at the very end, it seems to speak an actual sentence. I can't hear what it is. That's the kick, if there is one, I guess. All right, I'll take my loopiness onwards now. ** David, You didn't miss the boat, but you did catch me after I became a space case. I only watched some clips from 'The Informers' movie, so I don't know, although the clips just seemed wrong wrong wrong to me. Completely wrong tone for something that was hoping to do Ellis' work justice. But I don't know. Ellis thought it was crap, if that means anything. ** Okay, I'm going to go find some outdoors. Today the blog has its sights on what I believe to be a most charming book. Up to you now. See you tomorrow.
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