Existentialism places the emphasis on feelings and emotions, the very crux of our human condition, precisely why this modern European philosophy finds its clearest expression not in abstract ideas, reason or logic but in literature, particularly the novel.
If you begin reading an existential novel, you will quickly come upon at least one character confronting such things as isolation, dread, alienation, nothingness, the absurd.
A Man Asleep certainly qualifies as an existential novel since the main character, a twenty-five year old male student living in a Paris apartment, must deal with all of the above. Additionally, Georges Perec has created something I've not encountered previously - an existential novel written in intimate second person.
Intimate because the "you" the narrator speaks to is not only the young student in the story but also you the reader. After all, each of us has had the student's experience of going to sleep, hearing the alarm in the morning, fixing coffee, reading a book, taking a walk, solving a puzzle, watching a film.
Ah, fixing one's morning coffee and going out for a brisk walk - life doesn't get any more ordinary. And since existentialism thrives in the atmosphere of the particular rather than the general, the specific rather than the abstract, I'll maintain an existential spirit and share a closer look at Georges' short novel (under 100 pages) by linking my observations with individual passages:
"As soon as you close your eyes, the adventure of sleep begins."
Adventure? When we think of someone embarking on an adventure, we usually think in terms of a "colorful" adventure, more exciting, provocative ups then sombre, dark, shadowy downs. It only takes the first pages for us to register this Georges Perec tale contains more shadows than color.
"You are a man of leisure, a sleepwalker, a mollusc. The definitions vary according to the hour of the day, or the day of the week, but the meaning remains clear enough: you do not really feel cut out for living, for doing, for making; you want only to go on, to go on waiting, and to forget."
We're given the distinct impression the Parisian student desires nothing more than to crawl up in his shell and have the outside world go away. Is the student dealing with a form of what we now recognize as clinical depression? If so, then what follows as the tale unfolds will be judged, in part, as a medical issue, in addition to a psychological or existential one.
Georges Perec, Jacques Spiesser and Bernard Queysanne on the set of The Man Who Sleeps (Un homme qui dort), the 1974 film based on Georges' 1967 novel A Man Asleep.
"You often play cards all by yourself. You deal out bridge hands, you try to solve the weekly problems in Le Monde, but you are no better than mediocre and your plays lack elegance: no subtlety in the squeeze, in the discards, in getting in and out of the dummy."
One of the ongoing central issues of European culture stretching back to the 19th century - boredom. German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer wrote extensively that playing cards is one way people inclined to boredom will kill time. To "kill time" - this is the actual language the narrator uses when speaking of the student. According to Schopenhauer, the wise man will "use time"; the dullard will "kill time."
Sidebar: I recall my own feelings of boredom in my early teens. But once I went off to college and was introduced to philosophy and the great philosophers, my imagination caught fire and my intellectual boundaries were expanded such that never once in the ensuing fifty years have I ever been bored.
"Time passes, you are drowsy. You put down the open book beside you on the bed. Everything is vague, throbbing. Your breathing is astonishing regular. A tiny, black insect, quite possibly unreal, opens up an undreamt-of breach in the labyrinth of cracks in the ceiling."
Interestingly enough, the student's visual exploration of the ceiling provides a glimpse of a book Georges Perec would go on to write some years later, Species of Spaces. In Species, Georges encourages us to employ our powers of perception, our imagination, our fancy in a dynamic interaction with the spaces we inhabit.
"You pay, you pocket the change, you sit down, you eat. You take a copy of Le Monde from the top of its pile and place two twenty-centime coins in the vendor's dish. you never say please, hello, thank you, goodbye. You never say sorry. You do not ask your way."
There's a strong irony working in our modern society - among denizens of large cities like the student's Paris, feelings of isolation are all too common. So many faces close enough to reach out and touch, but, alas, all are strangers. Added to this, the student lacks any inclination to make even the barest gesture of politeness or kindness.
"Indifference dissolves language and scrambles the signs. You are patient and you are not waiting, you are free and you do not choose, you are available and nothing arouses your enthusiasm. You ask for nothing. You demand nothing, you make no impositions."
I hear an echo of Jean-Paul Sartre's emphasis on freedom as a supreme value, most vibrant when we make our choices. But what happens to our freedom when we're overwhelmed by the hum of passivity, of indifference, when absolutely nothing, neither outside stimulus nor internal spark of emotion, inspires us to do anything more than blankly stare down at the coffee in our cup?
"It is one ceaseless and untiring circumambulation. You walk like someone carrying invisible suitcases, like someone following his own shadow. A blind man, a sleepwalker. You proceed with a mechanical tread, neverendingly, to the point where you even forget that you are walking."
This passage provides us with an expanded understanding of what it means for a man to be asleep - mechanically plodding about devoid of awareness, a mindless repetition of going through the motions, the exact opposite of a creative literary artist touched by the muse. From what I glean from Georges Perec's biography, he had his gray, sluggish periods and certainly knew both ends of the spectrum from first-hand experience.
"Three-quarters of your body has taken refuge in your head; your heart has taken up residence in your eyebrow where it now feels quite at home, where it is beating like a living creature, albeit, perhaps, at the very most, a little too quickly."
Unfortunately, the three-quarters of the body taking refuge in the head back in 1967 has increased to nine-tenths today. Alienation from one's body has become a greater issue, even a monumental issue, with a huge chunk of the population relying on opioids, sleeping pills, adderall, prozac, blood pressure pills, the list goes on and on. Georges Perec's words here amount to a clear description of someone completely cut off from achieving what the ancient Greek philosophers termed ataraxia, that is, an ability to rest in our human embodiment (tranquil abiding) and take delight in simply being alive.
A Man Asleep is a modern classic written by a master of the craft. I've only touched on the surface and only in a handful of spots, at that. I urge you to pick up a copy and explore the depths.
French author Georges Perec, 1936-1982
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