June 26, 2011 § 1 Comment
Now reading: Hopscotch, by Julio Cortázar (trans. by Gregory Rabassa).
In his brief, iconic, and tricksy “Table of Instructions,” Cortázar suggests that there are “two books above all” to be read in Hopscotch: a normal, linear reading of the first 56 chapters, and a second reading which incorporates the later section of chapters “From Diverse Sides,” reading chapters in a non-linear sequence denoted at the end of each chapter (“hopscotching” around the book, so to speak).
Because I am a rather obsessive reader, I’ve chosen to follow both sets of instructions, first reading the linear novel, then going back and reading the second way. (In fact, this seems to be the only way to read the entire text without “cheating” on the instructions, as one chapter is left out of the second sequence.)
“Instructions” is an interesting word here. Hypertext, and other associated experimental literary forms, have come to be associated with a rebellion against the linearity of reading, and a way to democratize (at least partially) the relationship between author and reader. That doesn’t seem to be Cortázar’s primary motivation in Hopscotch, since the non-linear path through the novel is prescribed (and remains a matter of reading the linear novel sequentially with “expendable” chapters mixed in); rather, it is a matter of form following content, the serious play of hopscotch in the novel reflected in the reader’s hops over its pages, attempting to move the “pebble” of understanding from one “square” to another.
There is also the matter of shaking readers out of ossified patterns of reading and being, and this, too, seems to be important to Cortázar. Chapter 34 is an excellent example: it is read on two parallel tracks of alternating lines, with the text of a traditional, realist novel by Benito Pérez Galdós intertwined with the thoughts of its reader, Horacio Oliveira. It’s a brilliant technique, with the reader finding a way into the text after some minutes (at least in my case) of trying to understand how to make sense of what seems a mess of garbled noise. The reader then hops from line to line, experiencing the transfigured text through the eyes of an unsympathetic reader, who is reading it for clues about what made it interesting to its original owner, Horacio’s lover La Maga.
In this way, the chapter seems utterly new and refreshing while also reaching back to the earliest forms of what might be considered proto-hypertext, the glosses, commentaries, and cross-references of sacred texts in the Judeo-Christian tradition. In this tradition, the interpretation often overwhelmed the text itself, arranged around the edge of the pages (as here), just as the text here is less important than Oliveira’s gloss upon it, and his attempt to understand La Maga and his life with her (although the read text’s status as a work of canonical Spanish literature remains fundamental). The collapsing of traditional experiences of literary time and space that is embodied in this chapter — one text is read, then another text is read to interpret that one, and one proceeds from one line to the next in linear fashion — is fundamental to Cortázar’s explorations of human experiences of time in the novel.
And of course, as one is reading this and other chapters of Hopscotch, other texts are evoked and echoed. That the Hamlet and Ophelia are inescapable reference points for Horacio and La Maga, that Homer and Joyce are frequently brought to mind, and that Borges hovers like a patron saint deepens the reader’s sense of skipping across a complicated, playful pattern of texts. But then there are echoes from the future, too: Roberto Bolaño’s Savage Detectives springs to mind, and the complicated play of networked texts, electronic literature. That field would surely be important to Cortázar, as a response to the following rumination in the first chapter (chapter 73) of the hopscotched text:
How often I wonder whether this is only writing, in an age in which we run towards deception through infallible equations and conformity machines. But to ask one’s self if we will know how to find the other side of habit or if it is better to let one’s self be borne along by its happy cybernetics, is that not literature again?
July 8, 2009 § Leave a comment
Finished long ago: Autonauts of the Cosmoroute.
Reading now: Only Revolutions, by Mark Z. Danielewski.
I’ve been traveling a lot this spring and summer (hence my very, very intermittent posts) — some for work, some for fun. Autonauts of the Cosmoroute is a great travel book, although it’s made me itch to do the kind of travel I rarely get to anymore: the unhurried, meditative, purposefully digressive kind. (Only Revolutions, which so far as I’ve been able to glean is more or less a centuries-long allegorical road trip to no particular place, is not really helping to ease this itch, either. Come to think of it, The Savage Detectives was also singularly unhelpful.)
In Autonauts, Julio Cortázar and his wife Carol Dunlop spend a month in a VW camper van driving down the French “autoroute,” stopping at every rest stop along the way, two per day, and doing nothing else — seeing “the other autoroute,” the one that does not exist for those who just use it as a means of quickest-possible transport. It’s the book’s playful, idiosyncratic, and finally bittersweet tone that makes it such a great read. It’s made up of photos and captions, “travel logs” of meals eaten, “observations” made of the rest stop flora and fauna, short essays on the nature of travel and time and dreams and their journey, and flights of fancy in the style of a scientific expedition.
(A digression: I’ve always wanted to travel around the country and live out of a homey little camper. When I was maybe 13 or 14 I read Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley mostly because I found the idea of traveling around in an apartment-truck with your dog more or less irresistible — and the section of the book about Steinbeck getting his truck ready is one of the few things I still remember about it. That was before I — or most people, really — thought about MPGs or carbon offsetting.)
It’s a book purporting to document the science of travel, but really it’s very much about an art: the art of memory. If we think of the historical art of memory as Frances Yates examined it, with its imaginary theatres and palaces filled with rooms of memories, travel is like a kind of very elaborate landscaping: the decoration upon which the inhabitants of the palace gaze. Isn’t travel a kind of device for making and recovering memories? We all remember vividly our favorite vacations, road trips, destinations. And while we’re traveling, can’t we see more perfectly than when we inhabit them our homes, and don’t we recall incidents from our lives with greater clarity?
I don’t know about you, but I also remember what I read when I travel much better than things I only read at home. It must be something about being mentally absorbed in a different place, in unusual surroundings. Some of my favorite memories are of reading something I love elsewhere: Ray Bradbury on a boat, Tom Jones in a Danish restaurant. My choice of reading material always seems more important to me if I’m going on a trip.