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The Last Days
The Last Days is Raymond Queneau's autobiographical novel of Parisian student life in the 1920s: Vincent Tuquedenne tries to reconcile his love for reading with the sterility of studying as he hopes to study his way out of the petite bourgeoisie to which he belongs. Vincent and his generation are contrasted with an older generation of retired teachers and petty crooks, and both generations come under the bemused gaze of the waiter Alfred, whose infallible method of predicting the future mocks prevailing scientific models. Similarly, Queneau's literary universe operates under its own laws, joining rigorous artistry with a warm evocation of the last days of a bygone era.
250 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1936
About the author
Raymond Queneau
192 books523 followersNovelist, poet, and critic Raymond Queneau, was born in Le Havre in 1903, and went to Paris when he was 17. For some time he joined André Breton's Surrealist group, but after only a brief stint he dissociated himself. Now, seeing Queneau's work in retrospect, it seems inevitable. The Surrealists tried to achieve a sort of pure expression from the unconscious, without mediation of the author's self-aware "persona." Queneau's texts, on the contrary, are quite deliberate products of the author's conscious mind, of his memory, and his intentionality.
Although Queneau's novels give an impression of enormous spontaneity, they were in fact painstakingly conceived in every small detail. He even once remarked that he simply could not leave to hazard the task of determining the number of chapters of a book. Talking about his first novel, Le Chiendent (usually translated as The Bark Tree), he pointed out that it had 91 sections, because 91 was the sum of the first 13 numbers, and also the product of two numbers he was particularly fond of: 7 and 13.
Although Queneau's novels give an impression of enormous spontaneity, they were in fact painstakingly conceived in every small detail. He even once remarked that he simply could not leave to hazard the task of determining the number of chapters of a book. Talking about his first novel, Le Chiendent (usually translated as The Bark Tree), he pointed out that it had 91 sections, because 91 was the sum of the first 13 numbers, and also the product of two numbers he was particularly fond of: 7 and 13.
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July 2, 2018
Raymond Queneau
In the 1920s Raymond Queneau went to Paris for his final days of formal education. He kept a detailed journal of his time there and in 1936 he wrote this autobiographical novel based on those years as a student in Paris. Times had changed. In 1936 the threat of imminent war hung over Europe, and so even though he was writing about relatively carefree student days in Paris the tinge of the times he was experiencing in 1936 had an influence on the novel. Calling the 1920s The Last Days I think definitely indicates the state of mind of not only Queneau, but the French people in general. They were starting to understand that the The War to End all Wars was going to be indicated with a roman numeral very soon.
Monsieur Brabbant and Monsier Tolut are standing together watching it rain. They are of the older generation represented in this novel. Both could be considered con men, but of different stripes. Brabbant is intent on achieving the big score by hook or by crook. Tolut is mired in guilt for all the years he taught school children geography and yet didn't know a blessed thing about the subject.
"You'd think it was oil, wouldn't you? Personally, I don't call this weather, I call it oil."
"What d'you expect--its been like this ever since the war. The shells have played havoc with the seasons. Think back to the prewar Octobers. There was real rain, then. And the sun, where there was sun, it was real sun. Whereas these days it's all mixed up--the dishcloths with the napkins and Christmas with Midsummer. These days there's nothing to tell you when to wear your overcoat or when to leave it off."
Vincent Tuquedenne our hero and the character representing the young Raymond Queneau arrives in Paris. He is very serious about reading, but not very serious about his studies. When Vincent Tuquedenne got off the Le Havre train he was shy, an individualist, an anarchist and an atheist. He didn't wear glasses he was shortsighted, and he was letting his hair grow in order to display his opinions. All this had come to him from reading books, a lot of books, an enormous amount of books.
Vincent has friends, but he does not seek them out. He doesn't mind people he just prefers books. His head is permanently clouded with ideas and his friends misinterpret his impression of them.
And Turquedenne?
Oh him! We don't see him much these days. We only meet him by chance. And then he looks down on us from the heights of his grandeur. No kidding. We are only poor unfortunate medical students, whereas he reads Saint Thomas in Latin and knows which way up to look at a cubist painting. It's obvious; you can see why he despises us. In truth, Turquedenne has his own issues. He can't get laid. He doesn't seem to understand the concept of wooing. He feels that romantic love is a cosmic event where his presence is all that is necessary for a woman to fall into his arms. He also inexplicably fails his first exams.
Alfred is by far my favorite character in the book. He is a waiter who has spent an enormous amount of time conceiving a system involving the planets that will allow him to successfully retrieve his family money that was squandered at the race track by his father. He does provide help to the slippery Monsieur Brabbant also know as Martin-Martin. Whenever Brabbant dreams a new scheme he races over to Alfred for guidance.
The older generations, as they begin to attend the funerals of their contemporaries, naturally, become obsessed with dying and the afterlife. Queneau uses their maudlin state of mind to explore what comes next.
Let me tell you, monsieur, that while hell may perhaps exist heaven certainly does not exist.
That's very sad, what you've just said.
Sad but true.
I wonder how you came to think such things.
My whole life has led me think that. What if I was mistaken though? What if, on the other hand, my whole life...You think it exists, heaven? I'm asking you as man to man, I'm asking you for an honest answer.
It doesn't exist.
The novel explores the generational rift exposing the thorns of the older generation and the uncertainty of the younger generation. This novel can be read on many different levels. You can read it as a novel of philosophical ideas or you can read it as a pleasant autobiographical novel of a bright young man coming of age in Paris. I can tell the book will gain weight with each reread. It has certainly inspired me to read more Raymond Queneau. I also find the pictures that Queneau had taken below to be...intriguing.
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August 8, 2023
4,5
Где философия может встретиться с пародией и насмешкой? На страницах данного романа Раймона Кено, имевшего диплом по философии и имевшего возможность рассуждать на философские темы профессионально. Сам роман имеет некие автобиографические черты студенческой жизни в Париже. Винсент Тюкден приехал учиться, поставил цель выучить несколько мертвых и живых языков, он много читает.
Однажды Тюкден сидел на площади. Иногда проезжала машина, иногда проходил пешеход, какие-то люди что--то делали: курили, читали газету. "Конечно, ни одна из этих вещей сама по себе не имела смысла, и всем им, проходя через становление, суждено было погибнуть. Разве это не была их реальность? Разве не зависела она не от чего иного, как от них самих? В чем же была их реальность? Из чего состояла их реальность? Было ли это Бытие или Существо? Если бытие представляет собой реальность вещей, то почему же этих вещей не было (ведь обреченность больше-не-быть не есть бытие)? Если это Существо, то почему оно множественно? Отчего все-таки существуют вещи и отчего они должны погибать?"
Люди и вещи на площади изменили свое положение - ребенок заплакал, старик пошел к скамейке, хозяин кафе зевнул... Тюкден растрогался несуществование вещей. "Как их спасти? Да, как можно спасти вещи? Как вырвать их из ничего, как избавить от Бытия? Как придать частному смысл бытия в самом себе? Как придать мгновенному характер и становления, и вечности?" (В философии становление — переход от одной определенности бытия к другой. Все существующее является становящимся, а его бытие и есть становление.)
Тюкден вспоминает о переписанных афоризмах Гете и ведёт с ним мысленный диалог:
"— Проникнуть хочешь в бесконечность — конечное познай со всех сторон. Жизнь новую в глобальном видеть хочешь? Сумей глобальное узреть в ничтожно малом."
— Я не против, — ответил Тюкден. — Но когда ничтожно малое исчезнет, в чем я увижу глобальное?
— Ищи же смысл там, где жизнь есть радость жизни, — сказал Гёте. — Так, прошлое свой продолжает ход; опередив себя, грядущее течет, мгновенье вечно!
— Это то, что мне нужно! Прошлое свой продолжает ход… опередив себя, грядущее течет… — это и есть становление в том виде, в каком его проходят согласно законам разума. Мгновенье вечно: как это?
— Учителем я не был никому, — отвечал Гёте, — освободителем назвать себя рискну. И мой пример поведает вполне, что должен изнутри вовне лежать путь жизни человека, как и художника стезя."
Почему сущее должно погибать, если оно непреложно? Зачем нужно становление?
Если становление неизбежно, выходит, Бытие от него зависит? Если сущее есть, то почему оно подвергается становлению? А если оно подвергается становлению, то почему его нет?
Облик площади опять изменился - дети продолжали играть, старик набил трубку, пешеходы куда-то торопились.
Но не подумайте, что в книге слишком много философии. Она достаточно беллетризована. Она состоит из нескольких заметок, с несколькими сюжетными линиями. Помимо Винсента, есть ещё линии с Толю, старым учителем географии, мучившимся неверной идеей, что он лгал учащимся, потому что не путешествовал, подменивая понятия путешествие и география, как наука. Фабьена и Браббант... Роэль и Сюз... Сюжетная линия со старым официантом, чей отец разорился на ставках на лошадей, и который поставил цель "вернуть" проигранные им деньги с учётом процентов и инфляции, разработав сложную систему математических расчетов, учитывающих определенное множество факторов от физических параметров лошадей до астрологических параметров планет, поддерживает читателя в тонусе интереса.
Те, кто любит Париж, с удовольствием отметят атмосферу города, этих кафе, бистро, улиц, метро.
Где философия может встретиться с пародией и насмешкой? На страницах данного романа Раймона Кено, имевшего диплом по философии и имевшего возможность рассуждать на философские темы профессионально. Сам роман имеет некие автобиографические черты студенческой жизни в Париже. Винсент Тюкден приехал учиться, поставил цель выучить несколько мертвых и живых языков, он много читает.
Однажды Тюкден сидел на площади. Иногда проезжала машина, иногда проходил пешеход, какие-то люди что--то делали: курили, читали газету. "Конечно, ни одна из этих вещей сама по себе не имела смысла, и всем им, проходя через становление, суждено было погибнуть. Разве это не была их реальность? Разве не зависела она не от чего иного, как от них самих? В чем же была их реальность? Из чего состояла их реальность? Было ли это Бытие или Существо? Если бытие представляет собой реальность вещей, то почему же этих вещей не было (ведь обреченность больше-не-быть не есть бытие)? Если это Существо, то почему оно множественно? Отчего все-таки существуют вещи и отчего они должны погибать?"
Люди и вещи на площади изменили свое положение - ребенок заплакал, старик пошел к скамейке, хозяин кафе зевнул... Тюкден растрогался несуществование вещей. "Как их спасти? Да, как можно спасти вещи? Как вырвать их из ничего, как избавить от Бытия? Как придать частному смысл бытия в самом себе? Как придать мгновенному характер и становления, и вечности?" (В философии становление — переход от одной определенности бытия к другой. Все существующее является становящимся, а его бытие и есть становление.)
Тюкден вспоминает о переписанных афоризмах Гете и ведёт с ним мысленный диалог:
"— Проникнуть хочешь в бесконечность — конечное познай со всех сторон. Жизнь новую в глобальном видеть хочешь? Сумей глобальное узреть в ничтожно малом."
— Я не против, — ответил Тюкден. — Но когда ничтожно малое исчезнет, в чем я увижу глобальное?
— Ищи же смысл там, где жизнь есть радость жизни, — сказал Гёте. — Так, прошлое свой продолжает ход; опередив себя, грядущее течет, мгновенье вечно!
— Это то, что мне нужно! Прошлое свой продолжает ход… опередив себя, грядущее течет… — это и есть становление в том виде, в каком его проходят согласно законам разума. Мгновенье вечно: как это?
— Учителем я не был никому, — отвечал Гёте, — освободителем назвать себя рискну. И мой пример поведает вполне, что должен изнутри вовне лежать путь жизни человека, как и художника стезя."
Почему сущее должно погибать, если оно непреложно? Зачем нужно становление?
Если становление неизбежно, выходит, Бытие от него зависит? Если сущее есть, то почему оно подвергается становлению? А если оно подвергается становлению, то почему его нет?
Облик площади опять изменился - дети продолжали играть, старик набил трубку, пешеходы куда-то торопились.
Но не подумайте, что в книге слишком много философии. Она достаточно беллетризована. Она состоит из нескольких заметок, с несколькими сюжетными линиями. Помимо Винсента, есть ещё линии с Толю, старым учителем географии, мучившимся неверной идеей, что он лгал учащимся, потому что не путешествовал, подменивая понятия путешествие и география, как наука. Фабьена и Браббант... Роэль и Сюз... Сюжетная линия со старым официантом, чей отец разорился на ставках на лошадей, и который поставил цель "вернуть" проигранные им деньги с учётом процентов и инфляции, разработав сложную систему математических расчетов, учитывающих определенное множество факторов от физических параметров лошадей до астрологических параметров планет, поддерживает читателя в тонусе интереса.
Те, кто любит Париж, с удовольствием отметят атмосферу города, этих кафе, бистро, улиц, метро.
February 23, 2015
Queneau reenters the Paris of his youth, the 1920's, though the novel was written in 1936, taking us by the hand to not only relive those years with him through his protagonist but to learn past the humor of his smile, the cool distance of the nib of his pen, the chilling conclusions he reached about the reality he found around and within him.
Tagging along with fellow students to the cafes of Paris in the 20's, socially inept, vaulted into a shyness by a well honed self-castigation, he listens to the fury of conversation steaming about politics, science, philosophy, religion. His own belief, one seemingly found through a subtraction and dimunition of options, was that he could read and study his way through his difficulties and into life, into the courage of approaching attractive women, even touch and be touched. Instead he spent nights walking the streets, lonely. His studies are not demarcated by the goal of a degree but by the hope of gaining wisdom. Despite his constant reading his grades are poor. This Queneau engages a passivity rebuffing a world passing through its inane turns.
In the cafe where he and his fellow students hang out, drink, are a threesome of older men, and a waiter, Alfred. We watch them and others of this elderly faith return daily, the ritual circumventing death. Having found the cure they celebrate the successful passing of time. Since they have attended each day for years it is inconceivable they or others will not be there tomorrow. Time is passed in small crimes, small games, withdrawal, inner retribution for the past.
Standing back from all this is the waiter Alfred. Cooly, he has surpassed all the mythical plans to conquer chance, the billows of holy smoke, the bending calculations of physics, the branching developments of philosophy, the march of literature towards an undefined wisdom, to create a distance from the horrific war passed and avoidance of any such thing in the future. Through the knowledge and tracking of the planets movements, a mathematical calculus known only to him, he can predict the outcome of a horse race, the prospects for a swindle, a business venture. Helping certain others he takes no pride and little interest. His only goal is to someday get to the racetrack and win back the considerable amount of money his father gambled away. His predictions always right he knows what will happen. He knows about death, how life will unfold, unfazed. He has no desire to alter its course or may not be able to. Satisfied to watch the scurry of people around him in their self absorbed lives with its petty dramas and aspirations, knowing what he knows from a differing knowledge than those followed and esteemed. Even the chilled end.
Queneau captures his quiet protagonist, own self's, ascendancy His abilities of craft, a subtle precision unfolding over time builds our confidence, suspending our disbelief. He shows us through his recaptured twenty year old eyes the folly but also the intensity he injects into our pulsing veins, the lifelong reaching to attach oneself briefly, intellectually, creatively, spiritually, with the clamped salivation of a hungered pit bull, to an identity.
Seen, told, through a light buoyancy, smiled complacency bordering toward the territories of indifference, it underlines the sheer absurdity of humans ego status-driven attempts at breaking free of the circularity, where the unscarred dreams of the young ignited by theory, rampant discussion and argument, watches with indifference the old aging, dying, only to begin to fill their positions with treaded marches toward the security of conventional careers and the security of a life much fore told.
This exceptional work dealing with the largest of issues employs a cocksure dazzled handling of the weapons of humor, parody, satire sizzled to the correct heated degree. In his hands they spin like a legendary gunslinger. I can see how through the reading community this would be a 5 star book. However, for me it was entertaining and an interesting read. The philosophical overview and pinpoint observations-not lectured but always at the service of the novel-were thrown in free of charge as extras. This tone though has not worked for me in the past and it did not now. It is personal. My bias is for real life situations with all its grit and sweat, its calculations of the minute accumulating to reach the profound. So, I take 1 star off due to my personal preference.
I'm interested in reading more Queneau. His insight, talent are clearly marked here but thinned and tightened by an autobiographical restraint. Write what you know is better served here by allowing fiction its free reign in what it doesn't know or unwittingly realizes more.. When writing about such a significant time and experience in our lives we want to get it right, have others see and feel what we did and how it felt. It is only natural. A good writer will see this with the possible further debilitation of trying to correct it with pastiches and tack-ons. The waiter is such an example. A turn towards the purity of fiction would more likely bring forth the mood and actual feel of the times and Queneau's experiences.
Is this fair? The novel is obviously constructed and expressed with exceptional talent and expertise. In and of itself I can see where it is considered a 5 star effort. Seeing and acknowledging that, should it be punished do to my own reading preference? Is this the realm where stars rise and fall?
March 26, 2012
The Last Days is another fabulously good book by Raymond Queneau, who is fast becoming one of my favorite authors, and who I’m pretty sure can do anything he damn well wants with words, and does, though this one is a great deal more melancholy than others of his I’ve read, and this makes sense, as Queneau is writing semi-autobiographically about his own days as a university student in the 1920’s on the Left Bank of Paris (oh what a valentine this book is to post-WWI Paris!) and also because it is mainly dealing with two twilights: that of adolescence and that of old age. Queneau contrasts the lives of two groups of people (this is a book of doubles, and rhymes of character and incident- I didn’t make this discovery on my own through close reading, it’s pretty much explicitly laid out in the introduction that this is what’s going on structurally and what do you know? the introduction was not wrong- this is a book about doubles and rhymes of character and incident), a group of students studying among other things philosophy and literature and history, who do more drinking and trying to get laid and pondering and wandering about the glorious topography of Paris and getting into various schemes than studying, and a group of aged men who are anticipating the embrace of the tomb and dealing with their own schemes, ambitions, regrets. So it’s really a book about generations living in the same place, and what each generation occupies itself with and gives to the other, and how time meanders past similarly when you are an angsty young adult and when you are a pensive old man. Dreams, schemes, and themes. Parallels and intersections are drawn between the two groups, who have loose, oblique connections, and one thing Queneau does so well is to be really subtle about drawing together narrative threads through little hints and actions- rhymes of character and incident, indeed. He also knows how to add depth by quietly inserting philosophical digressions in comedic scenes and lightening up more serious things with odd interludes.
Some of the most interesting stuff, and the most gorgeous writing, in this novel are the chapters entitled “Alfred”, narrated first-person by a waiter in one of the watering holes frequented by the characters. Alfred does what a waiter does, which is, well, wait, and orchestrate meals, and give people cold drinks in summer and hot drinks in winter. He is the center of motion of events, an eye bringing everything together, a kind of God-like omniscient presence that binds all the loose ends here. Alfred is working on a system of telling the future based on the motion of the planets, magnetism, earth’s natural forces, and statistics, all those things immutable, and is mainly concerned with coolly watching the other character’s lives unfurl while waiting to settle a balance of his own. It’s so wonderful how Queneau can take the simplest things- a waiter, some students, some old professors and swindlers, the life cycle of leaves in a particular part of Paris- and make them infinite. As I read more Queneau I’m realizing that one of the themes he keeps returning to is that of how a person’s thought processes affect their fate. He can’t help but be philosophical, amid all his strangeness and humor, and he can’t help making his characters tenderly human, even when he is mocking their vain endeavors.
Some of the most interesting stuff, and the most gorgeous writing, in this novel are the chapters entitled “Alfred”, narrated first-person by a waiter in one of the watering holes frequented by the characters. Alfred does what a waiter does, which is, well, wait, and orchestrate meals, and give people cold drinks in summer and hot drinks in winter. He is the center of motion of events, an eye bringing everything together, a kind of God-like omniscient presence that binds all the loose ends here. Alfred is working on a system of telling the future based on the motion of the planets, magnetism, earth’s natural forces, and statistics, all those things immutable, and is mainly concerned with coolly watching the other character’s lives unfurl while waiting to settle a balance of his own. It’s so wonderful how Queneau can take the simplest things- a waiter, some students, some old professors and swindlers, the life cycle of leaves in a particular part of Paris- and make them infinite. As I read more Queneau I’m realizing that one of the themes he keeps returning to is that of how a person’s thought processes affect their fate. He can’t help but be philosophical, amid all his strangeness and humor, and he can’t help making his characters tenderly human, even when he is mocking their vain endeavors.
January 10, 2013
I'm not sure why I plucked this off the shelf when there was a tall pile of books next to the bed I'd sworn to read first. Maybe subconsciously it had something to do with the ridiculous Mayan apocalypse -- I always liked how Queneau applied the concept of "The Last Days" to a time in his life that happened a decade before he wrote this. It's as if the novel was written after the end of the world -- and in a way it was.
The book captures a time that won't ever come again -- a truism that applies to every moment, but this sensation is particularly acute to its two groups of characters, an assortment of young students and elderly people. Paris in the 1920s is the milieu, but that's less the fleeting moment than that in-between time of being in college and (I'm guessing) those days of knowing that death isn't too far away. This heightened awareness of endings animates the characters as they weave through each others' lives, bent on avoiding studies, chasing girls, concocting swindles, betting on horses, maiming blind people, and mostly trying to find out how to navigate the next phase of their existence.
This doesn't have the pyrotechnic zing of 'Zazie' or inventive structural contortions of 'Exercises in Style,' but there's no shortage of brilliant and subtle rhymes in action and character, sly humor, piercing melancholy, and plain ole heart. The philosopher-cum-waiter Alfred presides over all these doings with aplomb and charm, taking a cosmic view of the characters' predicaments. I read this in a pleasant fog, unable to put it down for long, happy I had unaccountably snatched it up.
4.5 stars.
The book captures a time that won't ever come again -- a truism that applies to every moment, but this sensation is particularly acute to its two groups of characters, an assortment of young students and elderly people. Paris in the 1920s is the milieu, but that's less the fleeting moment than that in-between time of being in college and (I'm guessing) those days of knowing that death isn't too far away. This heightened awareness of endings animates the characters as they weave through each others' lives, bent on avoiding studies, chasing girls, concocting swindles, betting on horses, maiming blind people, and mostly trying to find out how to navigate the next phase of their existence.
This doesn't have the pyrotechnic zing of 'Zazie' or inventive structural contortions of 'Exercises in Style,' but there's no shortage of brilliant and subtle rhymes in action and character, sly humor, piercing melancholy, and plain ole heart. The philosopher-cum-waiter Alfred presides over all these doings with aplomb and charm, taking a cosmic view of the characters' predicaments. I read this in a pleasant fog, unable to put it down for long, happy I had unaccountably snatched it up.
4.5 stars.
May 7, 2022
Los últimos días va trenzando las historias de varios personajes, tirando del lector apaciblemente, a ver qué pasa con cada quién. Da la impresión de que aquí Queneau estuviera calentando en la banda, preparándose para ser el de Oulipo y Zazie en el metro con los juegos de palabras que cuela aquí y allá, con ese amor por París y pateárselo de arriba abajo, esos diálogos tan dinámicos y el interés por estructurar un problema con tantas variables.
El personaje del camarero Alfred, lo mejor.
El personaje del camarero Alfred, lo mejor.
December 19, 2010
A philosophical novel framed around an autobiographical coming-of-age tale set in 1920s Paris. The story follows the Queneau-template Tuquedenne, a loner who can’t get laid and who falls in love with ideas, and the aging hustler Brabbant, a charming desperado who likes his dames young.
Queneau weaves, with his particular humour and alchemy, multiple stories together, capturing a world in flux and the melancholy of late-adolescent life: the fleeting friends, frolics and finaglings. This world is contrasted with that of the old-timers, edging closer to death and contemplating their paradoxical lives.
The result is a disarming and thoughtful work: more overtly ponderous than his other books.
Queneau weaves, with his particular humour and alchemy, multiple stories together, capturing a world in flux and the melancholy of late-adolescent life: the fleeting friends, frolics and finaglings. This world is contrasted with that of the old-timers, edging closer to death and contemplating their paradoxical lives.
The result is a disarming and thoughtful work: more overtly ponderous than his other books.
August 19, 2013
Certainly less incendiary than Icarus and less transporting than Zazie. Take the autobiographical warnings to heart. Apart from small departures into word-play this seems like Queneau driving home the nails in the casket of his childhood. Queneau at his most straight-forward is still a green candlelight away from what we know as normalcy - and pleasantly so. This is a very brisk read, smart and insightful with a light touch. Where some of Q's books seem to have crawled out of his head whilst sleeping and wrote themselves - this seems like more of an intended purge. "...the corpse of my childhood." he writes towards the end - making things unusually clear in Queneau's world. But it would be inadequate to describe this as mere biography. Instead, we get a Chaplin-like (director's)view of the time, place and interactions that comprise a childhood, cinematographic with the ability to shine the proper light, pull the right face and dictate the pace of the story of a life with a composer's mastery of pace and tone. Pathos, humor and an absolute horror of taking yourself too seriously on full display, it's no surprise that Q describes his France as a place where Chaplin has arrived - and let the detail tell you the rest of the story. Queneau assumes his readers are not complete idiots and creates just enough space to allow a creative mind to find resonance and reverberation with the writer. I don't think it was until this book that I began to understand Q's attachment to the epic poems of Homer. I've come to understand some literature as stories made powerful by a heightened awareness, made possible by allegory as Homeric. In this way, in this book, I see more Leskov than Jarry and very little of what made him and his Oulipo peers attractive to more contemporary readers. This is a man telling the story of his student days. Very simple. Very good.
July 12, 2017
Raymond Queneau has been known to me for some time: I read We Always Treat Women Too Well (1947) twice. But now that I have finished The Last Days(1936), I think I have discovered a major talent.
The Last Days is the story of what one might call a social cohort, a group of people of varying ages who know each other to varying degrees. Interestingly, there are only two women in the cohort, Suze and Fabie, and they enter in only insofar as they have relationships with the males. Some of the males are students who are trying to study for a diploma in philosophy from the École Normale Supérieure; one is an aging teacher of history; another is a con man; and there are other various hangers-on. The one truly superior figure is the waiter Albert, who has everything all figured out, as described by his co-worker, Louis:
The others, such as the student from Le Havre, Vincent Turquedenne, manage to lose their virginity, hang out with their friends, and even get their diploma. The history teacher—feeling he spent his whole life teaching geography under false pretenses because he himself never traveled—dies and has a magnificent funeral. The con man figures he would be immortal if he never laid down, because that’s what kills one, but then gets sick and is put to death and, of course, dies.
There is a simple beauty to this story that makes me want to read more of Queneau’s work. Fortunately, a lot of it is available.
The Last Days is the story of what one might call a social cohort, a group of people of varying ages who know each other to varying degrees. Interestingly, there are only two women in the cohort, Suze and Fabie, and they enter in only insofar as they have relationships with the males. Some of the males are students who are trying to study for a diploma in philosophy from the École Normale Supérieure; one is an aging teacher of history; another is a con man; and there are other various hangers-on. The one truly superior figure is the waiter Albert, who has everything all figured out, as described by his co-worker, Louis:
He didn’t only know how to see the future. He was also a philosopher. A real one. He used to say to me: “You see, the customers, they’re like a pile of dead leaves.”Albert’s one goal in life is to win back the money that his father lost at the races: No more, just enough to live a comfortable life in retirement, and not a sou more. And he actually manages to do this, returning to work at the café the next day.
I asked him why. He answered. “Leaves, when they’re on the tree, if you didn’t know that autumn existed you might think they’d stay there forever. That’s like our customers. They come back every day as regular as clockwork: you think they’ll go on doing so forever. But then one day the wind blows as carries the leaves off to the gutters and the street sweepers make little piles of them on the edge of the pavements to await the dust-cart. Me too, every year I make my little pile when the autumn arrives, my little pile of dead souls.”
The others, such as the student from Le Havre, Vincent Turquedenne, manage to lose their virginity, hang out with their friends, and even get their diploma. The history teacher—feeling he spent his whole life teaching geography under false pretenses because he himself never traveled—dies and has a magnificent funeral. The con man figures he would be immortal if he never laid down, because that’s what kills one, but then gets sick and is put to death and, of course, dies.
There is a simple beauty to this story that makes me want to read more of Queneau’s work. Fortunately, a lot of it is available.
November 6, 2020
Come ogni volta che leggo Queneau, rimpiango di non conoscere il francese e di non poterlo apprezzare in lingua originale. In questo caso, poi, rimpiango anche di non saperne abbastanza della Francia e dei francesi in particolare, perché ho più volte avuto la netta sensazione che ci fossero riferimenti che non sono riuscita a cogliere. C'è sicuramente dell'autobiografico in questa descrizione della vita nel Quartiere Latino di Parigi negli anni '30, soprattutto per quanto riguarda gli studenti universitari; universitari che sono comunque perfettamente descritti e coerenti anche con gli studenti d'oggi.
Il libro resta infatti godibilissimo anche senza possedere quelle conoscenze che gli darebbero un qualcosa in più; il genio di Queneau emerge forse meno che in altri romanzi, ma il concatenamento di trame, i dialoghi brillanti e freschi, i tanti personaggi tutti così peculiari (primo tra tutti l'indimenticabile cameriere Alfred, che con le sue riflessioni guida il lettore all'interpretazione del testo) sono comunque, anche qui, più che notevoli.
Il libro resta infatti godibilissimo anche senza possedere quelle conoscenze che gli darebbero un qualcosa in più; il genio di Queneau emerge forse meno che in altri romanzi, ma il concatenamento di trame, i dialoghi brillanti e freschi, i tanti personaggi tutti così peculiari (primo tra tutti l'indimenticabile cameriere Alfred, che con le sue riflessioni guida il lettore all'interpretazione del testo) sono comunque, anche qui, più che notevoli.
May 7, 2014
A strange and funny book--set in Paris in the '20s and focused on a few key characters in two groups, a handful of college students (including Queneau's alter ego), and a handful of old men. The two groups intersect because of family relationships and because one of the old men taught a couple of the college students. Nothing like more "serious" works like Sun Also Rises. The students eat, drink, talk and skirt-chase (sometimes in the brothels). The old men eat, drink, play billiards--and one of them skirt-chases as well. Odd, intellectual in a way, and featuring an absolutely classic character in Alfred, the waiter who has also worked out over several years a system that can absolutely, within certain areas, predict the future.
April 18, 2016
started on the 15th april, finished the 18th. an okay story, good read. i liked it.
*note to self: in this one, too, like The Winter of the Black Snow couple characters have a theory for the weather, the big guns of the war, the war to end all wars, world war numbered one in tis story...unlike war number two for winter of the black snow. seems like there was another story that had this same idea floating...perhaps in the winter review. curious is all.
too...curious...a scene herein where the characters are laughing at another, high cockolorum...didn't find it funny too much and it is curious for the question that raises. set in the 20s. would others from that time find it comedic? that scene? or was it just me? there is some comic element to it but not laughingly so. so? a note, is all, nothing more nothing less. notes to my self.
onward and upward. (story is paris of the 20s) ooga booga
*note to self: in this one, too, like The Winter of the Black Snow couple characters have a theory for the weather, the big guns of the war, the war to end all wars, world war numbered one in tis story...unlike war number two for winter of the black snow. seems like there was another story that had this same idea floating...perhaps in the winter review. curious is all.
too...curious...a scene herein where the characters are laughing at another, high cockolorum...didn't find it funny too much and it is curious for the question that raises. set in the 20s. would others from that time find it comedic? that scene? or was it just me? there is some comic element to it but not laughingly so. so? a note, is all, nothing more nothing less. notes to my self.
onward and upward. (story is paris of the 20s) ooga booga
July 1, 2018
This is the kind of book that you'll mostly forget when you close it's pages and go on to read your next quest. Your next perspective on life. There are some who go, some who leave, and those who always stay, like Tolut's ghost and Alfred's observations on people and planets. I did think Tolut referring to himself as a moral crook for teaching geography (despite the fact he'd never traveled out of France) actually intriguing. What do we know about places we've never been to? And how do we teach these unknowables? I mean, Tolut wasn't gaga. Tolut was a philosopher. I think Alfred is the one, though, that was the keenest of them all. He saw everything in flux but to say so is to admit to some degree of universal constant, in chaos, human affairs petty and mortal...
August 12, 2013
On retrouve le style enjoué de Queneau, entre jeux de mots, écriture légère et néologismes. Beaucoup d'humour, d'auto-dérision (on suit entre autres les péripéties de Tuquedenne/Queneau étudiant - un type plutôt solitaire qui réfléchit sur tout mais n'arrive pas à vivre sa vie comme il l'aimerait, toujours en retrait) mais aussi de nostalgie. Les Derniers Jours nous rappelle le temps qui passe inexorablement, qui nous fait passer d'une étape de vie à une autre sans avoir le temps de nous retourner et nous amène cycle après cycle vers notre fin, comme le dit Alfred le garçon de café.
August 18, 2023
Oh, how daily life is.
February 9, 2024
Vorrei vivere come Alfred
July 20, 2016
Raymond Queneau. Lo bello y lo triste
Saquemos los libros de historia a la calle… Un poco de historia nos vendrá bien: Raymond Queneau abandona Le Havre, lugar de nacimiento y desarrollo inicial. Deja allí su famoso puerto y sus famosos barcos con sus famosos marineros (leer Un duro invierno, inspirada por su padre) y se traslada a París para estudiar Filosofía en la Sorbona. Año 1920. Hacia 1924 empieza a frecuentar el movimiento surrealista, del que acabará formando parte hasta su abrupta ruptura en 1929, participando en el asesinato, palabras mediante, de un cadáver llamado André Breton. Hasta aquí, brevemente, la vida. Habrá que esperar unos pocos años para que esta vaya al encuentro de la literatura: Queneau narrará su época de estudiante en Los últimos días, y sus tiempos de surrealista en Odile. Escribirá ambos libros a la vez, y si los leemos en orden (e incluso en desorden), nos sentiremos invadidos por una melancolía tal que nos parecerá haber sido él. Su historia no deja de ser nuestra historia: su historia es no tener historia, más allá de esos días que pasan, bellos, tristes, irremediablemente perdidos, hasta la aparición de Odile y su elección (esa tragedia que marca nuestra juventud), en un puerto. Con lo cual podríamos decir, parafraseando a Chris Marker, que aquel tiempo fue el que discurrió desde un puerto hasta otro.
Los últimos días, publicada por Gallo Nero, a diferencia de Odile, apenas oculta su carácter autobiográfico (algo que por otra parte marca su obra como escritor). Tusquedenne, el personaje tras el que se esconde el autor, llega a una ciudad que desconoce y le resulta complicado hacerse a ella. Quizás nada es lo que espera, y sus encuentros con otros estudiantes (muchos venidos también de Le Havre) son decepcionantes (y cambiantes). Cansado de ellos, se entrega a los libros, a la lectura, así como a los paseos ociosos, convencido de que nada fuera de eso tiene importancia, más que perder la virginidad (y total, una vez hecho, tampoco era gran cosa). Por aquel entonces Landrú era juzgado y condenado por el asesinato aprovechado de unas cuantas buenas señoras, y Queneau atraviesa su época lleno de dudas y con pocas o ninguna respuesta, mientras sus aventuras (cuya intensa emoción viene del hecho de buscar un significado a eso de vivir) se alternan con los más variopintos personajes, que van desde sus amigos hasta el señor Martin-Martin, un estafador de bajos vuelos y varios nombres, pasando por un camarero capaz de leer el futuro en el movimiento de los planetas, Alfred, lectura que perfecciona con el único objetivo de salvar la memoria (y la fortuna) de su padre.
La pequeña historia (es decir, aquella que ocurría mientras Landrú perdía su cabeza), en las calles, en los cafés, a la vuelta de las esquinas, esos últimos días, finalmente irán haciéndose más y más espesos. Poco a poco, los destinos de todos nos llevarán a aquello que marca, después de todo, nuestras vidas, seamos quienes seamos y tengamos los nombres que tengamos, verdaderos o falsos: la vida y la muerte. Tusquedenne buscará la vida (puesto que intuye que no puede ser aquello que está viviendo). Un viejo profesor de geografía, el señor Tolut, compañero de partidas de billar del estafador Brennuire, atormentado por la idea de haber sido un farsante que enseñó algo que desconocía (puesto que nunca había viajado), llevará su obsesión hasta otra aún más profunda, más demoledora, el miedo a la muerte, una muerte que piensa evitar durmiendo sentado. Estos dos destinos (vivir/morir), se irán convirtiendo con el paso de los días, los bellos y los feos, con las hojas caídas (como manos cortadas, que diría Apollinaire), en un poso melancólico, triste y gris como el tiempo, que solo tendrá su verdadero final (uno de los finales más bellos de la literatura) en Odile, cuando ya todo habrá quedado atrás, y la salida ya no sea escapar escondido bajo unos libros o dejándose caer en las terrazas de los cafés, sino ser. Sin más.
Escrito para Détour.
Saquemos los libros de historia a la calle… Un poco de historia nos vendrá bien: Raymond Queneau abandona Le Havre, lugar de nacimiento y desarrollo inicial. Deja allí su famoso puerto y sus famosos barcos con sus famosos marineros (leer Un duro invierno, inspirada por su padre) y se traslada a París para estudiar Filosofía en la Sorbona. Año 1920. Hacia 1924 empieza a frecuentar el movimiento surrealista, del que acabará formando parte hasta su abrupta ruptura en 1929, participando en el asesinato, palabras mediante, de un cadáver llamado André Breton. Hasta aquí, brevemente, la vida. Habrá que esperar unos pocos años para que esta vaya al encuentro de la literatura: Queneau narrará su época de estudiante en Los últimos días, y sus tiempos de surrealista en Odile. Escribirá ambos libros a la vez, y si los leemos en orden (e incluso en desorden), nos sentiremos invadidos por una melancolía tal que nos parecerá haber sido él. Su historia no deja de ser nuestra historia: su historia es no tener historia, más allá de esos días que pasan, bellos, tristes, irremediablemente perdidos, hasta la aparición de Odile y su elección (esa tragedia que marca nuestra juventud), en un puerto. Con lo cual podríamos decir, parafraseando a Chris Marker, que aquel tiempo fue el que discurrió desde un puerto hasta otro.
Los últimos días, publicada por Gallo Nero, a diferencia de Odile, apenas oculta su carácter autobiográfico (algo que por otra parte marca su obra como escritor). Tusquedenne, el personaje tras el que se esconde el autor, llega a una ciudad que desconoce y le resulta complicado hacerse a ella. Quizás nada es lo que espera, y sus encuentros con otros estudiantes (muchos venidos también de Le Havre) son decepcionantes (y cambiantes). Cansado de ellos, se entrega a los libros, a la lectura, así como a los paseos ociosos, convencido de que nada fuera de eso tiene importancia, más que perder la virginidad (y total, una vez hecho, tampoco era gran cosa). Por aquel entonces Landrú era juzgado y condenado por el asesinato aprovechado de unas cuantas buenas señoras, y Queneau atraviesa su época lleno de dudas y con pocas o ninguna respuesta, mientras sus aventuras (cuya intensa emoción viene del hecho de buscar un significado a eso de vivir) se alternan con los más variopintos personajes, que van desde sus amigos hasta el señor Martin-Martin, un estafador de bajos vuelos y varios nombres, pasando por un camarero capaz de leer el futuro en el movimiento de los planetas, Alfred, lectura que perfecciona con el único objetivo de salvar la memoria (y la fortuna) de su padre.
La pequeña historia (es decir, aquella que ocurría mientras Landrú perdía su cabeza), en las calles, en los cafés, a la vuelta de las esquinas, esos últimos días, finalmente irán haciéndose más y más espesos. Poco a poco, los destinos de todos nos llevarán a aquello que marca, después de todo, nuestras vidas, seamos quienes seamos y tengamos los nombres que tengamos, verdaderos o falsos: la vida y la muerte. Tusquedenne buscará la vida (puesto que intuye que no puede ser aquello que está viviendo). Un viejo profesor de geografía, el señor Tolut, compañero de partidas de billar del estafador Brennuire, atormentado por la idea de haber sido un farsante que enseñó algo que desconocía (puesto que nunca había viajado), llevará su obsesión hasta otra aún más profunda, más demoledora, el miedo a la muerte, una muerte que piensa evitar durmiendo sentado. Estos dos destinos (vivir/morir), se irán convirtiendo con el paso de los días, los bellos y los feos, con las hojas caídas (como manos cortadas, que diría Apollinaire), en un poso melancólico, triste y gris como el tiempo, que solo tendrá su verdadero final (uno de los finales más bellos de la literatura) en Odile, cuando ya todo habrá quedado atrás, y la salida ya no sea escapar escondido bajo unos libros o dejándose caer en las terrazas de los cafés, sino ser. Sin más.
Escrito para Détour.
November 15, 2010
Uno dei primi libri di Queneau e già vi si possono trovare tracce dell'Autore che sarà.
Pur essendo considerato dalla critica come uno dei suoi testi meno riusciti risulta, comunque, godibile in un intreccio continuo di personaggi che si lambiscono l'un l'altro, ognuno ignorando il ruolo che gli altri ricoprono nelle quotidiane vicende che si susseguono.
Pur essendo considerato dalla critica come uno dei suoi testi meno riusciti risulta, comunque, godibile in un intreccio continuo di personaggi che si lambiscono l'un l'altro, ognuno ignorando il ruolo che gli altri ricoprono nelle quotidiane vicende che si susseguono.
Tra i diversi personaggi colpisce la crisi morale di un professore in pensione che scopre di aver millantato una conoscenza che non possedeva: per tutta la vita ha insegnato geografia senza aver mai viaggiato, senza saper nulla di quei luoghi su cui lungamente aveva dissertato.
Il vero tema del racconto, però, è lo scorrere del tempo ed il ripetersi quotidiano e immutabile di vita e morte.
May 14, 2021
Des personnages se croisent à Paris, au travers du passage des saisons ; leurs vies, leurs envies, leurs peurs surtout sont mises à nu, peur de la solitude, de la mort, de l'avenir. Des portraits assez loufoques, des rencontres inattendues, mais aussi des réflexions presque philosophiques, des clins d'oeil de l'auteur au lecteur, et de l'humour.
Dans un style beaucoup plus "calme" que les autres livres que j'ai pu lire de Queneau, un conte tendre, triste, cruel, drôle sur la vie (rien que ça), quand nos vies changent (ou pas) (ou pas assez) (ou pas comme on le souhaiterait), à cet âge de la petite vingtaine où la vie commence ou essaye de commencer, à cet âge où la retraite approche, et la vie?
L'air de rien, ça m'a bien fait gamberger, et rêver... et rigoler
Dans un style beaucoup plus "calme" que les autres livres que j'ai pu lire de Queneau, un conte tendre, triste, cruel, drôle sur la vie (rien que ça), quand nos vies changent (ou pas) (ou pas assez) (ou pas comme on le souhaiterait), à cet âge de la petite vingtaine où la vie commence ou essaye de commencer, à cet âge où la retraite approche, et la vie?
L'air de rien, ça m'a bien fait gamberger, et rêver... et rigoler
September 26, 2011
A tale chock full of dualities, wherein characters, events, and themes find themselves paired with one another in manners that are at once complimentary and contrapuntal. Queneau is wonderful at imbuing a single moment with competing forces that, rather than cancel each other out, add nuance and complexity. An ordinary day in Queneau’s Paris is at once tragic and hopeful, bitter and hilarious.
April 8, 2018
Takhle by to nešlo pane Quenaeoaneaou. Zakoupil jsem knihu za těžce vydřený prachy, který mi půjčila moje stará a jak to dopadlo? Taková nuda. Zkoušel jsem k tomu pít dokonce i vodku, která knihám většinou dost pomáhá, ale tady to nezabralo. Sem tam probleskne génius, kterým Queanaiaao je, ale je to, jak říkají američani a moje žena při sexu - too late and too little.
6/10
6/10
May 8, 2008
Makes boozing, whoring, Cubism, playing horses, and romanticizing Paris between wars seem unwholesome, petty, and antipathetic to Man's Destiny, but I liked it a lot. Plenty notable metaphors, even in translation, the best of which are kinda too crude to list here.
November 26, 2007
being bored, antic, and smart as all get out in 1920s paris. what's to complain? anything by queaneau is worth the time just cause he's so damn smart and playful.
November 5, 2012
talked about it some here: http://5cense.com/12/palermo_last.htm
July 10, 2013
Whimsical, a decent book
July 28, 2016
as overtly misogynistic as kerouc's on the road. it's really turned me off to the rest of his work. :/
February 14, 2018
Tuhle knížku už si nepamatuju. Vím jen, že jeho jiné knihy mě bavily víc, a že jsem ji nechala v Jack's Backpackers hostelu v Blenheimu na Novém Zélandu. Třeba tam ještě je...
April 10, 2018
Il decennio che seguì la fine della prima guerra mondiale (e prima della crisi economica) non devono essere stati entusiasmanti in una Francia che ricordava, forse, i fasti della Belle Epoque. Il romanzo di Quenau ci porta tra i frequentatori dei piccoli caffè nel quartiere latino, soffermandosi su due categorie principali: gli studenti universitari e i pensionati. Gli uni sono ansiosi di un presente e un futuro "in società" e invasati da velleità pseudo-intellettuali (non politiche ma da bohemienne "a parole") e gli altri da sogni di viaggi e chiacchiere di fronte ad un bicchiere ma ben consapevoli del plumbeo futuro. Tra i due gruppi si muovono truffatori e ragazze di campagna disinibite (anche loro una eco delle modelle dei pittori di 20 anni prima)- Tutto sotto l'occhio di un cameriere che sta sviluppando da anni un sistema basato sulla posizione astrale capace di prevedere tutto ciò che serve, dalle corse dei cavalli al successo di un affare. Il libro è estremamente godibile. Il ritratto di un popolo, quello della Francia delle cittadine, imbevuto di autocompiacimento e che è di fatto il perfetto prodromo del decadimento che sarebbe esploso negli anni successivi, di una nazione incapace di difendersi (troppo presuntuosa). Il gollismo e l'intellighentia "gauche-caviar" sono nate proprio a quel tempo
May 10, 2018
"In the rue d'Assas he got into a bus and sat down facing an extremely pretty girl. He wouldn't have dared to do this if it hadn't been the only free seat. Naturally, this girl didn't interest him in the least. He looked at the landscape: he had the impression that the other passengers were saying to themselves: 'That boy with the long hair is making eyes at the girl opposite him.'; but it wasn't true, he wasn't at all making eyes at her. He looked at her. She met his gaze. He blushed horribly. It was intolerable. And the other passengers who were scrutinizing him. She got out at Montparnasse; a non descript human-being replaced her. Tuquedenne felt relieved. If his parents hadn't been expecting him he might well have got off and followed her and spoken to her. He didn't think she had taken a dislike to him. Maybe he'd meet her again another time, in the same bus, at about the same hour. What an idiot he was."
January 6, 2021
Terzo libro di Q. - scritto nel 1936 - e classificato come romanzo minore, la lettura è allegra e la scrittura elegante. Piacevole gioco ad incastri dei personaggi, tutto si svolge nei favolosi anni 20 in Francia, dove si mischiano dialoghi a volte surreali ad altri davvero indovinati. Su tutto, una spolverata di domande e qualche risposta sulla vita e sulla morte.
Questa edizione è preceduta da un saggio introduttivo difficilissimo e dottissimo, che non ho letto.
Questa edizione è preceduta da un saggio introduttivo difficilissimo e dottissimo, che non ho letto.
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