Queneau, Raymond 1903–1976
A French novelist, playwright, poet, screenwriter, essayist, editor, and critic, Queneau was a master of colloquial speech, slang, and varied rhetorical devices. Like Joyce, he was concerned with the relationship between written and spoken language, and he continually toyed with the conventions of written French. Viewing literature as a category of speech, Queneau attacked traditional rhetoric through parody, and his works are imbued with the surrealist's taste for the ridiculous aspects of ordinary existence. (See also CLC, Vols. 2, 5, and Contemporary Authors, obituary, Vols. 69-72.)
Queneau's Exercices de style (1947) is an intriguing and at times immensely amusing book, but it is just what its title implies, a set of exercises; and to suggest, as George Steiner has done, that it constitutes a major landmark in twentieth-century literature, is to mislead readers in the interest of promoting literary "future shock."
The instance of Exercices de style is worth pausing over briefly because it represents one ultimate limit of the whole self-conscious mode. Queneau begins his book by reporting a banal anecdote of a young man with a long neck and a missing button on his coat who is jostled in a crowded bus. He tells this anecdote ninety-nine times, constantly changing the narrative viewpoint, the style, the literary conventions; going as far as the use of mathematical notation and anagrammatic scrambling of letters in one direction, and the resort to heavy dialect and badly anglicized French in the other; even rendering the incident in alexandrines, in free verse, as a sonnet, as a playlet. All this is extremely ingenious, and, I would admit, more than ingenious, because as one reads the same simple episode over and over through all these acrobatic variations, one is forced to recognize both the stunning arbitrariness of any decision to tell a story in a particular way and the endless possibilities for creating fictional "facts" by telling a story differently.
The controlling perception, however, of Exercices is one that goes back to the generic beginnings of the novel; and to see how much more...
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Raymond Queneau remains unclassifiable. It is as fruitless to group him with a single literary school as it is to reduce one of his intentionally bad puns to a single meaning. Recalling the Surrealists, Queneau rolls words like dice. Anticipating the "new novel," his plots come unravelled like scarfs caught on a snag. With the publication of Le Vol d'Icare and its translation, the "franc-tireur" of French literature has struck again, casting about the literary scene with thrusts of a rapier wit. It should come as no surprise that The Flight of Icarus is neither fish nor fowl, that it explores several topics, and dabbles with several genres all at once.
A light-hearted pastiche of the "new novels'" narrative austerity; a historical reconstruction of literary circles in the 1890s; a spoof of the clichés of the mystery story; and a novel about the novel told in the form of a play complete with stage directions and 74 scenes, Queneau's book is a heady literary cocktail which provides amusing reading. (p. 160)
For all of its sparkle and verve, or perhaps because of them, toward the end The Flight of Icarus often seems a bit forced and breathless, rather like an elaborate Peter de Vries joke-novel running down. Here, as in Les Fleurs bleues, Queneau's satirical target is to a large degree topical, and a reader unaware of the debate ranging in France in the '60s over the role of characters and plot may well miss some of the fun. Doubtless these effects are intentional, however, and they help focus attention on the plays on words and the juxtaposition of levels of language. On the positive side, Queneau remains the master of this kind of inspired juggling…. In short, The Flight of Icarus is a witty, contagiously funny treatment of literature and language whose humor palls as one realizes that all there is behind the character's flight and words themselves, "c'est du vent." (pp. 160-61)
Robert Henkels, Jr., in French Review (copyright 1975 by the American Association of Teachers of French), October, 1975.
Morale élémentaire, while it holds few surprises for the reader familiar with Raymond Queneau's earlier writings, represents nonetheless an important and fascinating achievement. Surrealist, poet, mathematician, novelist, humorist, linguistic explorer, Queneau is most of these again in his latest book. It has three parts, a sequence of fifty-one identically constructed verse poems and two groups of prose poems, a series of sixteen texts followed by a series of sixty-four. With one exception (the last poem in part two), no text takes up more than a page. The prose texts blend the narrative with the descriptive mode in such a way as to keep the "moral" just beyond our grasp, and all are graced with Queneau's characteristic wit.
The verse texts, a stunning tour de force, give us Queneau the student of linguistic production and the inventor of poetic forms at his best. Every text has precisely the same structure and appearance and can be read either from left to right, line by line from top to bottom (i.e., according to the usual procedure for reading a poem), or from top to bottom within each of the three columns that appear on the page. Each poem is fifteen lines long. Except for a part of the middle column (always the same part) which reads like a seven-line poem, the columns comprise only two words per line, a noun and its modifier. Each phrase so formed seems a variant of another such phrase in the text; a semantic element in one phrase appears to derive from or to engender another phrase by tautology, antithesis or metonymy. The miniature "poem" inserted in the middle column is as rudimentary in its way as are the noun-modifier phrases that literally surround it.
It is obvious that we are once again dealing with a kind of exercises de style, but this time everything is on a more elemental level, with the author more concerned with the production of writing itself than with narrative voice variations and thus more concerned than ever before, perhaps, with every writer's morale élémentaire. (p. 833)
Robert W. Greene, in Books Abroad (copyright 1976 by the University of Oklahoma Press), Vol. 50, No. 4, Autumn, 1976.
In all his novels, Raymond Queneau questions the process of history. Individual lives are drawn into historical disasters…. Les Fleurs bleues stands out as one novel in which history, as it relates individual and group experience, does not appear only in the dénouement….
Queneau makes no pretense to careful observation and recording of social mores. Rather, he examines the metaphysics of history, the rapport between general and particular circumstance, between event, experience and invention—his own, or that of his characters. Such problems inevitably lead him to be concerned with perception, both in life and in art, both conscious and unconscious. (p. 323)
Queneau's novels recognize none of the traditional criteria for vraisemblance except for that of cohesion. They shamelessly present pure fantasy instead of the judicious observation of verifiable realities. His adhesion to the actual instead of the abstract does not, for him, preclude gratuitous invention. He neither records history nor imitates it. How then does he make of it an element of major importance?
A similar paradox exists in Queneau's treatment of individual characters. Although interest in psychoanalysis is strikingly present in all of his books, his characters are never psychologically complex. They are never the case studies of realist novels, never individualized psyches through which he can reach more general problems of society and history. Instead they are simple, emblematic, almost allegorical at times. (p. 324)
It is … the Duke's individual actions, spanning several centuries, that constitute linear time in the novel. Suspense demands on recognizing what period he is in at a given moment, anticipating the next stage and wondering about the outcome. In this sense, Les Fleurs bleues is teleological and corresponds both to earlier conventions of the novel and to the western concept of history…. Queneau carefully identifies the development of his story with the progression of history, all the more so since the Duke is directly involved in many historical events of each period. Each slice of history is characterized in the same ways: by its food, its monuments, its inventions and, most important, by the unique historical events in which the Duke takes part. (pp. 324-25)
We learn to expect this range of topics in each period. A recurrent pattern is thus set up. Yet at the same time, by contrasting the Duke's experiences in each age, we become sensitive to change and progression….
The focus remains clearly on society's changes, not on the Duke's. Even more important, it is because his character remains the same throughout that society's evolution stands out in contrast. (p. 325)
While linear progression is … strongly established in Les Fleurs bleues, the very parallelism between [the Duke's and Cidrolin's] personal lives provides a fine example of Queneau's efforts to counterbalance linearity in his novel…. Such patterning has many functions. Its improbability constantly destroys narrative illusion, pointing up the novel's existence as a verbal construct. At the same time, like rhyme in verse, it reveals unsuspected meanings linking the two instances thus paralleled. For our...
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Queneau confesses his debt to Céline and Joyce, but we probably ought to situate him closer to Nabokov than to either. There is a similar word-play, of course, but there are also similar touches of sentimentality, a similar aloofness, a similar elegance, and the same dim view of history. The Sunday of Life was Queneau's tenth novel, published in 1952, and if it doesn't quite have the verve of Zazie, it has almost everything else that makes Queneau such an appealing and elusive writer….
If there isn't much room for high moral exploits in Queneau's world, it is not because he is a cynic, or because he wishes, as Barbara Wright suggests in her introduction to The Sunday of Life,...
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Nathaniel Hawthorne said that happiness is like a butterfly that evades you if you chase it and may light on you if you sit down. The Sunday of Life is a novel about a man whom happiness follows like Hawthorne's butterfly. The report of how this marvel occurs is so droll that one could read it as a … smile—which would miss the larger wonder of how playfulness turns serious, which we often call art….
[Like] some of the better French wines, [Queneau's] fiction doesn't travel well. It has an ambiguous philosophic cast that doesn't square with conventional Anglo-Saxon morality.
Furthermore, Queneau doesn't really write stories. He writes points of view. He illustrates...
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