More Acute Agony
Hervé Guibert and Eugène Savitzkaya, trans. Christine Pichini, Letters to Eugène: Correspondence 1977–1987
Semiotext(E), 128pp, $15.95, ISBN 9781635901726
reviewed by Rachel Dastgir
The Belgian poet Eugène Savitzkaya was 28 and living in Liège when he was drawn into an unexpected correspondence with a then 22-year-old Hervé Guibert. Guibert had published his first novel La Mort propagande in 1977, an astonishing debut and autofictional novel that described Guibert’s explosive and fragmentary encounters with both death and burgeoning sexuality, and was celebrated by fellow writers including Monique Wittig, Roland Barthes, and Michel Foucault. He was exciting and ferocious — and eager to become friends with Savitzkaya. Compliments followed, and arrangements were made to meet in Paris.
The resulting encounter, however, was characterised by disappointment. Guibert found Savitzkaya cold, later describing him as sporting ‘lips of a cadaver or a devious little girl.’ Savitzkaya replied by describing himself as simply ‘reserved.’ This first argument set the tone for their subsequent letters: Guibert writing provocatively and vividly, Savitzkaya going silent for long and paralysing periods. There were promises of ending the relationship, and frustrations were repeatedly expressed on both sides. In the end, they wrote to one another until Guibert’s death at the age of 36 from AIDS-related suicide in 1988.
Between 1977 and 1987, they exchanged 81 letters, which were later collated into a volume published by Éditions Gallimard in 2013, in accordance with the authors’ wishes. They have now been translated into English for the first time by Christine Pichini for Semiotext(e). The letters convey a picture of two writers in alternating states of vitality and decline, pushing against the threat of both illness and obscurity. Indeed, although Guibert has since gained a wide readership in France and the Anglosphere, Savitzkaya remains largely unknown outside French-language circles. The publication of these letters in English is therefore significant both for its introduction of Savitzkaya to new readers and its confirmation of Guibert as a great chronicler of the 1980s, and perhaps most notably, of the HIV-AIDS crisis. Guibert is best known by English-language readers for his memoir À l'ami qui ne m'a pas sauvé la vie, which follows his own diagnosis and the free-fall months that followed. He described the terror of “my blood, unmasked, everywhere and forever, naked around the clock [. . .] Does it show in my eyes?” His voice is one of grim horror mixed with clinical clarity.
Indeed, Guibert had a preternatural facility with suffering as a subject, understanding both its slapstick and narrative potential, which he drew on in both his writing and letters. To Savitzkaya he wrote of sleeplessness, aches and pains, even a tremor in his left eyelid. At one point in the letters, he reported a dream-like encounter with a young girl who claimed to have seen Savitzkaya wrapped up and sitting outside a bar called Cirque Divers — playfully misspelled by Guibert as ‘Cirque d’Hiver.’ She apparently told Guibert that Savitzkaya looked thin and unwell. Savitzkaya did not respond to this teasing. Such exchanges demonstrate how their relationship seemed to teeter around collapse, yet remained intact thanks to their shared, tongue-in-cheek humour: Savitzkaya eventually replied with the promise that he would send a ‘little bird’ to attend to Guibert’s twitch.
As the years went by, both writers gestured toward more acute agony. Savitzkaya wrote that he had ‘gone off the rails a bit,’ though it was ‘nothing serious, it’s just not a good time.’ By the mid-1980s, Guibert had become increasingly unwell, visiting an acupuncturist and describing the needles entering his skin: ‘a couple in my legs that I couldn’t feel and several on the sides of my feet that made me cry out and then turned my socks red.’ In one of his final letters, Savitzkaya wrote: ‘death is certainly everywhere, even in the foliage, perched in the forks of the branches.’ This powerful image captures something of the vitality that sometimes emerges from their correspondence. Yet much of the letters’ contents is mundane. We read about the logistics of writing, including chasing payment and arguing with editors. A particularly memorable quarrel between Savitzkaya and Marguerite Duras, mediated by Guibert, ends with Guibert’s suggestion that they go ‘piss on her grave.’ Guibert quickly retracts the idea.
Beyond these moments of comic relief, it becomes clear that the letters do not always do justice to the force of their, and particularly Savitzkaya’s, writing. Whereas Guibert seems at home in the form, Savitzkaya’s voice is noticeably reduced in contrast to in his published prose and poetry. In his 1982 prose-poem novel La Disparition de maman, which remains untranslated in English, he possesses an exacting, totalising control. He loops together competing images that crack open into uncanny wonder:
This kind of expressive ability is not always evident in his letters. It is only in the final letter that we fully grasp Savitzkaya’s mastery of invention. Written after Guibert’s death and dated 14 December 1955, Guibert’s birthday, the poet describes that he has ‘given up on working miracles. Gangsters tried to rob me at the Ural border but they took only the egg cup and the silver spoon.’ He writes: ‘My eggs will no longer have that inimitable metallic taste from the days when you fed me’ and continues, ‘Now, I sometimes lick the icons painted in mayonnaise on barn doors, dreaming of deviled chicken. For you I threw myself into the void, eyes closed, but the platform was only two centimeters off the ground. I nearly twisted my spinal column when I fell back down.’
This is a scorching invasion of the mind’s eye, but one that manages to take the intolerable and makes it bearable through marvellous transformation. A whirlwind of objects, sensations, places and names, this passage is one of many that makes for a tantalisingly evocative entry point for the writers. Indeed, Pichini has done excellent work retaining their sentences and voice. Now, it is time for their novels and poetry to be translated. We know something of Guibert’s work, but are waiting for more of Savitzkaya’s. One can only hope that it doesn’t take too long. Almost certainly, it will have been worth the wait.
The resulting encounter, however, was characterised by disappointment. Guibert found Savitzkaya cold, later describing him as sporting ‘lips of a cadaver or a devious little girl.’ Savitzkaya replied by describing himself as simply ‘reserved.’ This first argument set the tone for their subsequent letters: Guibert writing provocatively and vividly, Savitzkaya going silent for long and paralysing periods. There were promises of ending the relationship, and frustrations were repeatedly expressed on both sides. In the end, they wrote to one another until Guibert’s death at the age of 36 from AIDS-related suicide in 1988.
Between 1977 and 1987, they exchanged 81 letters, which were later collated into a volume published by Éditions Gallimard in 2013, in accordance with the authors’ wishes. They have now been translated into English for the first time by Christine Pichini for Semiotext(e). The letters convey a picture of two writers in alternating states of vitality and decline, pushing against the threat of both illness and obscurity. Indeed, although Guibert has since gained a wide readership in France and the Anglosphere, Savitzkaya remains largely unknown outside French-language circles. The publication of these letters in English is therefore significant both for its introduction of Savitzkaya to new readers and its confirmation of Guibert as a great chronicler of the 1980s, and perhaps most notably, of the HIV-AIDS crisis. Guibert is best known by English-language readers for his memoir À l'ami qui ne m'a pas sauvé la vie, which follows his own diagnosis and the free-fall months that followed. He described the terror of “my blood, unmasked, everywhere and forever, naked around the clock [. . .] Does it show in my eyes?” His voice is one of grim horror mixed with clinical clarity.
Indeed, Guibert had a preternatural facility with suffering as a subject, understanding both its slapstick and narrative potential, which he drew on in both his writing and letters. To Savitzkaya he wrote of sleeplessness, aches and pains, even a tremor in his left eyelid. At one point in the letters, he reported a dream-like encounter with a young girl who claimed to have seen Savitzkaya wrapped up and sitting outside a bar called Cirque Divers — playfully misspelled by Guibert as ‘Cirque d’Hiver.’ She apparently told Guibert that Savitzkaya looked thin and unwell. Savitzkaya did not respond to this teasing. Such exchanges demonstrate how their relationship seemed to teeter around collapse, yet remained intact thanks to their shared, tongue-in-cheek humour: Savitzkaya eventually replied with the promise that he would send a ‘little bird’ to attend to Guibert’s twitch.
As the years went by, both writers gestured toward more acute agony. Savitzkaya wrote that he had ‘gone off the rails a bit,’ though it was ‘nothing serious, it’s just not a good time.’ By the mid-1980s, Guibert had become increasingly unwell, visiting an acupuncturist and describing the needles entering his skin: ‘a couple in my legs that I couldn’t feel and several on the sides of my feet that made me cry out and then turned my socks red.’ In one of his final letters, Savitzkaya wrote: ‘death is certainly everywhere, even in the foliage, perched in the forks of the branches.’ This powerful image captures something of the vitality that sometimes emerges from their correspondence. Yet much of the letters’ contents is mundane. We read about the logistics of writing, including chasing payment and arguing with editors. A particularly memorable quarrel between Savitzkaya and Marguerite Duras, mediated by Guibert, ends with Guibert’s suggestion that they go ‘piss on her grave.’ Guibert quickly retracts the idea.
Beyond these moments of comic relief, it becomes clear that the letters do not always do justice to the force of their, and particularly Savitzkaya’s, writing. Whereas Guibert seems at home in the form, Savitzkaya’s voice is noticeably reduced in contrast to in his published prose and poetry. In his 1982 prose-poem novel La Disparition de maman, which remains untranslated in English, he possesses an exacting, totalising control. He loops together competing images that crack open into uncanny wonder:
I am not vigorous. I am a sick man and if I drink alcohol it is to forget my sorrow, to see the birds passing the sun and swallowed by the moon, rising to the sky in smoke, to be ash and dark and powerful coal that flows, hardens and blackens, tender piece of my little sister hidden in the woods, deep under the vines and aerial roots, exposed to eagles, rain and small transparent snakes whose hearts can be seen.
This kind of expressive ability is not always evident in his letters. It is only in the final letter that we fully grasp Savitzkaya’s mastery of invention. Written after Guibert’s death and dated 14 December 1955, Guibert’s birthday, the poet describes that he has ‘given up on working miracles. Gangsters tried to rob me at the Ural border but they took only the egg cup and the silver spoon.’ He writes: ‘My eggs will no longer have that inimitable metallic taste from the days when you fed me’ and continues, ‘Now, I sometimes lick the icons painted in mayonnaise on barn doors, dreaming of deviled chicken. For you I threw myself into the void, eyes closed, but the platform was only two centimeters off the ground. I nearly twisted my spinal column when I fell back down.’
This is a scorching invasion of the mind’s eye, but one that manages to take the intolerable and makes it bearable through marvellous transformation. A whirlwind of objects, sensations, places and names, this passage is one of many that makes for a tantalisingly evocative entry point for the writers. Indeed, Pichini has done excellent work retaining their sentences and voice. Now, it is time for their novels and poetry to be translated. We know something of Guibert’s work, but are waiting for more of Savitzkaya’s. One can only hope that it doesn’t take too long. Almost certainly, it will have been worth the wait.