The Review of Contemporary Fiction

Why I Have Not Written Any of My Books by Marcel Bénabou
Irving Malin

Marcel Bénabou. Why I Have Not Written Any of My Books. Trans. David Kornacker. Univ. of Nebraska Press, 1996. 111 pp. $25.00.

Bénabou, a member of the Oulipo group, offers a thrilling, witty, and often somber text. Although it reminds me somewhat of 20 Lines a Day, it is perhaps more subtle than Mathews’s inquiry into the process of writing and/as not writing. The text “begins” with the title. But the title implies that nothing “begins.” Then it offers an epigraph from Julien Benda: “Understanding that the initial definition of my subject should, while being brief, also be of such rich potential that all the parts of the work would be mere offshoots of it, I spent a long time looking for it; the first sentence of Belphégor took me years.” The epigraph is puzzling because it implies that the “text” is a “mere offshoot” of the first sentence. The first sentence. Where is it? Is it the title? Is it the epigraph which is written by Benda? Or is it written by Bénabou? He complicates an already complex maze (mass?) by offering a note “to the reader.” He writes: “First lines of books are always the most important.” But he now refers to himself as the author (authority?). The “first person” becomes the “third person.” And in the note there are shifting identities: “Since I will no longer be able to notice your presence, please allow me to salute you for your courage, your sense of adventure.” How odd! How perverse! The “reader” almost becomes the “author” because (s)he begins to end “nothing” and to create “something.” It is little wonder that there are “possible misunderstandings.” And these “misunderstandings” can exist only if there is an “understanding.” We are back to beginning questions.

And now we are offered another epigraph entitled (!) “Title”: “The book is the amplified object of the title, or the amplified title. The text of the book begins with the explication of the novel, and so forth.” (Novalis wrote the sentence first; now it is owned by Bénabou [or the author or the reader].)

The next page is blank. Then the text begins with a repetition of the title: “Why I have not written any of my books.” There is serious play (at work), a “little stream of doubles.” But which “doubles”? Every word, every space between words, puts meaning into doubt. And doubt is meaning. Yes?

Perhaps I should quote the “last” words of the text: “In truth I know not what must be wondered at more: the great goodness of the men who welcome such poor essays, or my incredible confidence in casting such foolishnesses into the world.” And, as the Master would write, “Here we are.” This is the “madness of art.” [Irving Malin]


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The Review of Contemporary Fiction Why I Have Not Written Any of My Books by Marcel Bénabou Irving Malin Marcel Bénabou. Why I Have Not Written Any of My Books. Trans. David Kornacker. Univ. of Nebraska Press, 1996. 111 pp. $25.00. Bénabou, a member of the Oulipo group, offers a thrilling, witty, and often somber text. Although it reminds me somewhat of 20 Lines a Day, it is perhaps more subtle than Mathews’s inquiry into the process of writing and/as not writing. The text “begins” with the title. But the title implies that nothing “begins.” Then it offers an epigraph from Julien Benda: “Understanding that the initial definition of my subject should, while being brief, also be of such rich potential that all the parts of the work would be mere offshoots of it, I spent a long time looking for it; the first sentence of Belphégor took me years.” The epigraph is puzzling because it implies that the “text” is a “mere offshoot” of the first sentence. The first sentence. Where is it? Is it the title? Is it the epigraph which is written by Benda? Or is it written by Bénabou? He complicates an already complex maze (mass?) by offering a note “to the reader.” He writes: “First lines of books are always the most important.” But he now refers to himself as the author (authority?). The “first person” becomes the “third person.” And in the note there are shifting identities: “Since I will no longer be able to notice your presence, please allow me to salute you for your courage, your sense of adventure.” How odd! How perverse! The “reader” almost becomes the “author” because (s)he begins to end “nothing” and to create “something.” It is little wonder that there are “possible misunderstandings.” And these “misunderstandings” can exist only if there is an “understanding.” We are back to beginning questions. And now we are offered another epigraph entitled (!) “Title”: “The book is the amplified object of the title, or the amplified title. The text of the book begins with the explication of the novel, and so forth.” (Novalis wrote the sentence first; now it is owned by Bénabou [or the author or the reader].) The next page is blank. Then the text begins with a repetition of the title: “Why I have not written any of my books.” There is serious play (at work), a “little stream of doubles.” But which “doubles”? Every word, every space between words, puts meaning into doubt. And doubt is meaning. Yes? Perhaps I should quote the “last” words of the text: “In truth I know not what must be wondered at more: the great goodness of the men who welcome such poor essays, or my incredible confidence in casting such foolishnesses into the world.” And, as the Master would write, “Here we are.” This is the “madness of art.” [Irving Malin]

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