Tag: post-exoticism

On Antoine Volodine’s novel The Monroe Girls, an abject post-apocalyptic romantic comedy

Edwin TurnerLeave a comment

Each time I’ve written about an Antoine Volodine novel, I’ve dithered and dallied and despaired over neatly summarizing his expansive post-exotic project. It seems almost impossible to write about one of his novels without discussing how that novel fits within a robust textual (anti-)system. My abortive prefatory attempts might start with pointing out that “Antoine Volodine” is itself a fiction; the pen name is one of several heteronyms taken by a person whose “real” name may or may not be Jean Desvignes. I’d probably then point out that his works are crowded with writers, dissidents, rebels, narrators, all speaking after the apocalypse, and sometimes even after death. And then I’d likely try to somehow encapsulate the intertextuality of Volodine’s post-exotic project, which project is closer, I’d likely claim, to Fernando Pessoa’s or Søren Kierkegaard’s use of heteronyms than, say, an easier corollary, like Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha or Tolkien’s Middle Earth. (I’d probably bring up Roberto Bolaño too.)

And then I would delete all that shit and just write about the fucking novel.

That was the deal when I wrote last year about Mevlido’s Dreams (2007) or the year before that when I riffed on Radiant Terminus (2014). I loved those books, although “loved” might not be the right word.

(I felt much freer writing about Writers (2010), the first Volodine fiction I read. After I read Writers I read more Volodine novels and began to better “understand” his project and consequently felt more a stifling self-imposed pressure to preface any piece of writing about a Volodine fiction with the kind of ridiculous swollen agglomeration of sweaty word salad that I’ve thus far heaped up on your plate, unasked for, dear reader.)

All of which is a ridiculous way to begin writing about The Monroe Girls, Volodine’s 2021 novel which is now available in English translation thanks to Alyson Waters (and publisher Archipelago Books).

What I want to say is something like: The Monroe Girls reads like a romantic comedy. An abject post-apocalyptic romantic comedy. An abject post-apocalyptic romantic comedy with a schizophrenic coward as its hero, a hero who anxiously vomits in pretty much every chapter he’s in.

The Monroe Girls is grim and gross, like all of Volodine’s stuff, but it also has an endearing, goofy, slapstick quality that ambles alongside a romantic, if insane, longing. And the reason that I’ll keep all my prefatory bullshit in this time is, like, I think some familiarity with what Volodine is doing across these books helps clarify why The Monroe Girls, while very much part of his oppressive, dread-soaked, dilapidated post-historical world, also feels like an outlier in its heightened (though still deadpan) humor and romantic flourishes.

I will call in a ringer to provide the context I think my reader needs. I will borrow the authority of no less than the great translator David Bellos, who describes Volodine’s project so clearly in a 2012 essay:

Roughly speaking, all Volodinian literature comes from after the final collapse and defeat of the revolution. What revolution? It is never directly identified with an event catalogued in world history, but the movement to which all narrators have or had belonged prior to their capture, incarceration or expulsion has general features that are quite clear. The movement was internationalist, egalitarian, anti-authoritarian and anti-capitalist. It has no hope of ever making a difference anymore, save that fidelity to its ideas is what keeps all Volodine’s friends (his characters) in their cells and psychiatric wards.

…Wherever you venture in the Volodinian universe–jungle, steppe, city, slum–things are a mess. The environment is degraded, resources are scarce, buildings are dilapidated, equipment is either non-existent or in an advanced state of decay, and no productive activities appear to be going on at all. Perhaps, outside of the camps, prisons, wards and detention centers whence come the works of post-exotic literature there may still be structures that resemble normal life, but they impinge only briefly and aggressively into the carceral world of Volodine’s characters.

…One of the more striking features of Volodine’s narrator-characters is that some of them, for at least some of the time, are dead. Others are insane, and others are suffering (and aware that they are suffering) from amnesia. These partly fantastical premises (that is to say, partly characteristic of fantastic literature) are not just literary tropes. The post-exotic world from which Volodine reports pays little of our normal heed to the distinctions between memory and imagination, sanity and madness, or life and death.

So all of what Bellos describes there is true too for The Monroe Girls.

I used words like goofy and humor above, and said that The Monroe Girls is a romantic comedy. A brief description of the plot would not support such claims. Here goes:

Breton is our schizophrenic narrator. He hangs out with himself in a nearly-abandoned psychiatric compound where he spies (via special oneiric goggles and his own telepathy) on the “daydreams and adventures of the dead.” Specifically, the dead he spies on are Monroe and his titular girls. A former Party leader, Monroe was “executed once upon a time for deviationism.” In “the black space” he now operates from, Monroe molds his girls into revenant commandos, “formidable, beautiful, tough, brave, intelligent…the last egalitarian warriors.” He sends them back into the world of the living, the vanguard “armed faction of the future Party for whom he’d hoped and prayed since his execution.” The Party is anxious about this return, and enlists Kaytel, a kind of police chief to force Breton to track and monitor the Monroe girls. Unfortunately for the Party, it turns out that Breton was — is?— “madly in love” with one of these girls, a certain Rebecca Rausch. Our lovefool will do what he can to preserve Rebecca and the other girls, even as the oppressive Central Committee threatens (and delivers) violence upon him. The Monroe Girls progresses as a series of misadventures between Breton (and Breton), the various Monroe girls, and Kaytel, who ends up an oddly sympathetic character.

I don’t want to spoil too much — the fun and thrill of this novel is in its odd but brisk pacing and strange eruptions of humor — but I feel the need to share a climactic moment which is simultaneously heroic and ironic, romantic and mordant, as if Volodine inflates the revolutionary rhetoric simply to puncture it. Here is a scene, late in the novel; Rebecca, accompanied by Breton (and Breton) makes a “declaration of general policy…composed to recite before the final offensive…to convince the masses of the validity of the current action” (the “current action” being revolutionary violence):

“Workers, peasants!” she began. “Obscure members and members of no rank of the hospital personnel. Mental dissidents! Organic dissidents! Earthlings without a party and survivors! Schizophrenics and patients treated like cattle! Misguided torturers! Futureless thugs! Ordinary Party sympathizers! Dead soldiers! Living dead!”

Because I recognized myself in a few of the categories she was reeling off, I went to sit quietly in front of her, on a cement milestone that was wet but at the right height. I was pleased that someone, in a solemn speech, was taking into account the existence of people like me. Breton hesitated for ten seconds then sidled up beside me.

“She’s raving,” he whispered.

“Shut up,” I instructed.

One of the novel’s central formal conceits is Breton’s schizophrenia, which is less a psychological detail than another way the text refuses stable narrative position. The Breton/Breton split is not corrected or explained away; it persists as a structural doubling of perspective, in which even the “I” cannot remain singular. Early in the novel, the effect can be wonderfully confusing. Indeed, the novel’s second chapter reads like a revision or rewrite or reimagining of the novel’s first chapter. It also seems clear to the reader that the divided or doubled Breton exists within the narrative framework just as “realistically” as the single or solitary Breton. The “second” Breton is never remarked upon by other characters, but there is also nothing in the story that suggests that the double is merely a figment. The “other” Breton is just as valid an entity as any of the Bardo creatures that float through the Volodineverse.

Primarily, these Bardo creatures are, like, dead folks — not zombies, just, like, not living. Obviously there are the Monroe girls, who emerge from the “black and floating territory” to wreak havoc on the Party. It’s key to point out that they are flesh and blood, and Volodine renders them (and their armor, equipment, and weaponry) like action heroes or even comic-book heroes. At the same time, they are sleepwalkers, the spirit of failed revolution returned to the earth.

The Monroe girls contribute to the world of the dead, killing Party enforcers. One such episode is particularly comic; the dead don’t die right away in Volodineville; no, they’ll linger a bit, hang out, do a little investigating even. In one of my favorite bits of the novel, a pair of freshly-dead cops search an apartment. On the stairway, a long-dead but still-bickering couple snipe at the cops and each other. “It truly is a city of the dead,” one of the Monroe girls observes.

Intimate doubling pervades The Monroe Girls: the aforementioned dead cops; the old dead couple; Breton and Rebecca; Breton and Breton. Throughout his work, Volodine has often foregrounded loyalty to comrades as a virtue, one to be practiced even as the world turns to shit. The Monroe Girls imagines comradeship in different forms — bureaucratic, idealistic, romantic, and even sexual. There’s a strange horniness to some of the novel that points to sensual generation, an impulse I haven’t detected in other Volodine novels. Consider Kaytel’s other partner, Party leader Dame Patmos:

Despite being well over the hump of fifty, Dame Patmos remained attractive. Her face had grown wider, her flesh swollen, but the harmony of her features and even the lascivious proportions of her body had changed accordingly and today were still practically intact. The excess fat barely erased the memory of the radiant thirty-year-old woman she had been. She had metamorphosed into an enormous female mammal of fifty, voluptuous and still at ease with herself. She was aware she still had seductive powers if she put in some effort.

Volodine’s description of the sexual tension between Kaytel and Dame Patmos ironizes and undercuts any horny swelling though:

The two of them remained facing each other without a word for a long moment, like in a Taiwanese movie under terrible French influence, or like in a post-exotic tale right before a scene of criminal violence.

I love how Volodine doubles his simile here. The first simile points outward, toward a recognizable filmic register; the second turns inward. Both similes are rooted in the image of narrative, as if the scene can still be held together by recognizable frames — cinema, genre, the tale.

But Volodine’s narrators don’t get to stay safely inside those frames for long. The book keeps staging moments as if they belong to a legible scene of erotic or emotional intensity, and then breaking that scene from within, almost immediately, with something bodily and unassimilable. What looks like stylized tension tips into leakage, exhaustion, or violence, as if narrative itself can’t contain the material it is trying to organize.

Even romance, even the faint possibility of sensual connection, only ever holds for a second before the body insists on itself again. Volodine’s writing recalls and restages Julia Kristeva’s notion of abjection (discussed at length in Powers of Horror). Abjection here is not simply disgust but the moment the seams that keep the illusion of a stable, coherent “I” intact give way: when inside and outside, self and other, life and death begin to leak into one another. What should stay expelled returns: odor, fatigue, nausea, proximity. Here’s Breton (and Breton’s) description:

I began to think about death. It was a question we rarely raised, Breton and I. The idea of life made us vomit. It returned constantly, this idea, and it startled us, fueled our hiccups and the various fluids we coughed up. It was extremely difficult to live, to survive, to continue this long passage through the universal madness, the universal schizophrenia of the camp, to face the hostility of all and sundry day after day. It was extremely difficult and pointless to take part in this slow obstacle course, to sense within ourself deep mental and physical decline, to feel our bodies grow exhausted, overcome with awful pains and awful smells. It was extremely wearisome to be obliged to move forward at all costs, with at most the perspective of a next step, a next chapter in a book whose end escaped us and would always escape us. Extremely difficult, thus painful, pointless, and punishing. Death for us was merely a neighboring territory into which we’d venture naturally… [Death] did not really exist for us and, in any case, never had we imagined going there for good.

Oh shit wait did I say that this novel was, like, a romantic comedy? I think it still is, somehow. Or maybe it’s a romantic comedy after romance, after comedy, after the illusion that selves or worlds could ever remain coherent long enough to sustain those genres.

I do know that I laughed a lot; I do know that this one felt somehow more, I don’t know, concentrated than the sci-fi sprawl of Radiant Terminus or Mevlido’s Dreams, more linear than the fragmentary (although complete) works Post-Exoticism in Ten Lessons, Lesson Eleven (1998), Minor Angels (1999), Writers, and Bardo or Not Bardo (2004).

Maybe it’s because of Breton’s sweetness, so unexpected in a Volodine fiction, so contrasting with his intense abjection — how sweet his love for Rebecca feels. (Of course there isn’t one stable Breton in this novel, so maybe it’s my mood we’re seeing here.)

And I’ll add that the novel’s last chapter, “Annex,” has been one of the funniest things I’ve read all year. Throughout The Monroe Girls, characters are frequently having to attest to which faction of the Party they sympathize with. “Annex” is a list of “The 343 Factions of the Party in its Glory Days.” Some of the factions have cool names (“The Black Bonnets,” “The Partisans of the Red Lotus”), some have straightforward or even clinical names (“The Leninists of the Fifth Day,” “The Monroe-Absolutists”), but as the list grows, the names grow more comical, more absurd — “The Disappointed by Polpotism,” “The Chinese Takeout,” or, I think my favorite, “Frankenstein’s Fiancées.”

Last on the list is “The Faction ‘This is the end, my friend, the end,'” and recent posts on Twitter and Instagram suggest that Volodine’s post-exotic project may indeed be coming to some kind of conclusion this summer: eleven books, published simultaneously by eleven different publishers, all under the heteronym Infernus Iohannes. Strangely appropriate, I guess. Volodine’s fictions are not a discrete, stable literary system; the post-exotic novels are the proliferating afterlife of voices, identities, factions, and failures. Even its ending arrives as multiplication. Great stuff.

The Monroe Girls by Antoine Volodine in translation by Alyson Waters is now available from Archipelago Books.

Antoine Volodine’s The Monroe Girls (Book acquired, 13 Feb. 2026)

BibliokleptLeave a comment

There is an old saying, some may say a cliche, but nevertheless it rings as wisdom in my waxy ears: The best time to read a Volodine was twenty years ago. The second best time is now. Maybe start with Volodine’s 2021 novel The Monroe Girls, forthcoming in translation by Alyson Waters from Archipelago. Their jacket copy:

Breton has seen brighter days. Now his body sags as he pulls a pair of binoculars to his withered face. He peers from the grimy window of a near-empty psychiatric compound—one of the last buildings standing after an unspecified disaster—spying rue Dellwo below, dreary in perpetual rain. Into this world of devastation drop the Monroe girls—paramilitaries trained in the “dark place” by Monroe, a dissident executed long ago. Their mission to revamp the Party is futile in this bleak, decaying world. Breton, our schizophrenic narrator, is tasked (and tortured) by what remains of the Party to locate and identify the Monroe girls using special optical equipment and his powers of extrasensory perception. Breton’s journey through a bardo-like, hostile labyrinth invites us into a sensual swirl of bodily decay, political acquiescence, and civilizational collapse. In this derelict setting, Volodine ruminates on identity, surveillance, life after death, and love (which, alas, does not conquer all). An urgent and blistering tale, beautifully rendered with Volodine’s distinct pathos and humor.

It still believes in night | A review of Antoine Volodine’s post-exotic novel Mevlido’s Dreams

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Antoine Volodine’s 2007 novel Mevlido’s Dreams is a bleak, dystopian noir novel set several centuries in the future in the ruined city-state of Oulang-Oulane. Here, weary revolutionary Mevlido lives in a decaying ghetto called Henhouse Four, an eerie quarter inhabited by indigents, junkies, and other remnants of failed uprisings who must contend with the giant mutated birds who terrorize the borough.

Once a soldier of the revolution, Mevlido now serves as a policeman, yet he may also be a double or even triple agent, a sleeper sent through time from a kind of liminal afterlife, a bardo between death and rebirth. The novel drifts between waking and dream states, war memories and spectral futures, as Mevlido’s fragmented consciousness becomes a vessel for Volodine’s haunting post-exotic vision of history, language, and apocalypse.

About halfway through the novel, Mevlido’s bardo boss offers a handy summary of the apocalypse:

They’ve become an inexplicable species. They are just getting out of multiple wars of extermination, but a new conflict is already in sight. The population has decreased by a hundredfold, even more. Entire continents are currently uninhabitable. Those who have survived remain socially organized, but they no longer believe in themselves, or in society. They’ve inherited political systems to which they’ve lost the keys; for them ideology is a prayer devoid of meaning. The ruling classes have become criminalized, the poor obey them. Both classes act as if they were already dead. And as if, on top of that, they don’t even care. … Something in them has changed. You’d think that they no longer have the ability to differentiate between life, dreams, and death.

Our hero will be reborn into this turmoil, his consciousness a roiling mess of anxious irreality. “Even if I’m dreaming, I’m in reality,” he concludes at one point, as if to anchor himself in his mission. What that mission is, exactly, is never fully clear to Mevlido or the reader. Or perhaps the mission is very clear; as translator Gina M. Stamm puts it in her introduction, the plot of Mevlido’s Dreams “has the elements of a fairly classic tragic romance: man and woman are in love, the world prevents their being together, man descends into tragic circumstances.” This motif repeats in dreamlike iterations in the novel; Mevlido drifts through a post-exotic wasteland following orders no one remembers giving, haunted by his dead wife Verena Becker, whose presence threads through his days like a recurring dream or a flickering film reel.

We come to learn that Verena Becker died cruelly, murdered by the “child soldiers” who were pressed in to service by agents of the exploitative upper class. In Mevlido’s present time (or, more specifically one of Mevlido’s present times), the child soldiers are now “ex-child soldiers,” reviled refugees who hide under new identities, hoping to avoid the vengeance of people like Mevlido. The vengeance is not aimed just at these foot soldiers though; one of the novel’s heroes, Sonia Wolguelane, plots the assassination of the upper-echelon genociders who, now absolved of their war crimes, continue to rule the city-state with their one-time political foes. Here is Volodine’s description of one of the men Wolguelane assassinates:

Toni Müller, forty-nine years old, delegate to the Office of Fuel, policy officer during the final project of pacification of the remaining zones, initiator of the so-called controlled genocide practice, threatened with legal action after the disappearance of the Wongres, the Spanish, and the Myrzes, sued for not having been able to provide an explanation for the mysterious annihilation of the inhabitants of the Philippines. Amnestied. Director of the petroleum trusts in the remaining zones, billionaire, numerous books of economics published in his name, numerous honorific titles. During his last self-criticism, he admitted having constantly hidden from the masses the fact that he didn’t share the household chores with his wife.

While the apocalyptic stakes here are swollen to hyperbolic levels, Volodine’s critique of how the ruling class wields power nevertheless applies neatly to our own 21st-century blues. Henry Kissinger, for example, died fat and happy. I’m reminded too here of Thomas Pynchon’s critique of power, particularly in Gravity’s Rainbow, where the narrator laments that the Nazi war criminal Weissmann will not be punished but rather elevated, set to sit “among the successful academics, the Presidential advisers, the token intellectuals who sit on boards of directors. He is almost certainly there. Look high, not low.” Look low for the preterite heroes of Mevlido’s Dreams though. They are the “faded zombies, probably candidates for another hallucinatory expedition, left-behinds who imagine they will be able to leave again.”

I am making the novel sound too grim. It is rich, and much of that richness comes from a bureaucratic, deadpan humor, the laughter of exhausted ideologues trapped in their own paperwork. But what happens to faith in any ideology when it is sundered from observable reality? Consider this exchange, in which a lost Mevlido tries to communicate with a band of men who fail to recognize him as a human being:

“Incredible,” says one of the normal ones, “it’s still talking.”

“And what is it talking about?” asks the red cap.

“About the night,” says the fat one.

“It’s talking about the night?” the bare-chested one asks, surprised.

“Yes, it must still believe in night,” says one of the normal ones.

“Incredible,” says the other normal one, “it still believes in night.”

And beneath the satire, there’s love. Volodine writes love as a metaphysical condition, a persistence that outlasts ideology, memory, and even death. The tenderness between Mevlido and Verena gives the novel its pulse. It’s the one human rhythm left in a mechanical world. Stamm’s translation conveys this rhythm in clipped, moody sentences, wounded and precise.

Like Volodine’s 2014 novel Radiant Terminus, Mevlido’s Dreams operates in the twilight between horror and tenderness. But Mevlido’s Dreams is quieter, more interior—a story of a single man’s dissolution told in flickering vignettes. It reads like the afterimage of a life projected on a cracked wall.

That light, dim and trembling, is what Volodine and Stamm preserve. Mevlido’s Dreams reads not like a film script but like a film itself: shadowy scenes unfolding in silence, broken by bursts of deadpan dialogue and ghostly humor. You can see the ash swirling, hear the echo of curses in an alley haunted by mutant birds.

Oulang-Oulane feels shot through a grim lens, intense, ugly, beautiful, like something from Tarkovsky’s Stalker or a Béla Tarr film, with scenes of desolation punctuated by tenderness. Volodine isn’t cinematic because he borrows film tropes, but because he composes through atmosphere and rhythm. His sentences drift like a camera through fog and memory.

That line above—“it still believes in night”—could be the novel’s credo. Dreaming isn’t retreat; it’s resistance. Writing, too. Mevlido’s Dreams works as both a political fable and a séance for the lost, a way of keeping consciousness flickering in the dark. Highly recommended.

 

Horrors and oneiric aberrations | On Antoine Volodine’s post-exotic novel Radiant Terminus

Edwin Turner1 Comment

Antoine Volodine’s novel Radiant Terminus is a 500-page post-apocalyptic, post-modernist, post-exotic epic that destabilizes notions of life and death itself. Radiant Terminus is somehow simultaneously fat and bare, vibrant and etiolated, cunning and naive. The prose, in Jeffrey Zuckerman’s English translation, shifts from lucid, plain syntax to poetical flights of invention. Volodine’s novel is likely unlike anything you’ve read before—unless you’ve read Volodine.

Radiant Terminus begins with its hero Kronauer fleeing into an irradiated wasteland. Kronauer and two of his comrades are escaping from the Orbise, the capital of the Second Soviet Union, which has been invaded by dog-headed fascists. World-wide Marxism-Leninism has fallen, and the stability of nuclear-powered self-sufficiency has collapsed into the apocalyptic promise of a “world that nuclear accidents had made unlivable for ten millennia to come.” The world is indeed increasingly unlivable, but it also has become, we will find, a place for the undying as well. “Hell is on the surface, it’s here,” one character flatly remarks, adding, “No need to dive into the core.”

But Kronauer will have to dive into the core, at least metaphorically. When one of his comrades, succumbing to radiation poison, can no longer move, Kronauer seeks help, crossing the steppe and bravely venturing into the dark forest. Born in the sanctity of the Orbise, Kronauer had been schooled to focus “on the future of Communes for workers and countrymen. His view of the world was illuminated by proletarian morality: self-sacrifice, altruism, and confrontation.” He is driven to save his comrade, but we know from the outset that hopes are slim.

What matters here is Kronauer’s essential idealism. By the end of the novel, Kronauer will suffer, wondering if he will eventually abandon the principles that underwrite his sense of self. He worries that he will eventually slip into a “total regression to primitive hunting, intelligence sidelined for instincts, and, especially, deep down, an irrepressible desire to kill, to slaughter, and to hurt, even if he couldn’t remember anymore what had brought about this nightmare.”

We enter Radiant Terminus in the midst of a nightmare that somehow only intensifies. Kronauer finds his way to what might be the prospect of aid for his comrade, the titular Radiant Terminus, a collective farm that is somehow self-sustaining despite the ever-present specter of irradiated death. Not only is Radiant Terminus out of sync with the physical reality of the post-apocalyptic world, its principles don’t fully square with the tenets of the Second Soviet Union that have guided Kronauer’s mindset:

Radiant Terminus functioned on ideological principles that didn’t match up to the collectivist norms of the Orbise, but, as far as the allocation of goods went, the end result was the same. Disdain for property was, as had been the case throughout the Second Soviet Union, commonplace in the Levanidovo. It was a place where the Party had been extinguished, where the Party no longer existed, but where the idea of reestablishing capitalism and the bourgeoisie hadn’t occurred to anyone, and besides it had to be asked just what this thing called capitalism would have looked like at Radiant Terminus, and what bourgeoisie could be called upon to oppress the working class…

We come to understand, elliptically enough, that Radiant Terminus’s apparent prosperity (or at least sustainability) is purchased in large part via sacrifices made to the village’s old nuclear reactor core, which has melted down and is kept locked away. The core is a kind of doorway to hell. The citizens of Radiant Terminus offer it gifts from the old world:

Every month, indeed, the core was fed. The heavy cover for the well was opened, and some of the bric-a-brac collected over the last season or two was knocked over the edge; just to show that people weren’t panicking and weren’t afraid of pathetic radionuclides. Tables and chairs, television sets, the tarry carcasses of cows and cowherds, tractor motors, charred schoolteachers who had been forgotten in their classrooms during the critical period, computers, remains of phosphorescent crows, moles, does, wolves, squirrels, clothes that looked perfect but had only to be shaken to set off a haze of sparks, inflated toothpaste tubes filled with constantly simmering toothpaste, albino dogs and cats, clusters of iron that continued to rumble with an inner fire, new combine harvesters that hadn’t yet been broken in and which gleamed at midnight as if they were lying in full sunlight, garden forks, hoes, axes, debarkers, accordions that spat out more gamma rays than folkloric melodies, pinewood planks that looked like ebony planks, Stakhanovites in their Sunday best with their hands mummified around their diplomas, forgotten when the event halls were evacuated. The ledgers with their pages turning day and night. Cash-register money, the copper coins clinking and shifting without anyone nearby. These were the sorts of things thrown into the void.

The Gramma Udgul was the one to handle the maneuver

We come to understand the Gramma Udgul as priestess-witch archetype; “condemned to immortality from her first interactions with nuclear reactor cores” she is both immune to the ravages of radiation and cursed by it. The Gramma Udgul has her counterpoint in Solovyei, the dominant antagonist of Radiant Terminus.

Solovyei is the “president” of Radiant Terminus, but his role is something closer to an archduke synthesized with an insane wizard. Like the Gramma Udgul, Solovyei is immortal (indeed, a century earlier, the pair were husband and wife). Solovyei rules greedily over Radiant Terminus, and warns Kronauer to stay away from his three daughters. He is an inverted King Lear; mad, yes, but also deeply capable and cunning. Solovyei seems to find metaphysical sustenance in trips to Radiant Terminus’s nuclear core, emerging from time spent there “sizzling and blackened, weighed down with radiation and opaque poems.”

The development of Solovyei as a controlling intelligence—and Kronauer’s ideological resistance to his monomania as well as his three daughters’ battle against his invasive will—forms the main plot, such as it is, of Radiant Terminus. Solovyei is the author of the “horrors and oneiric aberrations” that haunt the characters and landscape that he is both collapsing center and impossible margin of. “It was hard to determine whether he was a mutant bird, a gigantic sorcerer, or a rich farmer from Soviet or Tolstoyan times,” the narrator declares at one point.

“This necromancer of the steppes,” Kronauer calls Solovyei, and then goes on to try to find language for the metaphysical:

This awful kolkhoz matchmaker, this reviver of cadavers, this horrible shadow, this giant impervious to radiation, this shamanic authority from nowhere, this president of nothing, this vampire in the form of a kulak, this strange man sitting on a stool, this abuser, this dominating man, this sleazy man, this unsettling man, this nuclear-reactor creature, this godless and lordless hypnotizer, this manipulator…

One of the key plot points of Radiant Terminus is that Solovyei can literally resurrect the dead, but cannot reanimate them back to what we would understand as true life:

….we all became bodies inhabited by Solovyei. Who knows whether this magic muzhik hasn’t taken advantage of us being dead, and if we aren’t all puppets within a theater where the manager, the actors, and the audience are all one and the same person

Some of Volodine’s chapters seem to inhabit Solovyei’s consciousness, a space that’s somehow both murky and sharp, an intelligence feasting on the agencies of other human beings:

Our best marionettes, I say. Him or me, doesn’t matter. When he’s stuck I keep going. Zombies, deep shadows, devoted servants. The dead stuck forever in the Bardo. Dead come from the dead. Wives come from unknown mothers. Henchmen. Best puppets and best dolls.

Every character who survives in the pages of Radiant Terminus seems to be susceptible to Solovyei’s oneiric horrors. He is the dream police, the puppet master — “Who’s he?” a minor character asks. The answer: “We don’t know…But we do know that he does with us whatever he wants. We’re in his hell.”

Solovyei’s daughters are the most sympathetic of his vampiric victims. These women, forced into the same unasked-for immortality as their father, find themselves repeatedly invaded by Solovyei, who haunts their dreams and walks around in their minds. One daughter sees herself “a creature imagined, possessed, and brought to life by Solovyei. A daughter of Solovyei, a daughter for Solovyei. A female annex in Solovyei’s life: nothing more than that.” They initiate their own eruptions of opposition: violence, suicidal rejection. Writing.

Near the end of Radiant Terminus, the narrator describes the novels of Hannko Vogulian, Solovyei’s eldest daughter:

In effect, they depicted the same twilit suffering of everyone, a magical but hopeless ordinariness, organic and political deterioration, infinite yet unwished-for resistance to death, perennial uncertainty about reality, or a penal progression of thought, penal, wounded, and insane.

We have here an internal description of the novel Radiant Terminus itself. Indeed, Radiant Terminus is always self-describing and always self-deconstructing: “Everything is in the same place, as in some kind of book, if you want to go to the trouble of thinking about it. That’s the ambiguity of ubiquity and achronia,” the narrator muses. When the narrator throws out the sentence, “These are complete works for no audience,” it almost feels like an inside joke. And Volodine can’t resist metanarrative descriptions of his own so-called post-exotic project:

If a post-exotic writer had been present at the scene, he would have certainly described it according to the techniques of magical socialist realism, with flights of lyricism, drops of sweat, and the proletarian exaltation that were part of the genre. It would have been a propagandist epic with reflections on the individual’s endurance in service to the collective.

Volodine’s Radiant Terminus works in all these modes while simultaneously subverting them. The result is an astounding novel, a work that will haunt any reader willing to tune into its strange vibrations and haunted frequencies. Very highly recommended.

Antoine Volodine interviewed at the Evergreen Review

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Antoine Volodine is interviewed by Andrew Wilson at The Evergreen Review. The interview focuses on Volodine’s 1990 novel Lisbon, Last Frontier. (Wilson’s translation of the first chapter of Lisbon, Last Frontier was recently published in The Evergreen Review). The interview touches on a number of subjects, including Volodine’s invented genre, post-exoticism. From the interview:

AW: Is post-exoticism simply anti-exoticism?

AV: Yes, what’s important in post-exoticism is that it does away with exoticism. You suggested anti-exoticism, and it could just as well have been anti-exoticism, in as much as what characterizes exoticism is the absolute distinction between the metropolis and the margin, between the center and the periphery. With exoticism, there is an interest in the margins–the writer lives on the margins–but it’s all for the sake of the center. In exoticism, one describes the margins with ideas that come from the center, whereas in our books, the characters—who are dying, or perhaps already dead, who are birds, or animals, or insane—have no center, or rather it is their margin that is the center—the center no longer exists. For us, mental derangement doesn’t refer to a discourse of normality outside of it. In the books, it is present, and it is the center, it is what’s creating the world. In Lisbon, Last Frontier, it’s Ingrid Vogel who creates the world. The reader might think she’s completely mad, schizophrenic, paranoid, but, in fact, the book never refers to an outside normality, from which one could judge Ingrid’s experience. Yes, the book enters her imaginary; yes, it creates imaginary spaces for her to inhabit, but it never refers to a normality outside of her. And it’s through this precise mechanism that the books are on the margins, in the dustbin (to borrow an expression from Lisbon, Last Frontier); it’s in this way that they are dustbin literature, a literature from elsewhere, and that’s what comes into being with post-exoticism. That’s what’s important I think: a literature that doesn’t refer to normality, that doesn’t refer to the center. In that sense it’s more anti-exoticism… but of course I’m not going to change it now. It’s too late; it’s post-exoticism until the end!

Blog about a list of films included in Antoine Volodine’s short story “The Theory of Image According to Maria Three-Thirteen”

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Antoine Volodine’s short story “The Theory of Image According to Maria Three-Thirteen” is collected in Writers, a book available in English translation by Katina Rogers from Dalkey Archive Press.

Writers is one of the best books I’ve read in the past few years: unsettling, bizarre, satirical, and savage, its stories focus on writers who are more than writers: they are would-be revolutionaries and assassins, revolting humans revolting against the forces of late capitalism.

Writers (which I wrote about here) functions a bit like a discontinuous novel that spins its own web of self-references to produce a small large gray electric universe—the Volodineverse, I guess—which we can also see in post-exotic “novels” like Minor Angels and Post-Exoticism in Ten Lessons, Lesson Eleven. 

Volodine’s post-exotic project refers obliquely to the ways in which the late 20th century damns the emerging 21st century. And yet the trick of it all is that the stories and sketches and vignettes seem ultimately to refer only to themselves, or to each other—the world-building is from the interior. This native interiority is mirrored by the fact that many of his writer-heroes are prisoners communicating from their cells, often to interrogators, but just as often to an unresponsive void.

“The Theory of Image According to Maria Three-Thirteen” takes place in such a void, a kind of limbo into which the (anti-)hero Maria Three-Thirteen speaks herself into existence. It’s an utterly abject existence; Maria Three-Thirteen crouches naked like “a madwoman stopped before the unknown, before strangers and nothingness, and her mouth and her orifices unsealed after death…all that remains for her is to speak.” She speaks to a semi-human tribunal, a horrorshow, creatures “without self-knowledge.” After several paragraphs of floating abject abstraction, Maria eventually illustrates her thesis—an evocation of speech without language, speech in a deaf natural voice–to this audience.

Her illustration is a list of scenes from 20th-century films.

I found this moment of the story initially baffling—it seemed, upon first reading, an utter surrender to exterior referentiality on Volodine’s part, a move inconsistent with the general interiority of Writers. Even though the filmmakers alluded to made and make oblique, slow, often silent, often challenging (and always beautiful) films, films aesthetically similar to Volodine’s own project, I found Volodine’s gesture too on-the-nose: Of course he’s beholden to Bergman, Tarkovsky, Bela Tarr!

Rereading the story, and rereading it in the context of having read more of Volodine’s work, I take this gesture as the author’s recognition of his aesthetic progenitors. Volodine here signals that the late 20th-century narrative that most informs his work is cinema—a very specific kind of cinema—and not per se literature.

This reading might be a misreading on my part though. Maybe Volodine simply might have wanted to make a list of some of his favorite scenes from some of his favorite films, and maybe Volodine might have wanted to insert that list into a story. And it’s a great list. I mean, I like the list. I like it enough to include it below. I have embedded the scenes alluded to where possible, and in a few places made what I take to be worthy substitutions.

Here is Volodine; here is Volodine’s Maria Three-Thirteen, speaking the loud deaf voice—

And now, she begins again, to illustrate, I will cite a few images without words or almost without words, several images that make their deaf voice heard. You know them, you have certainly attended cinema showings during which they’ve been projected before you. These are not immobile images, but they are fundamentally silent, and they make their deaf voice heard very strongly.

The chess match with death in The Seventh Seal by Ingmar Bergman, with, in the background, a procession of silhouettes that undertake the arduous a scent of a hill.

The man on all fours who barks in the mud facing a dog in Damnation by Bela Tarr.

The baby that cries in a sordid and windowless apartment in Eraserhead by David Lynch.

The bare facade of an abandoned apartment building, with Nosferatu’s head in a window, in Nosferatu by Friedrich Murnau.

The boat that moves away from across an empty sea, overflowing with cadavers, at the end of Shame by Ingmar Bergman.

The desert landscape, half hidden by a curtain that the wind lifts in Ashes of Time by Wong Kar Wai.

The early morning travel by handcar, with the regular sound of wheels, in Stalker by Andrei Tarkovsky.

The old man with cancer who sings on a swing in Ikiru by Akira Kurosawa.

The blind dwarfs with their enormous motorcycle glasses who hit each other with canes in Even Dwarfs Started Small by Werner Herzog.

The train station where three bandits wait at the beginning of Once Upon a Time in the West by Sergio Leone.

The flares above the river in Ivan’s Childhood by Andrei Tarkovsky.

The prairie traveled over by a gust of wind in The Mirror by Andrei Tarkovsky.

She is quiet for a moment.

There are many others she thinks. They all speak. They all speak without language, with a deaf voice, with a natural and deaf voice.

 

Antoine Volodine’s Post-Exoticism in 10 Lessons, Lesson 11 (Book acquired in July, 2018)

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Even though I haven’t gotten to Minor Angels yet, I went ahead and picked up Antoine Volodine’s Post-Exoticism in Ten Lessons, Lesson Eleven. Publisher Open Letter’s blurb:

Like with Antoine Volodine’s other works (Minor Angels, We Monks & Soldiers), Post-Exoticism in Ten Lessons, Lesson Eleven takes place in a corrupted future where a small group of radical writers—those who practice “post-exoticism”—have been jailed by those in power and are slowly dying off. But before Lutz Bassmann, the last post-exoticist writer, passes away, journalists will try and pry out all the secrets of this powerful literary movement.

With its explanations of several key “post-exoticist” terms that appear in Volodine’s other books, Lesson Eleven provides a crucial entryway into one of the most ambitious literary projects of recent times: a project exploring the revolutionary power of literature.

Translated from the French by J. T. Mahany

You can read an excerpt from the book here.

Blog about the first half of Antoine Volodine’s Writers

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Antoine Volodine’s collection of loosely-connected stories Writers (2010; English translation by Katina Rogers, Dalkey Archive, 2014) is 108 pages. I have read the first four of the seven stories here—the first 54 pages. This is the first book by Volodine that I have read. Antoine Volodine is in fact a pseudonym, I know, but I don’t know much else about the writer. I’ve been meaning to read him for a few years, after some good folks suggested I do so, but I’ve never come across any of his books in the wild until this weekend. After I finish Writers I will read more about Volodine, but for now I am enjoying (?) how and what this book teaches me about the bigger project Volodine seems to be working towards.

That bigger project evinces in the first story in the collection, “Mathias Olbane,” which centers on the titular character, a writer who tries to hypnotize himself into a suicide attempt. Poor Mathias goes to prison for twenty-six years — “He had assassinated assassins.” Like most of the figures in Writers (so far anyway—you see by the title of this post that I am reporting from half way through, yes?) — like most of the figures in Writers, Mathias is a revolutionary spirit, resisting capitalist power and conformist order through radical violence. Before prison, Mathias wrote two books. The first, An Autumn at the Boyols’ “consisted of eight short texts, inspired by fantasy or the bizarre, composed in a lusterless but impeccable style. Let’s say that it was a collection that maintained a certain kinship with post-exoticism…” The description of the book approximates a description of Writers itself; notably, Volodine identifies his own genre as post-exoticism. Autumn at the Boyols’ doesn’t sell at all, and its sequel, Splendor of the Skiff (which “recounted a police investigation, several episodes of a global revolution, and traumatizing incursions into dream worlds”) somehow fares even worse. Mathias begins a new kind of writing in prison:

…after twenty-six years in captivity, he had forged approximately a hundred thousand words, divided as follows:

  • sixty thousand first and last names of victims of unhappineess
  • twenty thousand names of imaginary plants, mushrooms, and herbs
  • ten thousand names of places, rivers, and localities
  • and ten thousand various words that do not belong to any language, but have a certain phonetic logic that makes them sound familiar

I love the mix of tones here: Mathias Olbane’s grand work is useless and strange and sad and ultimately unknowable, and Volodine conveys this with both sinister humor and dark pathos. Once released from prison, our hero immediately becomes afflicted with a rare and incurable and painful disease. Hence, the suicide urge. But let’s move on.

The second tale in Writers, “Speech to the Nomads and the Dead,” offers another iteration of post-exotic writing, both in form and content. The story plays out like a weird nightmare. Linda Woo, isolated and going mad in a prison cell, conjures up an audience of burn victims, an obese dead man, Mongolian nomads, and several crows. She delivers a “lesson” to her auditors (a “lesson,” we learn, is one of post-exoticism’s several genres). The lesson is about the post-exotic writers themselves. She names a few of these post-exotic writers (Volodine is addicted to names, especially strange names), and delivers an invective against the modern powers that the post-exotic writers write against:

Post-exoticism’s writers…have in their memory, without exception, the wars and the ethnic and social exterminations that were carried out from one end of the 20th century to the other, they forget none and pardon none, they also keep permanently in mind the savageries and the inequalities that are exacerbated among men…

The above excerpt is a small taste of Woo’s bitter rant, which goes on for long sentence after long sentence (Volodine is addicted to long sentences). Like Mathias Olbane, Linda Woo writes in the face of futility, creating the “post-exotic word,” a word that creates an “absurd magic” that allows the post-exotic writers to “speak the world.”

Linda Woo’s name appears in the next story in Writers, “Begin-ing,” if only in passing. This story belongs to an unnamed writer, yet another prisoner. Wheelchair-bound, he is interrogated and tortured by two insane inmates who have taken over their prison, having killed their captors. The pair, Greta and Bruno Khatchatourian, are thoroughly horrific, spouting abject insanities that evoke Hieronymus Boschs’s hell. They are terrifying, and I had a nightmare the night that I read “Begin-ing.” It’s never quite clear if Greta and Bruno Khatchatourian are themselves post-exotic writers gone mad or just violent lunatics on the brink of total breakdown. In any case, Volodine affords them dialogue that veers close to a kind of horror-poetry. “We can also spew out the apocalypse,” Greta defiantly sneers. They torture the poor writer. Why?

They would like it, in the end, if he came around to their side, whether by admitting that he’s been, for a thousand years, a clandestine leader of dark forces, or by tracing for them a strategy that could lead them to final victory. … They would like above all for him to help them to drive the dark forces out from the asylum, to prepare a list of spies, they want him to rid the world of the last nurses, of Martians, of colonialists, and of capitalists in general.

The poor writer these lunatics torture turns inward to his own formative memories of first writings, of begin-ing, when he created his own worlds/words in ungrammatical misspelled scrawlings, filling notebook after notebook. Volodine unspools these memories in sentences that carry on for pages, mostly centering on the writer’s strange childhood in an abject classroom where he engages in depravities that evoke Pasolini’s Salò. And yet these memories are the writer’s comfort—or at least resistance—to the lunatics’ violence. Volodine’s prose in “Begin-ing” conjures Goya’s various lunatics, witches, demons, and dogs. It’s all very upsetting stuff.

Courtyard with Lunatics, 1794 by Francisco Goya (1746-1828)

After the depravity of “Begin-ings,” the caustic comedy of the next story “Acknowledgements” is a welcome palate cleanser. In this story’s twelve pages (I wish there were more!) Volodine simultaneously ridicules and exults the “Acknowledgements” page that often appends a novel, elevating the commonplace gesture to its own mock-heroic genre. The story begins with the the hero-writer thanking “Marta and Boris Bielouguine, who plucked me from the swamp that I had unhappily fallen into along with the bag containing my manuscript.” The “swamp” here is not a metaphor, but a literal bog the writer nearly drowned in. And the manuscript? A Meeting at the Boyols’, a title that recalls poor Mathias Olbane’s first book  An Autumn at the Boyols’. Each paragraph of “Acknowledgments” is its own vignette, a miniature adventure in the form of a thank-you note to certain parties. Most of the vignettes end in sex or death, or an escape from one of the two. “Grad Litrif and his companion Lioudmila” as well as “the head of the Marbachvili archives” (oh the names in this story!) are thanked for allowing the writer

…to access the notebooks of Vulcain Marbachvili, from which I was able, for my story Long Ago to Bed Early, to copy several sentences before the earthquake struck that engulfed the archives. My thanks to these three people, and apologies to the archivist, as I was sadly unable to locate either her name or her body in the rubble.

“Acknowledgments” is littered with such bodies—sometimes victims of disasters and plagues, and elsewhere the bodies of the married or boyfriended women the writer copulates with before escaping into some new strange circumstances (he often thanks the husbands and the boyfriends, and in one inspired moment, thanks a gardener “who one day had the presence of mind to detain Bernardo Balsamian in the orchard while Grigoria and I showered and got dressed again”). He thanks a couple who shows him their collection of 88 stuffed guinea pigs; he thanks “the leader of the Muslim Bang cell” who, during his “incarceration in Yogyakarta…forbid the prisoners on the floor from sodomizing” him; he thanks the “Happy Days” theater troupe who “had the courage” to perform his play Djann’s Awakening three times “before a rigorously empty room.” Most of the acknowledgments connect the writer’s thank-you to a specific book he’s written. I’m tempted to list them all (oh the names!), but just a few—Tomorrow the Otters, Eve of Pandemic, Journal of Pandemonium, Goodbye Clouds, Goodbye Romeo, Mlatelpopec in Paradise, Macbeth in Paradise, Hell in Paradise…Without exaggeration: “Acknowledgements” is one of the funniest stories I’ve ever read.

With its evocations of mad and obscure writers, Volodine’s books strongly reminds me of Roberto Bolaño’s work. And yet reading it is not like reading an attempt to copy another writer—which Volodine is in no way doing—but rather like reading a writer who has filtered much of the same material of the 20th century through himself, and has come to some of the same tonal and thematic viewpoints—Volodine’s labyrinth is dark and weird and sinister and abject, but also slightly zany and terribly funny. More to come.