The Origin of the World

Hello Gentle Reader

I have read Michon prior. His debut “Small Lives,” caught and piqued my interest with its premise. However, when I opened the book up, I had discovered, that I had stumbled upon a writer, who at the time struck me as a: adjective addicted author, who juiced with continual pretentious adjectives, to fill his sentences with his own cleverness. I was not by any means impressed with finishing the book. The novel itself began, like one would begin walking into a forest. It’s beautiful and a wonder to behold. However after journeying deeper, the landscape changed more: the sentences grew in their length; the adjectives became more abundant, and I had become lost. I had broken the cardinal rule of traveling in unfamiliar landscapes: leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. Yet it in the end it did not matter. After getting over the pretentions laid down by what I saw as a young authors attempt at appearing as great the authors before him, with is unnecessary verbosity; I trudged on and finished the book with ambivalent uncertainty. In the end, and after reading “Small Lives,” there were large amounts of trepidation. The prose it seemed was overtly saturated, and far too sweetened with the authors own attempts at poetic grandiloquent wit with language, and redundant prose. Time lapsed however, and once again I would give Michon another go. His next novel was again published by one of my favourite publishers: Archipelago Books; was “The Eleven.” A slim novel, which tackled a, fictional artists, painting that depicts the eleven members of The Committee for Public Safety during the Reign of Terror, which followed the French Revolution. This attempt lasted by only a few pages, before its purple conceited behavior ended up being redundant, tedious and contrite. After my attempts at reading “The Eleven,” and the failed acts of trying to engage me as a reader, I started to wonder, what is it that everyone is praising with Michon? Have I somehow failed to miss the enjoyment, and the intellectual stimulation, that is promised with Michon’s work? After doubting myself, I started to look at the author’s work, which I had read. “The Eleven,” was conceited and contrite of its own self-absorbed world, written in such purple prose, that it failed to see its own failures. “Small Lives,” I had been forgiving with. It was a first novel. The attempt at polishing and over indulgence in a thesaurus was novice. I weighted my findings carefully. Yet I decided to give Michon another try. Despite my frustrations with his previous work, there was an inclination; that there was something in his works that I was missing. “The Origin of The World,” happened to be a book of redeeming qualities, which showcases in positive light, Michon’s prose, as being short, but dense.

Desire and love are two edges of the same knife. However, the both deal with the concept of attraction in different manners. Where love is conceived through time and getting to know an individual. Desire is spawned from a shallow pool of lust. Where love can be sustained; desire is all about the instantaneous gratification of the now. It is only the quenching of the fire of raging hormones. Love pushes the darkness back. Love is the understanding of two hearts beating at the same frequency; on a level of mutual understanding. Michon’s portraitist of a novel: “The Origin of The World,” discusses the painful tribulations of having desire; and the realities of realising that they are not, to be attained; and the cruelties, that take place after which the tormented emotions find their release. The prose is dense as it is thick; to further showcase its observant powers. It is an imagist like book. It orbits around observations, and dream like fantasies. Compared to the portraits that Michon has done prior – such as those detailing the lives of painters; and other famous individuals like Rimbaud; “The Origin of The World,” is almost akin to that of a conventional novel.

The landscape, in which Michon describes, becomes less and less than a scenic backdrop; but rather a character in itself that has shaped the original inhabits of it. Our narrator is an outsider. He is a young twenty year old teacher; he arrives in this new desolate and ancient world, by bus and is greeted by the September autumnal rains. Our narrator however, appears to assimilate in the town rather quickly. He settles into the hotel; and finds food, beer, and the atmosphere of the town in its poignant bar.

“Three steps took you down into the bar, it was painted that blood red once called rouge antique; it smelled of saltpeter; between long silences, a scattering of seated drinkers spoke loudly of gunshots and fishing; their movements in the low light cast their shadows over the walls; if you looked above the counter you would see a stuffed fox start at you, its pointed head turned violently your way but with its body running along the length of the wall, as if in flight.”

The above passage, gives an immediate sense of the new surroundings in which the narrator finds himself. He is young, and that is the only detail that has been given beforehand. His life before this town are not known. The town itself has been exiled out of, times ruling realms; and has since become squandered; with only fishing and scaling as terms for discussion. While reading the above passage, there came a sense of nostalgia. Where this bar was red; where I had come from the local bar was painted blue; though the colour inside was that of a wasted liver. The colour of cowardice and beer. Yellow now is a continual reminder of attempts to flee the mundane monotony of everyday life. – Despite the above passage however, Michon shows his Faulknerian flare for a shift in the perspective, from a simple description; to a passage that reflects the mental anguish of the narrator at the prospect of meeting his new students:

“The night, the creature’s eyes, the red walls, these peoples rough talk, their archaic words— all of this sent me back to some uncertain, pleasure less moment passed, filled me with a vague fear that was compounded by the fear of soon having to face m students: this past seemed to be my future, these shady fisherman whose captains were loading me onto the rickety raft of the adult life, and who reaching the rivers middle, were stripping me and throwing me to the bottom [ . . . ],”

It becomes clear, that the narrator finds himself uncomfortable in his new role as both teacher and as an adult. He is no longer a student; and no longer a child. He will become a figure of authority both as a teacher and as an adult. Michon’s prose in these regards are matter of fact and sardonic. However, our young narrator soon becomes acquainted with the object of his desire. A simple tobacconist; who runs a shop. How our narrator finds her desirable is not made clear, through the prose. Yet she is described, through and through – with prose that is at once innocent in its sheer objective desire; and sexually malicious in its juvenile need to quench the primitive thirst.

The novel is filled with atmosphere, which is rendered beautifully thanks to Michon’s writing. It’s dazzling and polished to almost baroque effect. However if you are looking for a novel of a traditional narrative, it would be wise to omit this novel. What happens is lost eventually. The entire text and novella is strained through, time after time, to ensure the quality becomes dense, polished and pristine. Any hint of any traditional structure of the novel is quickly, sifted out. What is left is a novel that survives not on plot; but on its slice of life vignettes and observations. The language is both what keeps this book together; but is also its sole challenger as well. After a while the words, begin to melt in to one another and if a reader is not patient in their reading of the novel, there will be disappointment and frustrations. There is a slight sense of satisfaction though, of reading a Michon novel, and seeing why the author has the reputation that he has. When one says that a short novel or short prose is lightweight, Michon is the author to prove that, that perspective is wrong. His prose is dense, and seethes with details. Michon is a portraitist. His works are intimate and detailed. He is the writer and the champion of the details that go unnoticed. The author is not one of cinematic panoramas. His work is poetic, dense and intensely intimate; almost to a fault. Yet his detailed approach give his works, their own blend of literary uncertainty in a good way. Short is powerful. Small is grand. It is also difficult and packed with ideas profound and philosophical. Michon is proof of that.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary