Adrián Astur Álvarez reviewed Thomas the Obscure by Maurice Blanchot
Review of 'Thomas the Obscure' on 'Goodreads'
5 stars
Things are starting to come into focus the more I gain some context. This is an incredible novel and one I will surely (necessarily) return to. The poetry of Sartre's Nausea (with plenty left over) and the philosophical criterion of Bataille's Accursed Share all wrapped into prose as craft worthy as any by Gide. A gorgeous dream of consciousness and the limits of being.
A taste:
He was seized, kneaded by intelligible hands, bitten by a vital tooth; he entered with his living body into the anonymous shapes of words, giving his substance to them, establishing their relationships, offering his being to the word "to be". For hours he remained motionless, with, from time to time, the word "eyes" in place of his eyes: he was inert, captivated and unveiled. And even later when, having abandoned himself and, contemplating his book, he recognized himself with disgust in the form of …
Things are starting to come into focus the more I gain some context. This is an incredible novel and one I will surely (necessarily) return to. The poetry of Sartre's Nausea (with plenty left over) and the philosophical criterion of Bataille's Accursed Share all wrapped into prose as craft worthy as any by Gide. A gorgeous dream of consciousness and the limits of being.
A taste:
He was seized, kneaded by intelligible hands, bitten by a vital tooth; he entered with his living body into the anonymous shapes of words, giving his substance to them, establishing their relationships, offering his being to the word "to be". For hours he remained motionless, with, from time to time, the word "eyes" in place of his eyes: he was inert, captivated and unveiled. And even later when, having abandoned himself and, contemplating his book, he recognized himself with disgust in the form of the text he was reading, he retained the thought that (while, perched upon his shoulders, the word He and the word I were beginning their carnage) there remained within his person which was already deprived of its senses obscure words, disembodied souls and angles of words, which were exploring him deeply.
And then there's me, slip sliding away into Blanchot.