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496 pages, Paperback
First published August 19, 2021
“Diary: I’m only keeping you for one reason: to record the extent to which The Labyrinth of Inhumanity has left me a poorer man. Great works impoverish us and must always impoverish us. They rid us of the superfluous. After reading them, we inevitably emerge emptied: enriched, but enriched through subtraction.”
“After my lyrical peroration, the translator looked at me for a minute, then said: That doesn’t mean anything. I’m going to give you some advice: never attempt to say what a great book is about. Or, if you do, the only possible response is “nothing.” A great book is only ever about nothing, and yet, everything is there. Don’t ever fall into the trap of wanting to say what a book that you think is great is about. It’s a trap set for you by the general consensus. People want a book to necessarily be about something. The truth, Diégane, is that only a mediocre or bad or ordinary book is about something. A great book has no subject and isn’t about anything, it only tries to say or discover something, but that only is already everything, and that something is also already everything.”
“Are things any different nowadays? Do we talk about literature, about aesthetic value, or do we talk about people, about their skin colour, their voices, their age, their hair, their pets, how they decorate their houses, whether their carpets match the drapes? Do we talk about writing or about identity, about style or about media buzz that eliminates the need for any, about literary creation or about sensationalist personalities? W. is the first black novelist to receive such and such prize or join such and such academy: read his book, it’s fantastic, obviously. X. is the first lesbian writer to publish a book written in gender-neutral language: it’s the major revolutionary work of our era. Y. is a bisexual atheist on Thursdays and a cisgender Mohammedan on Fridays: their account is magnificent and moving and so true! Z. killed her mother while raping her, and when her father comes to see her in prison, she gives him a hand job under the table in the visiting area: her book is a punch in the face. It’s because of all this, all this lauded and rewarded mediocrity, that we deserve to die. Everyone: journalists, critics, readers, publishers, writers, society—everyone.”
“For all their differences, they shared the same fate, to leave and not come back, and the same dream too: become learned men in the culture that subjugated and abused their own. What possible explanation can there be? A personal failing, built into their genes? The powerful seductiveness of white civilization? Was it cowardice? Self-loathing? I don’t know. And that ignorance is at the heart of the whole saga. The white man came, and some of our bravest sons went mad. Beyond mad. Madly in love with their own masters.”
“Elimane wanted to become white, and he was reminded that not only was he not, but that he never would be despite all his talent. He brandished every card of whiteness, culturally at least; these were simply used as reminders of his negritude. Maybe he understood Europe better than the Europeans. But how did he end up? Anonymous, disappeared, erased. You know this: colonization sows despair, death, and chaos among the colonized. But it also sows—and this is its most diabolical triumph—the desire to become one’s destroyer. That was Elimane: all the sadness of alienation.”
The dire aspiration of the essential book is to encompass infinity; its desire, to have the last word in the long discourse of which it is the most recent phrase. But there is no last word. Or if there is, it doesn’t belong to the book, since it doesn’t belong to Man.
“...he told me I had her same thighs and slid away, telling me that one day he’d ride those thighs, it was strange, because I felt incredibly ashamed and at the same time regal, proud like never before, I felt like a holy prostitute, a divine, sacred whore, necessary to the salvation of damned souls, and I was about to start psst-psst-ing the passersby when the man, I mean the hotel manager, came back and told me, We’re all set, he ate a lot, drank a lot, go finish him off,..”
“At times, yes, amid erratic paragraphs, I read a few pages, a few sentences, I saw an image, a painting, I heard music; and in those moments, Madag swept me violently off the earth and reminded me what substance made the man. But those flashes of brilliance merely illuminated in crueler fashion the depths of the surrounding literary night, before going out.”