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Dalkey Archive, March 2012

Edouard Levé'sAutoportrait is a perfect anti-memoir, a brutal reminder that some stories aren't meant for eager ears. In just over a hundred pages, Levé chains sentence after sentence of tightly wound memories, aspirations and failures. Unlike most autobiographical works, Autoportrait is not a celebration but a catharsis of life:

"I couldn't say whether I'd prefer to have my left arm amputated or my right leg.

When I read psychiatric manuals, I often find I have one symptom of the illnesses they describe, sometimes more than one, sometimes every symptom. I do not write in order to give pleasure to those who read me, but I would not be displeased if that is what they felt ...Often I think I know nothing about myself."

This is the autobiography as an act of masochism, and we as readers can't help but gawp at Levé's many unnecessary revelations. The book carries a terrible sheen of sadness throughout its handful of pages, and one that increases as more layers are peeled away. Every sentence of this slender volume sucks more of Levé's spirit onto the page. As a whole, Autoportrait renders Levé not only as a painfully honest narrator but a dangerously vulnerable one; any emotional defenses Levé may have had lay before you as text. It's spirit-crushing to see so much stripped away from a person, and such expulsion makes it very difficult to observe what, if anything, remains.

Surprisingly, there are glimmers of hopefulness in some of Levé's reflections, buried underneath the darkness.

In one of many contemplative mentions of suicide, Levé attempts to explain a complicated change of heart:

"In my periods of depression, I visualize the funeral after I kill myself, there are lots of friends there, lots of sadness and beauty, the event is so moving that it makes me want to live through it, so it makes me want to live. I don't know how to leave naturally."

These life-affirming moments come rarely in Autoportait, and when they do it feels like they snuck past Levé's darkened sightlines. But, before he allows readers the opportunity to cherish the sentiment, Levé switches gears to another disparate declaration.

Although possibly unintentional, there are occasional repeated threads in Autoportrait that provide certain memories with an extra uncomfortable weight. Levé rides motorcycles, doesn't care for discussing mechanics, but cares enough to reference it repeatedly through his book. He's loved six women, but told four, and tells his readers this often. The two other women remain nameless. These repetitions deal with relatively trivial, macho memories, but it seems they carry a certain importance to Levé. The format of Autoportrait practically equalizes all of Levé's memories, but these moments might reveal an unplanned and subtle depth.

Towards the end of Autoportrait, Levé mentions the sudden suicide of a friend. On his way out to play tennis with his wife, this friend darted back inside with the determination of someone who had left a set of keys indoors and shot himself in the basement while his wife stood outside. Levé is haunted by suicide, both by his own failed attempts and his friend's successful departure. (Levé's final book, Suicide, deals with these themes with an unrelenting sadness, much of which is compounded by the fact that Levé took his own life days after submitting his last manuscript.)

Knowing how his story ends, it's difficult not to read Levé without considering the troubled psychology that runs through his sentences. "Maybe I'm writing this book so I won't have to talk anymore," Levé posits at one moment in Autoportrait. It's a devastating idea, but one can turn that sadness around by reflecting on the permanence of his published texts: that despite his shortened life, Levé's words still linger.



Disclosure: A review copy was provided by the publisher. For more information, please see our Ethics Policy.