To Articulate
A newly English-translated essay by Michel Houellebecq, originally published in 'Rester vivant et autres textes'
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Mr. Bread was born in 2002 in the salad bowl of the world. Currently, he spends his free time obsessing over arts. He has an upcoming book through Nut Hole Publishing entitled The Panifesto, and an English translation of Michel Houellbecq’s essay collection Rester vivant et autres textes, both coming soon.
“A force becomes movement as soon as it enters into reality and develops itself for a duration.”
If you are not able to realize the articulation of your suffering in a well defined structure, then you are fucked. Your suffering will eat you raw from inside before you even have any time to write it down.
Structure is the only way you can escape suicide. And suicide solves nothing. Imagine if Baudelaire’s suicide attempt was successful, when he was twenty four years old.
Accept structure. Also accept the old yardsticks. Versification is a powerful tool for freeing yourself from your internal life.
Don’t feel obligated to invent new styles. New styles are rare. One each century is plenty. Even then, they are not originally the great poets who invent these. Poetry is not a linguistic work, at least not essentially. Words are the responsibility of all of society together.
Most new styles don’t come from zero, but rather they slowly start by derivation from a prior form. The tools adapt, little by little. They suffer light modifications, but the newness resulting from the combined effect of these modifications generally does not appear until the end, once the work is written. It is quite comparable to animal evolution.
You will first issue inarticulate screaming. And you will often be tempted to turn back. This is normal. In reality, poetry narrowly proceeds articulate language.
Immerse yourself again in that inarticulate screaming whenever you feel the need to do so. It’s like a rejuvenating bath. But don’t forget: if you do not find a way out, at least from time to time, you will die. The human organism has its limits.
At the height of your suffering, you will not be able to write anymore. If you feel like you have the strength, try all the same. The result will probably be bad: probably, not certainly.
Never work. Writing poems is not a job: it is a duty.
If the use of a given form (such as the Alexandrine meter) demands effort from you, give it up. This kind of effort never pays.
General effort is another story, of which a permanent, consistent kind is necessary to escape your apathy. This kind of effort is indispensable.
With regards to the subject of style, never hesitate to contradict yourself. Bifurcate, change your direction as many times as necessary. Do not force yourself to have a coherent personality. That personality exists, whether you like it or not.
Do not neglect anything which can procure for you a smidge of equilibrium. In any case, there is no happiness for you: this was determined, and has been for quite some time. But if you can get your hands on one of its simulacrums, do it. Without hesitation.
In any case, it will not last.
Your existence is nothing more than a tissue of suffering. You think about reaching a point at which you can deploy that suffering in a coherent style. Your objective at this stage is to hope for a sufficient life.
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