We here at the Ullage Group are intrigued by the extremes of literature. For that reason, we’ll occasionally raise a toast to an exceptional example. In this series, those will be works that are unusually short or long.

The long poem is an unpopular form these days. Long movies and TV serials do well. Novels have expanded: popular fiction, once ruled by punchy pulps, now tends to the epic; even kids inhale huge Harry Potter tomes. But something about the long poem makes readers scatter. This is odd, since it’s one of the oldest and most enduring of genres. It must be a phase we’re going through.

So: let’s celebrate one. Pop the cork, and lift that ullage to La Seine, by Raymond Roussel.

The extraordinary life and work of Roussel are celebrated elsewhere; scour the www if you’re curious. I’ll just mention that he was a wealthy eccentric who devoted his life to writing eight incomparable books, which he published himself.

Rousselians have long had to content ourselves with gaping, bug-eyed, at those eight marvels. But that changed in 1989, with the discovery of a cache of manuscripts, including several previously unknown works — among them La Seine, published in 1994.

Here we go.

La Seine, probably written 1900-1903, is a four-act play in verse. The first act is fairly conventional: a husband and wife are seen at home, apparently content; when the wife exits, the mistress enters, and persuades the man to leave his wife for her; and the act closes with the kid coming home and chattering about school, oblivious to his now broken home. It’s familiar fare, and handled in 600 lines of competent alexandrines. But something is amiss: before the child’s final scene, there is an interlude in which no less than seventeen art students are seen through an open door upstage, descending the stairs and discussing subjects for paintings. They have nothing to do with the rest of the action, and will not be seen again.

The second act is unlike anything I’ve ever read. The man and mistress (Raoul and Jeanne) sit in the audience of the Moulin Rouge, and bill and coo and chat. Around them, other patrons eat, drink, gossip, flirt, recount dreams and plots of plays, dance, and make small talk. There are around 400 of these minor characters; nothing really happens; and it goes on for close to 5000 lines (300 pages). The third act is essentially the same, except at the Bois de Boulogne, and is only 1000 lines. The fourth act is brief: Jeanne has run off; Raoul is inconsolable, and finally jumps into the Seine. Again, Parisians pass, talking about other things.

Is it boring? It is; but boring in the same way as relaxing at a cafe and people-watching — except that everyone is speaking in rhymed couplets, which is strange. I find it boring in a peaceful and refreshing way; and for some reason, disturbingly beautiful.

Near the end of Act Three (line 6335), a character named Gloziou makes his first and final appearance; and quotes to another, Montès, a maxim which I’ll translate here to wrap up:

Man only needs to give himself one goal:
That’s beauty; whether reached by way of lute,
Or pen, or brush, is of no great concern,
Provided he create it once, at least,
For that’s the door to happiness and peace.

Once again, to Roussel.

(Posted by Doug Skinner)