merged with the putrid sewers that wandered through the prison. He still tenuously held on to reality and he managed to keep together fragments. He managed to keep his voice from giving out again. So that for one hour more, two and a half hours, one more night, the worlds that we had built with swift carpentry and defended would persist. Mental edifice . . . Worlds . . . Swift carpentry . . . What is . . . Huh? I will respond. That is what we had called post-exoticism. It was a construction connected to revolutionary shamanism and literature, literature that was either written by hand or learned by heart and recited, as the administration through the years would sometimes forbid us any paper material; it was an interior construction, a withdrawal, a secret welcoming land, but also something offensive that participated in the plot of certain unarmed individuals against the capitalist world and its countless ignominies. This fight was now confined solely to Bassmann’s lips. It was suspended in a breath. As thirty years of incarceration had left his mind feeble, and reduced his creative spirit to scraps, his final murmurs no longer obeyed the logics of pioneers, combatants, oneiric footprints, or enthusiasm, without which the post-exoticist project had produced no more than two or three works. During his death throes, Lutz Bassmann’s only wish was to stir the embers that he had guarded, and not be absorbed too quickly along with them by the nothingness. But even before, at the beginning of the ten years, maybe because he estimated that the confidants were already unattainable or no longer existed, it seemed that he had lost his creative spark. His latest works, his final romanesque jolts, took shelter under rather unattractive and uninspired titles, such as
To Know How to Rot, To Know How Not to Rot, or
Structure of Deconstructed Obscurity, or
Walk Through Childhood. These are narrative poems and Shaggås, supposedly compact pieces diluted into vast
arrière-garde logorrheas that one can take no pleasure in reading. There are also romånces, such as
About-Face Vandals, One Thousand Nine Hundred Seventy-Seven Years Before the World Revolution, and even
The Mantis, but the brooding that inspired them has devolved into nothing communicable. Their encryption is vain, their undeniable beauty is vain, maybe simply because no one—no one is listening. No living being other than Lutz Bassmann is paying attention. In such works, the idea of connivance with the reader, so oily and so generously spread onto the clockwork of official literature, has been disregarded to even the smallest details. Here we have the terminal rumblings, the ultimate punctuated throaty rasps of post-exoticism . . . POST-EXOTICISM. That word again. Here again this heavy term. Around it we have circled, from the beginning, like vultures around a carcass. WHAT IS POST-EXOTICISM? An insolent question, very unwelcome on the day of Bassmann’s death, but its appearance here demonstrates that a half-century after
Minor Angels, by Maria Clementi, sympathizers, on the outside, have not . . . Demonstrates that the incarcerated have been left alone. A symposium on post-exoticism was organized with Lutz Bassmann’s involvement before the ’00s of the twenty-first century, eighteen or nineteen years ago. It lived more or less in 1997. Beyond the walls of the prison, this must have been an age of hollow editorials, or of reflux toward what official literature itself considered the worst. Two popular chroniclers had been sent to us by a cultural magazine in general circulation, subsidized, I believe, by mafia industrialists in meat and construction. I say “I,” and “I believe,” but this is again just a matter of pure convention. The first-person singular serves to accompany the voice of others, it signifies nothing more. Without damage to the understanding of this poem, one can consider that I have been dead for ages, and not take the “I” into account . . . For a post-exotic narrator, anyway, there is not the thickness of a piece of cigarette paper between the first-person and others, and hardly any difference between life and death. But let us classify the problems. I spoke of two salaried employees of the dominant ideology, two virtuosos of journalism, of the star system and writing, a man and a woman who, for the occasion, had muted their mercantile convictions and come before us wearing the faded finery of intellectuals neither spineless, nor completely orthodox. They wanted, they announced, to inquire about prison literature, and shine a new and favorable light on romånces, several volumes of which had appeared outside of the prison, under the signature of one of our figureheads. I also think that General Intelligence desired to evaluate the state of our forces and to form an opinion on the persistence or extinction of our capability to harm, on the chances of the survival of egalitarian propaganda in the new millennium. The journalists presented themselves by insisting on their capacity as novelists sometimes at odds with the authorities, as, like in all totalitarian societies, those who are approved by the censor are also those who have the right to express themselves officially against the censor, and they articulated their authorial names with a casual humility, hoping maybe to impress us with their notoriety, with the value that credit agencies and the public recognize, but, as we were indifferent to this kind of authority, and as their magazine had never inspired anything in us but contempt, they still appeared as they were in both reality and in the world of media: two mercenaries of speech, Niouki and Blotno, Niouki the woman, Blotno the man, capable of theorizing on art and philosophizing on the fate of the people, capable over several hours of adapting themselves to our vision of the world, of entering into a dialogue with us, and even of getting friendly with us, capable of everything. They had five or six afternoons; they worked with us in turns, according to a program that we thwarted as quickly as possible. Anonymous, imperturbable, silent, a police officer attended the sessions and recorded us on a tape recorder. We were summoned to the interview room one after the other. The Blotno faced us with a notebook and pen, no doubt because he had been informed that only the police would be allowed to listen to the taped recording. As he was constantly scribbling, he hardly ever lifted his eyes in our direction, eyes that shone with a relative absence of insincerity, very blue, a myopic, almost Prussian blue. If I stray from the striking color of his irises, I now feel powerless to describe his physical attributes, the particularities of his head. In a pinch, I believe I could remember his corpulence. He was about medium-sized. The Niouki is less
2. Maria Clementi’s “Minor Angels,” romånce, 1977
Moyocoatzin and Mlatelpopec, two beings with the appearance of grotesque birds, on the whole semi-human, rid themselves of the sorrow of reclusion or exile inside an eternally burning shopping mall. Their daily life unfolds uneventfully and without contact with the outside world. They do not regret the past and they do not speak, whereby the reasons and the circumstances of their punishment remain in the shadows. As they are gifted with the power to stagnate time both in and around themselves, Moyocoatzin and Mlatelpopec adapt to living in the flames, since the burning is constantly pushed back later and later. They live among the beauty of the fire and its incessant roaring for a paradoxical duration of time: a second can take a century to elapse from beginning to end. The action in the romånce develops on this principle, in which the infinitely brief overlaps or sits next to eternity, and even distends it.
The pair settled near the record department, and occasionally listened to music. Having been condemned to perpetuity, they know that they will never escape from this howling place. They do not get bored. They listen to operas deformed by the heat, they tell each other anecdotes, and, as they do not have any books at their disposal, they invent some. They imagine an exterior reality and they comment on it. Bivouacking amid the smoke, sometimes they sleep, then they compare their dreams.
Suddenly, the telephone rings. Someone wishes to join them. It is Gardel, a revolutionary who is calling from his cell, where he is in the middle of immolating himself, and who, on this occasion, has discovered flambulence: the displacement of the self within fire, the petrification of time, the migration from one body to another.
We are witness to Moyocoatzin and Mlatelpopec’s distress. For those who have habituated themselves to a routine existence, the arrival of a mutineer can be very bothersome. They do not want their music store to become a center for international subversion, the calls for revolt carried on the voices of the singers who they adore. Little by little carried away with pettiness, they conceive of a hostile welcome for the visitor, a path filled with traps.
But the interloper penetrates the flames in an invulnerable form. Instead of taking a natural path, he walks through the interior of his hosts’ dreams, thus learning their secrets along the way. He now too possesses the form of a minor angel, a large fireproof bird. And when Moyocoyatzin and Mlatelpopec move to destroy him, he defends himself.
