One morning, listening to the radio by chance – he hadn’t done so for at least three years – Jed learned of the death of Frederick Beigbeder, aged seventy-one. According to the station, he died at his residence on the Basque coast, surrounded by “the affection of his family.” Jed believed it without difficulty. There had indeed been something in Beigbeder, as far as he could remember, which could arouse affection, and even the existence of “his loved ones”; something that did not exist in Houellebecq’s home, and neither in his case: a kind of familiarity with life. In this indirect way, as it were by cross-checking, Jed became aware that he had just turned sixty. Surprisingly, he wasn’t aware that he had aged so much. We become aware of our aging through relationships with others and their lives. One always tends to see oneself among the eternal species. To be sure, his hair had turned white. His face had become wrinkled. But all this had been done gradually, without anything directly confronting him with the images of his youth. This incongruity struck him. He took thousands of photographs during his life as an artist, but he did not possess a single photograph of himself. Jed had never considered himself self-portrait material. Nor did he regard himself, to the slightest degree, a worthy subject.
From « La carte et le territoire » by Michel Houellebecq. (French Edition)
Translated by Louis Villalba
A magnificent prose for a rocambolesque story. An unusual artist reaches enormous success and does a weird portrait of Michel Houellebecq. The famous writer ends up assassinated. Interestingly, the author describes himself with a hefty dose of cynicism. This paragraph highlights the painter’s low-profile personality and Houellebecq’s observation of how we measure time passing: “Surprisingly, he wasn’t aware that he had aged so much. We become aware of our aging through relationships with others and their lives. One always tends to see oneself among the eternal species. To be sure, his hair had turned white. His face had become wrinkled.”
Original
Un matin, écoutant la radio par hasard – il ne l’avait pas fait depuis, au bas mot, trois ans – Jed apprit la mort de Frédéric Beigbeder, âgé de soixante et onze ans. Il s’était éteint dans sa résidence de la côte basque, entouré, selon la station, de « l’affection des siens ». Jed le crut sans peine. Il y avait eu en effet chez Beigbeder, pour autant qu’il s’en souvienne, quelque chose qui pouvait susciter l’affection, et, déjà, l’existence de « siens » ; quelque chose qui n’existait pas chez Houellebecq, et chez lui pas davantage : comme une sorte de familiarité avec la vie. C’est de cette manière indirecte, en quelque sorte par recoupement, qu’il prit conscience qu’il venait lui-même d’avoir soixante ans. C’était surprenant : il n’avait pas conscience d’avoir vieilli à ce point. C’est à travers les relations avec autrui, et par leur intermédiaire, qu’on prend conscience de son propre vieillissement ; soi-même, on a toujours tendance à se voir sous les espèces de l’éternité. Certes, ses cheveux avaient blanchi, son visage s’était creusé de rides ; mais tout cela s’était fait insensiblement, sans que rien ne vienne le confronter directement avec les images de sa jeunesse. Jed fut alors frappé par cette incongruité : lui qui avait réalisé, au cours de sa vie d’artiste, des milliers de clichés, ne possédait pas une seule photographie de lui-même. Jamais non plus il n’avait envisagé de réaliser d’autoportrait, jamais il ne s’était considéré, si peu que ce soit, comme un sujet artistique valable.
