I first stumbled on the work of future Nobel Literature Prize winner, Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clézio, way back in 1986 or so, whilst cruising the voluminous stacks at CU’s Norlin Library, back when there were stacks, and back when I was moderately well-read in French literature—Duras, Mauriac, Malraux, Sartre, Barthes, Ellul, Weil, Breton, Baudelaire, along with the Situationists, etc., mostly in translation. Despite my familiarity with French literary landscapes and my extended experiences traversing France, Le Clézio’s language style posed a challenge to my modest proficiency level. Aside from Le Procès-Verbal (The Interrogation) for which he was awarded the Prix Renaudot, the CU library fortuitously had copies of all his early works in translation including Le Déluge (1966) – The Flood, trans. Peter Green (1967); Terra Amata (1967) – Terra Amata, trans. Barbara Bray (1967); Le Livre des fuites (1969) – The Book of Flights (1971); La Guerre (1970) – War (1973); Les Géants (1973) – The Giants, all trans. Simon Watson-Taylor (1975); Voyages de l’autre côté (1975); and Désert (1980). The impact of Le Clézio’s narratives, reminiscent of my earlier literary revelation with Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, was profound. Through immersive storytelling, he masterfully captures intricate and hallucinogenic details of diverse settings, unfolding psychospiritual voyages through the perspectives of rootless characters perpetually grasping at ever elusive meaning. Regardless of the particular protagonist, all Le Clézio’s works offer a highly recommended exploration of the human experience.

After meeting my future ex-wife for the first time in Köln, Germany in June of 1988, I somewhat reluctantly headed to Arles to attend the Rencontres internationales de la photographie. But first, I spent some days in Paris at pre-arranged meetings with folks at the [now defunct] Centre national de la photographie, the Bibliothèque nationale, and several other rendez-vous. While in Paris, still deeply ensorceled by Le Clézio’s work, I went to his publisher, Gallimard‘s office/bookstore where I bought a couple of his books. They had a binder of press clippings and critical reviews of his work that I mulled over for a time. After some mental practice runs, in my terrible French, I ventured to explain to a couple of the salesladies how much I appreciated his writing, and politely inquired if they could give me his postal address. L’un d’eux a passé quelques appels téléphoniques, faisant descendre une jeune femme extrêmement jolie des bureaux du dessus. Cela a fait tomber mon français primitif dans les toilettes. She said they couldn’t share the address (Je comprends, bien sûr!), but she did make a gracious show of taking the letter I had brought with me and said she absolument would forward it to him. Who knows. That era in Paris, no one willingly spoke English which was quite okay, but I was at more than one embarrassing disadvantage because my lousy French was spoken in a decidedly parler lyonnais, from the hinterlands, down south, mixed with a shifty accent américain: folks were at first confused, then clearly amusé at my miserable diction!

That accent was imprinted on my primitive linguistic neurons back in the third grade in rural Maryland, following the lead of Madame Moon, who taught French to a small group of us after school a couple days a week. A petite and severe silver-coiffed native of Lyon, Mme. Moon held us in a régime ancien of holy terror: if any of us got just a bit obstreperous, she would threaten to come over and sit on us! This provoked an existential fear that I never fully recovered from. We followed every lesson closely, not realizing our French discourse would be marked forevermore: indicated most overtly by our learning the Lyonnaise oui (pronounced as a slack and breathy “whey”) rather than the ‘proper’ Parisienne oui (pronounced as a clipped “we”). C’est comme ça!

Quand même, back to M. Le Clézio, I highly recommend any of his work that is now, since the Nobel in 2008, all in fresh English translation. Better still if you can manage en français, although again, his vocabulary and usage makes for a challenging stretch.

Around when M. Le Clézio received his Nobel, and I was about to undertake my PhD in Australia, I discovered that he had been teaching one semester a year at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. Sadly, it never worked out for me to get through there after I returned to the US from Oz. And now, as he’s quite elderly, he’s no longer doing those gigs.

Je lève mon verre pour porter un toast à l’un de mes écrivains préférés!

Otherwise, thank god for those library stacks—a place for enLightened literary (and sometimes other!) encounters that has unfortunately met the same end as telephone books, logarithm tables, paper maps, and French teachers who were at liberty to punish children by sitting on them!