My brother's attempt at an autobiographic essay in his recueil 'Paradise Club' has paid off in quite a spectacular manner. From an outsider's point of view, it would appear all fun and sympathetic but from mine, it brought out something more vivid and very real as I took profound pleasure at visualizing specific parcels of my childhood again. Whether some characters have been changed to Adolphe and Sunil while I fondly remember the real persons as being Clovis and Vijay is just an insignificant detail.
That said, the depiction of the characters made me wary about my very own self as I started to ponder about which description would suit me best if ever I was to appear in one of his novels. It might be most fitting to go with something like: In his world everything goes by wanting to look clean and pleasant, cultured and sympathetic, the typical creature who keeps books in his room to appear erudite but just ask him to cite a single sonnet from the 'Selected Poems & Letters of Keats' which adorns his shelf and he would only be to mumble "my heart aches and drowsy numbness pains my senses". That would be it, the rest of the poem being an improbable improvisation which would merely make sense. Yes, people are very attached to their own delusions.
Sous la plume de mon frère je prends conscience de l'ampleur de ma fadeur et de mon côté très lisse. je n'irai pas dire que je suis médiocre, un qualificatif bien trop exagéré, mais fade, fade, oui, semblerait me convenir tout à fait, je le reconnais. Carl de Souza a dit de mon frère lors d'un salon du livre, qu'il avait le 'talent' d'être 'foutant', pas sarcastique ou cynique mais bel et bien 'foutant', un adjectif difficilement explicable qui, émanant de la bouche de cet auteur ne sonna pas franchement comme un compliment. Je me souviens de cette impression d'irritation dès lors même qu'il prononçât ce mot.
Mais bon, isn't it the aim of a writer anyway, to be thought-provoking? Or is it just me who is bringing the thing to a whole new level; that of admiration coupled to the tension that binds me to my brother. We have never really known how to revolve around each other after all and it might as well be that I have been wrong about him all these years, who knows? Inexpensive psychiatry would reveal that I am simply looking for validation. It is a sad fact that I lose all my means and credibility in a confrontation with him. I don't know if he's lived to the edge but he has always had the courage of venturing into territories which at first glance never appeared to be made for him, those which were very much appealing to him, dark places where people were raw and authentic. He never crossed the border totally but still ventured far enough to experiment and observe and later put it in his writings, a bit like Hemingway did, with the exception that Hemingway was a larger-than-life character and my brother isn't. Maybe this is what tortures him so much. But enough with hypothesis...
My brother is extremely talented and the ease with which he expresses himself is something I envy. Talent is the prerogative of the happy few and in his case, hard work has allowed him to stretch his to lengths that cannot be ignored. It must have taken him years and years of writing and practicing to be able to be so sharp, analytical and humorous altogether. No wonder he sees me as a caricature, something which constantly infuriates me more-so because I admit that there are elements of truth attached to it.
It took Antish's sagacity and gentleness to calm me down from an unexpected urge of anxiety last night. Had he not tucked me with soft and reassuring words, I would have rolled in my bed all night with non-virtuous thoughts and woken up in pretty poor shape. What's left to say if not thank you to these two capricorns who enlighten my world in their very own individual ways. Antish for his patience and for acknowledging my fears, uncertainties and doubts about myself and my brother for the formidable reminisce of childhood and teenage souvenirs so colorfully described in his story.
with love.
