#prater violet

[womansfilm]

Prater Violet, Christopher Isherwood, 1945

[literary-twink]

Prater Violet

“Beneath outer consciousness, two other beings, anonymous, impersonal, without labels, had met and recognized each other, and had clasped hands.”

Christopher Isherwood

[oldfilmsflicker]

book #5 - Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly by Anthony Bourdain book #6 - Prater Violet by Christopher Isherwood

[nokindarider]

[danskjavlarna]

Movies are Pure Mathematics

“The movies aren’t drama, they aren’t literature—they’re pure mathematics.” —Christopher Isherwood, Prater Violet* *Though we like that particular line, Prater Violet is what today we’d call a blog post, not a novel by any definition of that word.  Anything this light, this flimsy, ought at least to be satirical or outright funny.  One might be tempted to say that the book is, at the very least, an inoffensive slice of life, yet in the end it actually does offend.  And that is because of its central lie.  Isherwood portrays himself in the story as a struggling screenwriter, but he hasn’t the imagination to conceive of any legitimate role that his character has been hired to do.  In other words, why is he being paid to be a day-and-night companion to an Austrian film director?  Not as a screenwriter (the film’s story has already been written; at most, Isherwood serves as a text doctor, but that’s hardly a 24-hours-a-day, months-on-end job).  No – in fact, what is blazing obvious is that Isherwood was assigned not to a writing job but as a spy/minder of the director.  He portrays his character as being an artist, but in fact he’s a government spook.  The dishonesty is disgusting.  We love a good, honest spy story – but this is a spy story that believes its own cover story and expects the reader to be stupid enough to follow along like an idiot dog.

[ink-piss]

There is one question which we seldom ask each other directly: it is too brutal. And yet it is the only question worth asking our fellow-travelers. What makes you go on living? Why don't you kill yourself? Why is all this bearable? What makes you bear it? Could I answer that question about myself? No. Yes. Perhaps...I supposed, vaguely, that it was a kind of balance, a complex of tensions. You did whatever was next on the list. A meal to be eaten. Chapter eleven to be written. The telephone rings. You go off somewhere in a taxi. There is one's job. There are amusements. There are people. There is always something new. There has to be. Otherwise, the balance would be upset, the tension would break. [...] Death, the desired, the feared. The longed-for sleep. The terror of the coming of sleep. Death. War. The vast sleeping city, doomed for the bombs. The roar of oncoming engines. The gunfire. The screams. The houses shattered. Death universal. My own death. Death of the seen and known and tasted and tangible world. Death with its army of fears. Not the acknowledged fears, the fears that are advertised. More dreadful than those: the private fears of childhood. Fear of the height of the high-dive, fear of the farmer's dog and the vicar's pony, fear of cupboards, fear of the dark passage, fear of splitting your finger nail with a chisel. And behind them,  most unspeakably terrible of all, the arch-fear: the fear of being afraid. It can never be escaped–never, never. Not if you run away to the ends of the earth..., not if you yell for Mummy, or keep a stiff upper lip, or take to drink or to dope. That fear sits throned in my heart. I carry it about with me, always.

Prater Violet by Christopher Isherwood

[naranzarian]

There is one question which we seldom ask each other directly: it is too brutal. And yet it is the only question worth asking our fellow-travelers. What makes you go on living? Why don’t you kill yourself? Why is all this bearable? What makes you bear it? Could I answer that question about myself? No. Yes. Perhaps… I supposed, vaguely, that it was a kind of balance, a complex of tensions. You did whatever was next on the list. A meal to be eaten. Chapter eleven to be written. The telephone rings. You go off somewhere in a taxi. There is one’s job. There are amusements. There are people. There are books. There are things to be bought in shops. There is always something new. There has to be. Otherwise, the balance would be upset, the tension would break.

Christopher Isherwood, Prater Violet

[genteelblackhole42]

This kind of talk had a strange effect on me. Like all my friends, I said I believed that a European war was coming soon. I believed it as one believes that one will die, and yet I didn't believe. For the coming war was as unreal to me as death itself. It was unreal because I couldn't imagine anything beyond it; I refused to imagine anything; just as a spectator refuses to imagine what is behind the scenery in a theatre. The outbreak of war, like the moment of death, crossed my perspective of the future like a wall; it marked the instant, total end of my imagined world. I thought about this wall from time to time, with acute depression and a flutter of fear at the solar plexus. Then, again, I forgot or ignored it. Also, just as one thinks of one's own death, I secretly whispered to myself, 'Who knows? Maybe we shall get around it somehow. Maybe it will never happen.'

Christopher Isherwood, from Prater Violet