The Most secret memory of men by Mohamed Mbougar Sarr

 

The Most secret memory of men by Mohamed Mbougar Sarr

Senegalese fiction

Original title –  La plus secrète mémoire des hommes

Translator – Lara Vergnaud

Source – Review copy

I was lucky to have been sent this by Other press all the way from the US, which I am thankful as they have been bringing some great books in translation out the last couple of years, and this is one I had wanted to read I have toyed with the idea of Prix Goincourt project of some sort, but when I looked at the winners and availability in English for a lot of the older winners it fell apart I’m still after a project that has a lot of older books in translation in it. Anyway, I brought Mohamed Mbougar Sarr’s first book, brotherhood a couple of years ago as he was on a list of up-and-coming African writers I had read a few years ago and when he won the Prix Goncourt with this his second book, I decided when offer this book I read this as he is the first francophile writer from Sub Saharan Africa to win the prize.

She entered the elevator, a terrible smile on her lips. As we rose to the thirteenth floor, I plunged, toward utter ruin.

Siga D.’s body had known, done, tried everything. What could I offer her? Where could I take her? What could I think up? Who did I think I was? Those philosophers who extol the inexhaustible virtues of erotic inventiveness never had to deal with a Siga D., whose mere presence wiped away my sexual history. How should I go about it? The fourth floor already. She won’t feel anything, she won’t even feel you enter, your body will liquefy against hers, it will trickle down and be absorbed by the sheets, by the mattress. Seventh. You won’t just drown inside of her, you’ll disappear, disintegrate, crumble, she’s going to obliterate you, and the pieces that are left will drift into the clinamen of the ancient materialists, Leucippus, Democritus of Abdera

His meeting Siga D and her power over him

The book is a novel, but at its heart is a true story it is like one of those dramas where some of the names and facts have been changed. The book focuses on a book and a writer in the novel. The book is called The Labyrinth of Inhumanity and the writer is from Senegal called T C Elimane a man in his day called the BLACK Rimbaud heralded as the voice of Africa, won the Fench literary prize Prix Renaudot but in the novel this happens in 1938 before the war. But the real tale this is partly drawn from is the 1968 winner by the Malian writer Yamboi Oulologuem. His book Bound to Violence had a claim of plagiarism against it . But in his case the editor had removed his credit that the passages are from a couple of books he had used, and that book is due out as a penguin classic soon (I will be getting that when it comes out ). So when Diegan, the main narrator of the book gets hold of this fabled book from a Senegalese writer, Siga D, the two sleep together even though she is a lot older than home, but she has a presence, and as the story unfolds as he hunts for more information about the book and the writer. That Siga D is related to the writer. Our narrator is like a book detective trying to find out what happened after T c Elimane was called a plagiarist and disappeared from sight and was never seen again he follows the years after this happened, and this takes him after the war years to South America, where he had met and mixed with the cream of Latim=n American fiction but also the Polish writer Witold Gombrowicz at a point I kept thinking I can’t remember him mention in Gombrowicz Diary which I read many years ago and in one of those odd bookish eclipse moments it happened to be reading this as the new translation of Gombrowicz Possesed came out a book I had in its first translation, be interested to read and compare at some point. The book is a tale of being an African writer and how those writers are viewed, but is also a great road trip novel as we follow the trail left by Elimane.

My roommate, who refused to frequent our writers coterie (he found our mentality too bourgeois), finally read The Labyrinth of Inhumanity. His verdict was terse: “hard to translate,” which by his criteria amounted to the highest praise.

He asked me questions about the book and the author. I told him what I knew. The story intrigued him, and he told me I should visit the press archives. If I was able to gain access to certain newspapers from 1938, I might, he thought, be able to find out something. I told him that when I came to Paris eight years earlier, I had already tried to access old newspapers in search of traces of The Labyrinth of Inhu-manity. In particular, I had been hoping to read the investigation by Bollème (Brigitte) mentioned by the Reader’s Guide in its T.C. Elimane entry. All my attempts had ended in failure. Though I had discovered, in regard to Brigitte Bollème, that after a long career as a literary journalist for Revue des deux modes and publishing a few monographs, she had sat on the jury for the Prix Femina, over which she presided from 1973 to her death in 1985.

He starting down the rabbit hole of this writer and his story

Wow!!!, that is the simplest word for this book. I was blown away by it I had to keep pinching myself to remind myself that the actual book doesn’t exist as I so want to join Diegane in his journey alongside ass he finds the editors and those involved in the book he is like a New Yorker fact checker running down. I Love tracking down writers. There are many a rabbit hole I get drawn down and many a half projects on my shelves, unlike here, where he has got down and dug up the labyrinth around the book, he has answered what happened after that in a case like this is not often known the real writer didn’t quite disappear as much as Elimane does in the book . It made me want to read Yambo’s actual book. Sarr has captured the love of books readers had thrown in a road trip to the mix and just some wonderful characters along the way. I am reminded how many great Francophile and English books from Africa are forgotten or never widely known. He shows how hard it can be to break through as an African writer in the way they are discussed in part of the book in Paris. I think my love for this book should be clear I am on a golden run of books now. Have you read this or any great new voices from Senegal or elsewhere in francophile Africa?

Winston score +++++++A Gone a Little John Peel with my score as one of the best books I have read in many a year.