Dugul Please select Ok if you would like to proceed with this request anyway. Would you also like to submit a review for this item? Les sept couleurs roman. Its complex relationship to fascist ideology and aesthetics, I would venture, is clarified in those few pages: Please enter your name. While in Germany he comes across an old acquaintance who implies that Catherine, despite her marriage in the meantime, is still in love with him. The book is divided in seven chapters, each presented by ciuleurs author through a different writing mode: Brasillach wrote both fiction and non-fiction.
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Shelves: fascism , fiction , france , italy , germany , modernism , nationalism , novel , spain I cannot say I was expecting much of this third foray into the Brasillach corpus, especially since it seemed our best days were already behind us Comme le temps passe is often regarded as his best work but in reality Les sept couleurs is clearly a notch above the other two: For starters, the reader is quickly relieved to discover that the author has drastically reduced the insufferable lengths he had spent in the other two books setting the stage.
Second, there is a stylistic daring that seems quite unusual to Brasillach, allowing him to display his well honed writing skills and to echo his unlikely masters Gide, probably while it also make out for the reader what are his strength, and where are rooted his less savoury mannerisms. The book is divided in seven chapters, each presented by the author through a different writing mode: novel, epistolary novel, diary, aphorisms, theatre, press and stream of consciousness.
Each of those modes are actually thoughtfully fitted to the overall narrative, and beyond an exercise in style, reflect not only the mood and spirit of the story, but also seem to echo that textual and narrative self-image Brasillach, as with many fascists, has of himself. What could have turned easily into a caricature is redeemed, I think, because this tension between the fascist cult of action, dynamism, violence, revolution on one hand, and the conservative bourgeois aspiration to peace and stability, reflects an internal conflict in the author himself and probably in French fascism at large, if we are to call it like that… — as it becomes clear further in the book, much of his perpetual eulogizing of youth and nostalgia is a strategy of kind to resolve this conflict.
The following chapter is of a lesser quality: in the form of a diary, the author multiplies ellipses over ten years to take Patrice from his work in Italy to the foreign legion in Morocco.
He meets there a nazi who later finds him a job in a chamber of commerce in Germany. While in Germany he comes across an old acquaintance who implies that Catherine, despite her marriage in the meantime, is still in love with him. At the end of the chapter he abandons his German girl for a visit to France. Much more interesting is the following chapter, which the author calls reflections or essay, but to me sounds somewhat like the aphoristic teachings of a Menalque or a Zarathustra.
The theme, the common thread, is unsurprisingly that of youth, and its alleged waning at the approach of thirty: a collage of disparate reflection on the dilemma that faces men and women when they are to recognize and to accept that their best years lay behind them. Its complex relationship to fascist ideology and aesthetics, I would venture, is clarified in those few pages: the constitutive tension within fascism, between movement and regime, between revolutionary claims and conservative policies might have appeared clearly to the writer.
Youth, as often in fascist rhetoric from Marinetti onward is taken as the dynamic principle that fuels the fascist disregard for conventions and contingencies, but as comes its end, the crime, against good-taste and against modesty, is to perpetuate it artificially.
Age groups acquire something of the organic unity of the corporate state, neatly defined in their function, moral, political and aesthetic, and nostalgia becomes, I suppose, the link that ensures cohesion of the whole. Despite recurrent temptation to leave with Patrice, Catherine, in heroic passivity remain faithful to her husband, but following a misunderstanding this one leaves off and join the nationalist volunteers in the Spanish civil war.
The introduction of phalangist songs here and there do add to the texture of the narration, but on the whole it seems all a bit gimmicky, or at least it would have gained from more room in the book. To conclude his story, Brasillach deliver a introspective monologue of Catherine, in the train to Spain where she is to meet her estranged husband, wounded in the war. We learn little new about her apathy. Beyond the historical interest Brasillach, after all, is chiefly remembered for his execution as a collaborator the book also hold some literary value, which, as far as I am concerned, was rare in the two previous books I have read of his.
Les Sept Couleurs