Serious Play: Formal Innovation and Politics in French Literature from the 1950s to the Present by Aubrey Ann Gabel A dissertation submitted in partial satisfaction of the Requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in French in the Graduate Division of the University of California, Berkeley Committee in charge: Professor Michael Lucey, Chair Professor Debarati Sanyal Professor C.D. Blanton Professor Mairi McLaughlin Summer 2017 Abstract Serious Play: Formal Innovation and Politics in French Literature from the 1950s to the Present By Aubrey Ann Gabel Doctor of Philosophy in French University of California, Berkeley Professor Michael Lucey, Chair Serious Play: Formal Innovation and Politics in French literature from the 1950s to the present investigates how 20th- and 21st-century French authors play with literary form as a means of engaging with contemporary history and politics. Authors like Georges Perec, Monique Wittig, and Jacques Jouet often treat the practice of writing like a game with fixed rules, imposing constraints on when, where, or how they write. They play with literary form by eliminating letters and pronouns; by using only certain genders, or by writing in specific times and spaces. While such alterations of the French language may appear strange or even trivial, by experimenting with new language systems, these authors probe into how political subjects—both individual and collective—are formed in language. The meticulous way in which they approach form challenges unspoken assumptions about which cultural practices are granted political authority and by whom. This investigation is grounded in specific historical circumstances: the student worker- strike of May ’68 and the Algerian War, the rise of and competition between early feminist collectives, and the failure of communism and the rise of the right-wing extremism in 21st-century France. Analysis of pronominal subjects in Perec and Wittig shows how they interrogate power struggles during May ’68; both authors imagine shared textual production as the bedrock of new political communities. Moving into the 21st century, Jouet stages various “bad” communists, in order to pay tribute to dying communist communities and to unpack the ongoing legacy of communism’s collapse. In the end, formal play offers an antidote to 20th- and 21st-century crises of community by creating virtual communities through the text itself. 1 For Ingrid and Tom i Table of Contents: Introduction, “Serious Play: Formal Innovation and Politics in pp. 1-16 French Literature from the 1950s to the Present” Chapter 1, “Not So Secret: Queneau’s dégagement and Oulipo pp. 17-52 as an open secret” Chapter 2, “Marxistes, Tendance Groucho: Perec’s La pp. 53-79 Disparition as Collective History” Chapter 3, “Stumbling Sheep: Political Education and History in pp. 80-111 Les Guérillères and Paris-la-Politique” Chapter 4, “Jacques Jouet’s “Bad” Communists: Worksite pp. 112-147 Poetics in Le Cocommuniste” Epilogue, Virtual Playgrounds: Form, Space, and Community pp. 148-152 ii Acknowledgements Thank you to my dissertation director, Michael Lucey, for the thorough and thoughtful feedback and for gently guiding me through my own thinking. Many thanks to my committee members—Debarati Sanyal, Mairi McLaughlin, and Dan Blanton—for reading many drafts of my chapters as they were unfolding. Your input was invaluable to my research and helped shape the final form of this project. Finally, my warmest congratulations to my fellow future PhDs, Vanessa Brutsche and Margot Szarke. You not only welcomed me into our “adopted” cohort, but you led me through the ups and downs of the dissertation writing process, with grace, intellect, and clarity. iii Introduction: Serious Play: Formal Innovation and Politics in French Literature from the 1950s to the Present In a 1980 interview in Jeux et stratégie, Georges Perec describes literature quite simply, as the practice of reorganizing the words in the dictionary: Ecrire, pour moi, c'est une certaine façon de réorganiser les mots du dictionnaire. Ou les livres que l'on a déjà lus. Vous voyez que c'est assez banal! […] Au départ, cela met donc en jeu une certaine disponibilité à l'égard d'un ensemble. D'un catalogue, d'un corpus. On dispose d'un certain nombre d'éléments et l'on doit, avec eux, construire quelque chose. Le premier travail que cela implique, c'est une redistribution, une réorganisation, donc une disponibilité. (Perec, Entretiens 115) Indeed, it is harder to imagine a more banal definition of literature: one begins with a set (“ensemble”) of words or texts, one reorganizes this corpus, and voilà, literature. The act of writing is no colossal feat of the spirit or the intellect. It does not involve long hours of arduous work, or sleepless forays into the midnight hours in wait of inspiration. It is simply a game of scrabble. (Just don’t forget the tiles!) This definition of literary work is almost comically boring and modest, especially for an author known for his artistic tours de force. Could we really describe an entire novel written without the letter “e,” texts assembled using Latin bi-squares and rook’s moves, or enormous palindromes as mere “redistributions” of words? We should be careful not to take Perec entirely at his word; his definition of literature is deceptively simple and purposefully downplays the implications of literary production. Nevertheless, Perec does express a fundamentally different relationship to literary production. Literature is not the work of genius, nor does it serve a higher purpose. It does not seek to radically change the world, politically or metaphysically. Its purpose, on the outset, is neutral and undefined; its destiny is only determined by the number of “h’s” and “a’s” left in the pile.1 It is hard to underscore just how fundamentally different Perec’s notion of literature and literary practice is from that of many French authors of his time. Perec is writing in 20th- century France, the heyday of avant-gardisme, with its critique of aesthetic production, its active involvement in the political sphere, and its drama, fueled by so many public squabbles and debates. More particularly, Perec came of age at a moment when the literary field had become particularly fractured. As May ’68 and the Algerian War would later reveal, the decade after the war was riven by competing political agendas and literature followed suit. From the immediate postwar period well into the Trente glorieuses, French literature was also dominated 1 Jeux et stratégie was a magazine edited by Excelsior Publications that ran from 1980 to 1990; it was dedicated to gaming of all sorts (including board-gaming, video games, strategy games, etc.). It is unusual for an author to write about literature in a gamers’ magazine, given that emerging media (like video games) often have less cultural status than literature. This choice of publishing venue already challenges certain assumptions about what qualifies as art and highlights the extent to which playing and gaming were essential to Perec’s work. 1 by the politico-literary construct of littérature engagée. In the engagement paradigm, literary work and political practice are inextricably linked. The engaged author is not only subject to the media spotlight, but beholden to it. His intellectual authority comes with external obligations to both the political and literary fields. In this “hyperpoliticized” environment, every literary gesture is infused with meaning.2 Every act of the author is calculated or criticized. Being an author requires not only a public face, but a political identity—a commitment to a larger cause, political party, or agenda. Even in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, as literature seemed to withdraw from politics, the author continues to be an important figure in French society. With the growth of far-right extremism and the collapse of communism and industrialism, French literature—and France at large—is undergoing a political crisis. While many wonder if and how literature can continue to influence politics, it nevertheless continues to be a means of reflecting on the relationship between individuals, groups, and communities. Regardless of whether one speaks of literature before or after this political crisis, one thing is clear: literature in 20th- and 21st- century France is a serious enterprise. In the life of the author, there is simply no room for play. Play and game nevertheless remain important conceptual frameworks through which Perec understands literary practice.3 Unlike engagement or avant-gardisme, however, literary play is hardly a cohesive force in 20th- and 21st-century French literature. Playful literature does not constitute a singular group, movement, or trend. At best, it is a loose amalgam of like- minded thinkers, who privilege form as a locus of literary innovation. My corpus tracks the work of three generations of the literary group Oulipo (Raymond Queneau, Georges Perec, and Jacques Jouet) from the 1950s to the present, but it also includes the work of a non-Oulipian, Monique Wittig. While Wittig had limited ties to Oulipo, she engaged in similar play with literary form.4 Literary play was most notably theorized by Oulipo, but it was hardly limited to the group, and I will demonstrate that echoes of Oulipian formal play can be seen elsewhere in France, even today. While the authors I study are diverse, and circulated in (sometimes wildly) different political venues, they nevertheless share certain interests in form and pose similar questions about the relationship between form and collective practice. These authors often treat the practice of writing like a game with fixed rules, imposing constraints on when, where, or how they write. They play with literary form by eliminating letters and pronouns; by using only certain genders; by writing in specific times; and so on. 2 In La guerre des écrivains, Sapiro explains that this “surpolitisation” of literature originates in the progressive politicization of literature. After the defeat of France in 1940, literature was increasingly subject to repression and censorship, particularly by the Vichy government. These changes shifted the mechanisms of interpretation in the politico-literary field more generally. Publishing itself becomes an act with strong political valences, as various publishing houses and journals came under collaborationist control. See Sapiro 21-25, 47. 3 Perec includes play (“le ludique”) among the four primary veins of his research, alongside sociological, novelistic (“romanesque”), and autobiographical concerns. See Perec, Penser/Classer 10. 4 Wittig was an acquaintance of Perec’s and contributed a passage to La Disparition. See Chapter 2. 2 While such alterations of the French language may appear strange or even trivial, I argue that they are profoundly serious. In Serious Play: Formal Innovation and Politics in French Literature from the 1950s to the Present, I investigate how 20th- and 21st-century French authors play with literary form as a means of engaging with contemporary history and politics. By experimenting with new language systems, these authors probe into how political subjects— both individual and collective—are formed in language. I argue that the meticulous way in which they approach form challenges unspoken assumptions about which cultural practices are granted political authority and by whom. I ground this investigation in specific historical circumstances: the student worker-strike of May ’68 and the Algerian War, the rise of and competition between early feminist collectives, and the failure of communism and the rise of the right-wing extremists in 21st-century France. My work on pronominal subjects in Perec and Wittig shows how they analyze power struggles during May ’68; both authors imagine shared textual production as the bedrock of new political communities. Moving into the 21st century, I argue that Jouet plays the “bad” communist, to interrogate the ongoing legacy of communism. Overall, I consider how formal play indexes 20th- and 21st-century crises of collective organization, but also offers an alternative, creating virtual communities through the text itself. Each of my chapters speaks to the political potential of playing with form. Form makes available new perspectives with respect to the historical experience of politics, the effects of political discourse, and modes of political subjectification. By playing with form, these authors analyze how language conditions political identity and allows individuals to situate themselves in, or claim jurisdiction over, larger groups. These authors couch the experience of political life in the very linguistic forms by which we convey it. In other words, playful literature uses the game of literary practice to enact a critique of the many games of political communities. It also offers a glimmer of political potential, by gesturing towards the virtual communities that only the text can create. In Chapter 1, “Not So Secret: Queneau’s dégagement and Oulipo as an ‘Open Secret,’” I offer a new history of dégagement and of Oulipo as a “post-avant-garde.” The chapter centers on the paradox of Oulipo’s “open secrecy,” or the fact that Oulipo consistently drew attention to its secret status in public settings. By drawing on critical definitions of the “open secret,” I argue that Oulipo’s secrecy can be read as a rhetorical gesture and a speech act. Oulipo’s secrecy originates in the evasive modesty of Oulipo’s founder, Raymond Queneau. Queneau’s secrecy hides a critique of his contemporary political moment, replicating critiques of engagement established by thinkers of dégagement. Being secret allowed Oulipo, on the other hand, to assert its apoliticism and to withdraw from presumed political practice of an avant- garde. Secrecy also helped the group to negotiate its relationship with respect to marginal intellectual groups, notably Bourbaki (which I will discuss shortly) and ‘Pataphysics. More broadly, Oulipo performed its secrecy to play with its public identity. By building a shared identity around the theatrics of secrecy, Oulipo asserted its autonomy from the literary and political spheres. Oulipo “came out” several times, however, suggesting that this autonomy was always in part deferred, as Oulipo inevitably found itself projected into political and aesthetic 3 debates. The changing nature of the group today asks us to reconsider what it means to be secret over 50 years into the group’s existence. In my second chapter, entitled, “Marxistes, Tendance Groucho: Perec’s La Disparition as Collective History,” I demonstrate that Perec’s La Disparition can be read as a collective history of two presents: the “present” of May ’68 and the Algerian War and the “present” of Moulin Andé, the community in which he was living. La Disparition is a lipogram, or a novel written without the letter “e.” Most scholars contend that the absent “e,” with its homophonous evocation of “eux,” gestures towards those lost during the Holocaust and their phantom presence in the lives of survivors. Without challenging this narrative, I demonstrate that Perec also used the lipogram to represent May ’68 and the Algerian War in absentia—without participating in protests and without taking on the role of the committed writer or soixante- huitard. Perec underscores the affirmative side of “not saying,” by playing with the representational and non-representational aspects of the constraint. Intradiagetically, La Disparition is filled with references to the cyclical nature of history and to May ’68 and the Algerian War. Perec’s obsessive use of the pronominal “on” is not merely a means of satisfying the constraint, but an investigation of collective political identity. With its ambiguous referentiality and its erasure of subjective intention, “on” becomes an indictment of our political anonymity and our unwillingness to claim responsibility for historical violence. I pair this intradiegetic narrative, however, with extensive archival research into the collective production of La Disparition. Perec not only made a collective game out of the lipogram, by enlisting the aid of his friends at the Moulin Andé, but also asked several collaborators to contribute excerpts to the final text. By examining these non-representational traces of La Disparition’s communal production, I argue that the novel creates a virtual community of collaborators. The experience of writing under constraint allows Perec and his collaborators to share the burden of history. My third chapter turns to the only non-Oulipian in my corpus, Monique Wittig. Like Oulipians, Wittig employs writing procedures and is deeply invested in the political implications of form. “Stumbling Sheep: Political Education and History in Les Guérillères and Paris-la- Politique” considers two formally innovative texts written before and after the most politically active time in Wittig’s life. While the two texts were written thirty years apart, they were conceived as part of the same formal and political project of feminizing the French language. Wittig renders the feminine the default neutral linguistic form, by using only feminine personal pronouns and referents. While this feminization is well known, I demonstrate that Wittig’s writing, in tandem with her political project, involves other formal practices. For instance, Wittig approaches the process of writing as a dialectical operation on history; she operates on history by dismantling and cannibalizing a series of intertexts. Her appropriation of intertext reveals that Wittig wishes to instruct her readers in the texts of popular, Maoist warfare. More broadly, Wittig establishes her own “textual reality,” or a virtual community of texts and authors that exist together in the transcultural and transhistorical space of her text. While Wittig’s process of writing bears much potential for the creation of virtual communities, the 4