Andre Breton

 

I was familiar, of course, with the work of Andre Breton as it relates to the world of visual art: but I'd not associated him with literature -- until now. Over a few days, I've read his most recognized book of prose, Nadja. 

Let me say at the start: this is not a perfect book -- and it's certainly not a perfect novel. What it is, exactly, is unclear: but perhaps that's part of its allure. For me, Nadja read mostly as an homage to Paris. Breton casts his enigmatic, tragic love -- that is, Nadja -- as a foil for the city, populating the book with images of its many districts and personalities. That visual quality endows Nadja with a sense of reality: and the book does present a certain historical rendering of the city. But more often, the novel is surreal, with self-conscious reflections on the nature of writing, on love, and on narration. Breton never seems to fully believe in what he's doing: namely endowing certain dialogue with more meaning than others -- simply by including it as part of the book. He critiques this power: acknowledging its selective nature, its artificial qualities. The result is a novel about infatuation and regret, but which reads less as a love story and more, to borrow from Breton, as the "sketch of a mental landscape." Indeed, that is exactly what Nadja is: and while it's not for everyone, it is a work occupying that unique juncture between history, geography, and individualism. For the reflections on Paris alone, Nadja is a satisfying read.