You write your first novel with the desperation of the damned. You're afraid that you'll never write anything else, ever again.

Literature like this is my soft spot. I can't admit to a longing for mysteries or space operas but I cab readily become excited by the idea of a novel flirting with philosophy. In this case, a philosopher -- or a provocative abstraction of one anyway. I thought in the opening pages that this would be Salinger meets post-structuralism. Then I thought it was an epilogue to the Bell Jar -- only in Paris May '68. Then I eventually sensed where matters were headed. A grad student is studying an infamous French novelist, one who's transgressive ethos appeared to have found its theoretical foundations in the philosophy of Michel Foucault. After some undue coaxing from his love interest the graduate student searches out the novelist, to the asylum and beyond. There was a crackle of excitement as Paul Michel finally answers the question about Foucault and then just as suddenly there was a heavy handed synchronicity. I don't wear that so well these days. I was disappointed.

Duncker's debut novel has been my favorite among the books we've covered so far as reading it is truly an immersive experience that compels the reader to dig deeper into the world created by the author, mind you, one that already exists beyond the book, albeit with some subtle variations.
I loved the fact that while having prior knowledge of Foucault and his works actually did contribute to and intensify the comprehension of the text, lack of that intel would not prevent the reader from enjoying the act and process of reading.
Duncker's skilled incorporation of philosophical themes into a rather uncomplicated narrative is also really praiseworthy.

4.5/5

But you musn't have romantic ideas about them. Murderers are ordinary people.

This is another book which, had I read it a mere two to four years earlier, I would have unequivocally adored. As the Foucault of the Hallucinating Foucault intimidated me too much to pick it up till now, my less than loving rating stands. I do not regret it, as there is no guarantee that an earlier reading would have resulted in as great an understanding. While it's true that I still have no real experience with actually reading Foucault in the cohesive entirety of one of his works, enough bits and pieces of [b:Discipline and Punish|80369|Discipline and Punish The Birth of the Prison|Michel Foucault|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1400737037s/80369.jpg|1946946] and [b:The Order of Things|119561|The Order of Things An Archaeology of the Human Sciences|Michel Foucault|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1327977833s/119561.jpg|115111] have reached me for general comprehension purposes. And of course, Foucault is very French in his academia, so reading enough Sartre and de Beauvoir and Camus and the rest as I did will give you an idea of what you're getting into.

Despite my desire to become an English professor, I will never be comfortable with closeting myself into the bell jar of theory and perdition that this and other works choose to rhapsodize about in the key of Upper Class Thinking. The whole of this book was captured in the second part of [b:Burger's Daughter|526927|Burger's Daughter|Nadine Gordimer|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1348427341s/526927.jpg|888256] with a great deal more depth of insight into the structuring of such an environment, so I could never get rid of the feeling of something lacking. This, coupled with the inevitable tunnel vision of a love story, made for something that was very pretty, very cool, but ultimately something that dabbled in whatever serious subject material it touched upon. Death, madness, excrement, admittedly with more empathy than most books of this type would, but it neither hedged its bets nor went far enough for my liking. Also, the main female character came off more Manic Pixie Dream Girl than anything else, but whether I say that out of true consternation or disturbed resonance with some of her more ferocious attributes in the realms of academia and social intercourse is, well, indeterminable.

I make the same demands of people and fictional texts, petit—that they should be open-ended, carry within them the possibility of being and of changing whoever it is they encounter. Then it will work—the dynamic that there must always be—between the writer and the reader.

Beyond all my quibbling, there were some passages that gripped me by the throat and refuse to let go. There was a time when my love of books led me to believe I was interested in reading of others' love for such, but enough trials and errors have passed me by to realize that, as with any reading, only a certain type of love will resonate. Duncker came the closest to my love that any author has since Maugham, enough for me to fear even more the inevitable reread of [b:Of Human Bondage|31548|Of Human Bondage|W. Somerset Maugham|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1386924695s/31548.jpg|2547187] and all accompanying reevaluations of the potentially less than enthused sort. However, much as I wish to be a professor for the provocation of thought rather than the security of finances, it is the flux that I favor above all else. There would be no point to picking up that next piece of work if it were otherwise.

There are times in life when the question of knowing if one can think differently than one thinks and perceive differently than one sees is absolutely necessary if one is to go on looking and reflecting at all.

P.S. Someone adapt this for the big screen, pretty please.

An intelligent and passionate inquiry into the relationship between the reader and the writer. On a superficial level this could easily be perceived as a rational mutually beneficial relationship. As this narrative demonstrates, it has the potential for obsession and self-destruction. Highly recommended.

so so so so so so good.
wonderful. seriously.

“The love between a writer and a reader is never celebrated. It cannot be proved to exist. But he was the man I loved most. He was the reader for whom I wrote”.

If this doesn’t tell you enough about the book — I don’t know what will.

"Hallucinating Foucault" (1996) é um romance de homenagem à obra de Michel Foucault. Patricia Duncker inventa um escritor de romances francês chamado Paul Michel e defini-o como espelho do verdadeiro Foucault. Se Foucault queria escrever romances e não escreveu, Paul Michel escreve-os e dedica-os a Foucault. Se Foucault teorizou sobre os processos de loucura e encarceramento, Paul Michel passa ele mesmo por esses processos. e Foucault começou a sua carreira em Clermont Ferrand, é aí que Paul Michel termina a sua, depois de ter enlouquecido com a morte de Foucault. Se Foucault teorizou sobre a função do autor, Paul Michel centra-se na relevância do leitor. O livro leva-nos pela mão de um jovem doutorando que estuda a obra de Paul Michel e tenta compreender a pessoa por detrás da obra, apesar de defender que não lhe interessa a pessoa, o autor, apenas a obra.

Ler completo no blog: https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.com/2023/05/alucinando-com-michel-foucault.html