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A review by ilse
My Friends by Emmanuel Bove
4.0
The warm blanket of self-pity
This book surged up the lyrics of a couple of songs I remember from student’s days - Circle– but also Friend is a four letter word.
What to think about Emmanuel Bove’s anti-hero, monsieur Victor Bâton? He surely is in a miserable place- lonely, poor, living in a tiny, damp, cold room in Paris, a war invalid with a paltry pension, not having a single friend to turn to. Initially, it feels only natural to follow his yearning and search for company, a friend, even love with sympathy.
However, as much as the reader might be willing and able to commiserate and empathize with him, Victor Bâton doesn’t make such precisely easy. To put it euphemistically, he is not very likeable...
While Bâton is professing his own modesty and humbleness, he is pretty demanding and fickle, veering from ludicrous overblown self-humiliation to repulsive haughtiness, ill-treating who shows some concern with his plight. His ideal friends must meet extremely high standards and cover him with flowers and generosity – and for sure not be too happy themselves. In his relations with the ordinary mortals he meets instead, these standards of course don’t apply to himself. He rejoices in the misfortune of others. At least he is reliable in his unreliability. Sure, he encounters animosity, disdain and even aversion. There are quite a few names to categorize him, none of them flattering. Deadbeat. Scoundrel. Sponge. Loafer. But things being as they are, what can a man like him, a man without qualities but full of contrasts and quirks, signify for other people? He rightly notes that his behaviour and presence grates others:
In that house full of working people, I was the madman that, deep down, everyone wanted to be. I was the one who went without food, the cinema, warm clothes, to be free. I was the one who, without meaning to, daily reminded people of their wretched state.
As soon as he finds what he is ostensibly looking for - kindness, generosity, a job offer, love – he runs away. Out of fear? Or are there other motives, something in his personality which make him prefer his little warm blanket of self-pity to the honest concern of real human beings? While he seems naive, his mistrust of others is that profound that he prefers to wallow in his misery, as if happiness, joy or good fortune would dissolve his identity:
Instead of pulling myself together, I tried to prolong my misery. I withdrew into myself, making myself more insignificant and wretched than I really am. In that way I found some comfort in my sorrows.
Nonetheless, this is not a depressing book. The tone of it is so light and almost cheerful Bâton’s pointy observations and self-reflections often put a smile on my face. Bove holds a mirror, showing the all too human flaw of the oversensitivity of the ego which so often goes together with uncaring or callous treatment of others. In that respect, it makes sense that Victor Bâton is frequently looking in the mirror – even if he is unconscious his own narcissism.
Emmanuel Bove (1898-1945), né Bobovnikoff) has been put on the same line as Dostoevsky and Proust and was admired by Beckett, Rilke, Soupault, and Gide. If it wasn’t for GR, I presumably would have never heard about him. ‘My friends’ was his debut and apparently Rilke was so enthusiast about it he wanted to meet Bove (in the beginning, before taking on a more deadpan tone, Bâton’s Parisians street impressions and wanderings echo [b:The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge|93405|The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge|Rainer Maria Rilke|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348925210l/93405._SX50_.jpg|314321]). Even if My friends is considered his masterpiece and Bove’s tone and terse style suit the story and the idiosyncratic personality of Victor Bâton wonderfully, [b:Le Pressentiment|12130598|Le Pressentiment|Emmanuel Bove|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1328393872l/12130598._SY75_.jpg|6872249] (the first novel I read by Emmanuel Bove) resonated more with me – possibly because it was easier to relate to that other forlorn anti-hero Charles Bernestau.
This book surged up the lyrics of a couple of songs I remember from student’s days - Circle– but also Friend is a four letter word.
What to think about Emmanuel Bove’s anti-hero, monsieur Victor Bâton? He surely is in a miserable place- lonely, poor, living in a tiny, damp, cold room in Paris, a war invalid with a paltry pension, not having a single friend to turn to. Initially, it feels only natural to follow his yearning and search for company, a friend, even love with sympathy.
However, as much as the reader might be willing and able to commiserate and empathize with him, Victor Bâton doesn’t make such precisely easy. To put it euphemistically, he is not very likeable...
While Bâton is professing his own modesty and humbleness, he is pretty demanding and fickle, veering from ludicrous overblown self-humiliation to repulsive haughtiness, ill-treating who shows some concern with his plight. His ideal friends must meet extremely high standards and cover him with flowers and generosity – and for sure not be too happy themselves. In his relations with the ordinary mortals he meets instead, these standards of course don’t apply to himself. He rejoices in the misfortune of others. At least he is reliable in his unreliability. Sure, he encounters animosity, disdain and even aversion. There are quite a few names to categorize him, none of them flattering. Deadbeat. Scoundrel. Sponge. Loafer. But things being as they are, what can a man like him, a man without qualities but full of contrasts and quirks, signify for other people? He rightly notes that his behaviour and presence grates others:
In that house full of working people, I was the madman that, deep down, everyone wanted to be. I was the one who went without food, the cinema, warm clothes, to be free. I was the one who, without meaning to, daily reminded people of their wretched state.
As soon as he finds what he is ostensibly looking for - kindness, generosity, a job offer, love – he runs away. Out of fear? Or are there other motives, something in his personality which make him prefer his little warm blanket of self-pity to the honest concern of real human beings? While he seems naive, his mistrust of others is that profound that he prefers to wallow in his misery, as if happiness, joy or good fortune would dissolve his identity:
Instead of pulling myself together, I tried to prolong my misery. I withdrew into myself, making myself more insignificant and wretched than I really am. In that way I found some comfort in my sorrows.
Nonetheless, this is not a depressing book. The tone of it is so light and almost cheerful Bâton’s pointy observations and self-reflections often put a smile on my face. Bove holds a mirror, showing the all too human flaw of the oversensitivity of the ego which so often goes together with uncaring or callous treatment of others. In that respect, it makes sense that Victor Bâton is frequently looking in the mirror – even if he is unconscious his own narcissism.
Emmanuel Bove (1898-1945), né Bobovnikoff) has been put on the same line as Dostoevsky and Proust and was admired by Beckett, Rilke, Soupault, and Gide. If it wasn’t for GR, I presumably would have never heard about him. ‘My friends’ was his debut and apparently Rilke was so enthusiast about it he wanted to meet Bove (in the beginning, before taking on a more deadpan tone, Bâton’s Parisians street impressions and wanderings echo [b:The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge|93405|The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge|Rainer Maria Rilke|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348925210l/93405._SX50_.jpg|314321]). Even if My friends is considered his masterpiece and Bove’s tone and terse style suit the story and the idiosyncratic personality of Victor Bâton wonderfully, [b:Le Pressentiment|12130598|Le Pressentiment|Emmanuel Bove|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1328393872l/12130598._SY75_.jpg|6872249] (the first novel I read by Emmanuel Bove) resonated more with me – possibly because it was easier to relate to that other forlorn anti-hero Charles Bernestau.