Helene Cixous has dreamed for years of "The Book-I-Don't-Write,"
but each time she approaches it, it withdraws.
The-Book-I-Don't-Write is always just out of reach. When Jacques
Derrida told her the Book would get written one day, but
differently, Cixous tells us she would see it "shining behind a
veil, its indecipherable back, upright on heaven's bookshelf, its
elegant silhouette, utterly foreign, utterly familiar, of future
revenant. I've always thought it would come, naturally. When? After
all my deaths? Just before, or just after, the last of my deaths."
One day, when she is no longer expecting it, the Book turns up:
"Quickly, without taking my eyes off it, I copied it down, staying
scrupulously close to its notations, its rhythms, its moments of
silence. I found it. Just as you see it." She calls it Los, meaning
"loose, detached" in German, her mother's tongue. Or Los like
Carlos, the Latin American friend whose unexpected death in May
2014 takes her back to a life they shared and a time the Book will
reconstitute in the present, abolishing time: "Suddenly, that
morning, I saw the universe of The-Book-I-Don't-Write: it is an
infinity of presents." Los, A Chapter is a marvelous exploration of
time and relationships. It reimagines scenes from Paris in the late
sixties: its cafes, its debates, its political turmoil. Both
playful and serious, it is a book in a long line of novels from
Balzac to Proust that create worlds both philosophical and
concrete. In Los a lost time is regained.
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