Read Suicidio by Édouard Levé Online


Un sábado del mes de agosto sales de tu casa vestido para jugar al tenis y acompañado por tu mujer. En medio del jardín le haces saber que se te ha olvidado la raqueta en casa. Vuelves a por ella pero, en vez de encaminarte hacia el armario de la entrada donde sueles guardarla, bajas al sótano. Tu mujer no lo ve, se ha quedado fuera, hace buen tiempo, disfruta del sol. UnoUn sábado del mes de agosto sales de tu casa vestido para jugar al tenis y acompañado por tu mujer. En medio del jardín le haces saber que se te ha olvidado la raqueta en casa. Vuelves a por ella pero, en vez de encaminarte hacia el armario de la entrada donde sueles guardarla, bajas al sótano. Tu mujer no lo ve, se ha quedado fuera, hace buen tiempo, disfruta del sol. Unos instantes después oye la descarga de un arma de fuego....

Title : Suicidio
Author :
Rating :
ISBN : 9788492891078
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 104 Pages
Status : Available For Download
Last checked : 21 Minutes ago!

Suicidio Reviews

  • Nat
    2019-03-11 08:44

    “Given that I am speaking to you, are you dead?”This particular book has been sitting on my e-book reader for ages - so long, in fact, that I don’t recall why I downloaded it in the first place - but then last night I decided to randomly read the first page and damn, was that first paragraph hooking:(Trigger warning: suicide)“One Saturday in the month of August, you leave your home wearing your tennis gear, accompanied by your wife. In the middle of the garden you point out to her that you’ve forgotten your racket in the house. You go back to look for it, but instead of making your way toward the cupboard in the entryway where you normally keep it, you head down into the basement. Your wife doesn’t notice this. She stays outside. The weather is fine. She’s making the most of the sun. A few moments later she hears a gunshot. She rushes into the house, cries out your name, notices that the door to the stairway leading to the basement is open, goes down, and finds you there. You’ve put a bullet in your head with the rifle you had carefully prepared. On the table, you left a comic book open to a double-page spread. In the heat of the moment, your wife leans on the table; the book falls closed before she understands that this was your final message.”It's been awhile since an introducing paragraph had captivated me this much, so I proceeded on with my expectations a bit more raised for what's to come. Plus, I then reread the blurb and was that more dazzled:Suicide cannot be read as simply another novel—it is, in a sense, the author’s own oblique, public suicide note, a unique meditation on this most extreme of refusals. Presenting itself as an investigation into the suicide of a close friend—perhaps real, perhaps fictional—more than twenty years earlier, Levé gives us, little by little, a striking portrait of a man, with all his talents and flaws, who chose to reject his life, and all the people who loved him, in favor of oblivion. Gradually, through Levé’s casually obsessive, pointillist, beautiful ruminations, we come to know a stoic, sensible, thoughtful man who bears more than a slight psychological resemblance to Levé himself. But Suicide is more than just a compendium of memories of an old friend; it is a near-exhaustive catalog of the ramifications and effects of the act of suicide, and a unique and melancholy farewell to life.And what I came to notice quite quickly in here was how the writing seemed to be both breathtaking and utterly eye-catching.“You remain alive insofar as those who have known you outlive you. You will die with the last of them. Unless some of them have made you live on in words, in the memory of their children. For how many generations will you live on like this, as a character from a story?”I kept rereading some passages to really let the words sink into my skin. The writing is unlike anything I’ve read. The second person point of view really weighted in since I rarely get along with it, but in this book it really worked in my favor.However, what derailed from my reading experience was the seemingly random structure meant to imitate human memory. I rarely, if ever, manage to get along with stream of consciousness writing. Since the novel started out fine enough when the author focused on describing the feelings - and not actions - of his friend, I wasn't that worried about it. But I gradually grew bored of the narrator's descriptions surrounding the past actions of his friend. Following his movements while going on vacations from cul-de-sac to restaurant to hotel wasn't really working in my favor... So I kept hoping for the narrative to switch back to focus on describing the feelings of his friend, like this captivating passage:“When, the next day, your friends repeated to you the words you had spoken to strangers in the café, you remembered nothing of them. It was as though someone else inside you had spoken. You recognized neither your words, nor your thoughts, but you liked them better than you would have if you had remembered saying them. Often all it took was for someone else to speak your own words back to you for you to like them. You would note down those sayings of yours that were repeated back to you. You were the author of this text twice over.”Ultimately, this read set around mortality, friendship, depression and fatigue left me quite exasperated and exhausted by the end of it. I am, however, glad to have given it a go, since it was intriguing to see what Edouard Levé  knowingly worked on as his last novel.Oh, and I listened a lot to this soothing song while reading:3/5 starsNote: I'm an Amazon Affiliate. If you're interested in buying Suicide, just click on the image below to go through my link. I'll make a small commission!This review and more can be found on my blog.

  • David
    2019-03-09 12:20

    Suicide is a brief novel in which the narrator itemizes selected fragmentary details of the life (and death) of a friend who killed himself some twenty years before; these details vary from the particular and anecdotal to the abstract and philosophical. What results is a meandering archeology of suicide itself, both as an individualistic act and as a general phenomenon. The text itself remains incomplete, however, without its necessary epilogue: the author Edouard Levé committed suicide only ten days after he submitted the novel to his publisher. Without a doubt, Suicide is irrevocably modified by the knowledge of the author's suicide. The art of Edouard Levé's novel becomes thereby inextricably bound to the art of Edouard Levé's death (because that's what suicide is—the art of death—death deprived of its natural agency and revised to the status of act, performance, object). As readers, we are unlikely to believe that the novel and the act are unrelated phenomena; the parity and significance are too insistent to admit of the possibility that Levé never considered suicide until after the novel was finished. Instead, we must, by the very nature of the juxtaposition, interpret the two as intended corollaries. Levé's death completes the novel in the same way that his death completes his life. That is, death not only completes and extinguishes—but it also augments and rewrites whatever preceded it.Only the living seem incoherent. Death closes the series of events that constitutes their lives. So we resign ourselves to finding a meaning for them. To refuse them this would amount to accepting that a life, and thus life itself, is absurd. Yours had not yet attained the coherence of things done. Your death gave it this coherence.The way in which you quit it rewrote the story of your life in a negative form. Those who knew you reread each of your acts in light of your last... When you are spoken of, it begins with recounting your death, before going back to explain it. Isn't it peculiar how this final gesture inverts your biography? I've never heard a single person, since your death, tell your life story starting at the beginning. Your suicide has become the foundational act...Likewise, the author's suicide has become the foundational act of Edouard Levé's novel called Suicide. The two are now inseparable. The novel has graduated from the idle musings of a speculator in death to a prologue to the act itself. Levé has gone where we have yet to go, and he has done so as an act of will. His art is not necessarily strengthened, per se, by its efficacy, but it is certainly changed. It becomes a new thing. How would readers feel about the novel Suicide if its author were still alive? Would the words be less meaningful? Would the content be more ethical? Suicide is unquestionably one of the most radical works of art. The artist destroys himself. The novel is the artifact. We are left to fill in the gaps between one act and the other.

  • Hadrian
    2019-03-10 15:40

    You will write this book review about Suicide.You will want it to be concise. You will want it to cut and draw blood from whoever finds it. You have heard vaguely interesting things about it, but tried desperately to forget them as you opened the pages, avoiding the temptation of the back cover.Although you often enjoyed working in noisy crowded places, here you feel very cold and distant, not from the flashing lights nor the conversation of your neighbors. Your fingers are stiff. You glimpse part of a magazine cover, "will not save you."You recognize that the author's own life is now permanently connected to his art and cannot be extracted. Your fingers are dipped into ice further as your mind stretches for distant and unknowable thoughts about life and death, which you had hoped to bury after years of grey rumination.When you read the first paragraph you felt very stiff, as though the process of your death had set in already. You follow his life, with minuscule details and abstract cloudy thoughts. You read the last repeating lines of his poem. Life is proposed to meMy name is passed on to meMy body is imposed on meYou pass over the narrator's description of his friend, his stoic impassiveness, and try to connect how much of it was from his own life. You note the grim pornography of the author describing how much sorrow his widow must feel, and wonder of how much the author's own beloved feels. You feel terrible at this pitiless mimicry of the man's last work and close it with his words."You were said to have died of suffering. But you died because you searched for happiness at the risk of finding the void."

  • Magdalen
    2019-03-17 08:42

    «You did not fear death. You stepped in its path, but without really desiring it: how can one desire something one doesn't know? You didn't deny life but affirmed your taste for the unknown, betting that if something existed on the other side, it would be better than here.»I feel as if I’ve lost a friend. I am numb.The reader cannot help but view Levé ‘s Suicide as Levé’s Suicide note…Of course this novel should come with a “trigger warning” on the cover. I can’t decide where this emptiness I feel right now comes from. Is it because I could feel the deeper philosophical views of this book? Was it because it felt relatable? Is it because of the suicide committed by the author? Was it because the author’s friend died while being 25 years old and shall remain young forever? Is it because the depression of others saddens me a lot? Probably a mixture of all these. This constant “you” and its repetition was so direct (obviously) that it made it gloomier. At some parts though I felt distant and indifferent, but some quotes hurt deeper than a knife.. So read it if you please, but pleaseeeeee be prepared. Some of my favorites: “Time is lacking for meSpace is enough for meThe void attracts me” “Life occupies meDeath completes me” “Madness precedes meSadness follows meDeath awaits me”«You died because you searched for happiness at the risk of finding the void.» ΥΓ: ΔΗΜΗΤΡΑ ΣΕ ΕΥΧΑΡΙΣΤΩ ΠΟΛΥΥΥ <3

  • FrancoSantos
    2019-03-12 13:39

    “This was what disturbed you the most: that you could, one day, choose to fall.”Intense, so fucking intense. Un libro que trate un tema como el suicidio ya es delicado, pero que el autor se haya quitado la vida pocos días después de entregar el manuscrito de Suicide es poderosamente desolador.Suicide aborda el tema de la muerte desde la vida. Desde esos tristes momentos que dejan su marca como espinas de lo que pudo ser pero no fue, de esas luchas internas que de a poco van ganando terreno, de esas sensaciones de desencaje, de evasión al mundo, que no dan respuestas, Levé resplandece lo que es vivir. Una carta privada a un yo muerto y un último regalo, como un esfuerzo agónico de quien ya ha encontrado la fosa, a la vida, que lo acabó matando.“You were not surprised to find yourself ill adapted to the world, but it did surprise you that the world had produced a being who now lived in it as a foreigner. Do plants commit suicide? Do animals die of helplessness? They either function or disappear. You were perhaps a weak link, an accidental evolutionary dead end, a temporary anomaly not destined to burgeon again.”

  • knig
    2019-03-13 13:35

    Leve, as the whole world and his goat knows, delivered the manuscript of Suicide to his publishers and committed suicide ten days later, thus ensuring immediate and spectacular (posthumous) literary canonisation.Primarily a photographer, Leve likes a certain formal distance in subject -object interaction, a reserved detachment which works well with his photography and yields mixed results in Suicide.In a series of photo portraits under the thema of pornography, Leve does this:and thisClothed pornography: Like I said, the man likes to keep his distance. But in Suicide, this emotional reserve engenders a clinical feel which keeps me at a remove. The minute details, randomly quilted from a temporal perspective, of the life of a 25 year old man who commits suicide, are thoroughly parsed out and laid out for spectation, like the uncoiled furl of a DNA chain strung out in line.Limpid prose recounts the myriad tendencies, likes, dislikes and predispositions of the Suicide, each event a mini horizon, the building block on which subsequent quotidia accrete overwhelmingly until the structure consciousness, satiated from its own over impregnated qualia, elicits one last weight-groan and folds back into itself: suicide.The semi ‘pointillist ruminations’ here seem to work much better in ‘Autoportrait’, which I read online, and which is the far more superior and original trope. This is an excerpt of ’When I look at a strawberry I think of a tongue’, which illustrates the style:'I do not know how to interrupt an interlocutor who bores me. I have good digestion. I love summer rain. I have trouble understanding why people give stupid presents. Presents make me feel awkward, whether I am the giver or the receiver, unless they are the right ones, which is rare. Although I am self-employed, I observe the weekend. I have never kissed a lover in front of my parents. I do not have a weekend place because I do not like to open and then shut a whole lot of shutters over the course of two days. I have not hugged a male friend tight. I have not seen the dead body of a friend. I have seen the dead bodies of my grandmother and my uncle. I have not kissed a boy. I used to have sex with women my own age, but as I got older they got younger. I do not buy used shoes. I have made love on the roof of the thirtieth floor of a building in Hong Kong. I have made love in the daytime in a public garden in Hong Kong. I have made love in the toilet of the Paris–Lyon TGV. I have made love in front of some friends at the end of a very drunken dinner. I have made love in a staircase on the avenue Georges-Mandel. I have made love to a girl at a party at six in the morning, five minutes after asking, without any preamble, if she wanted to. I have made love standing up, sitting down, lying down, on my knees, stretched out on one side or the other. I have made love to one person at a time, to two, to three, to more. I have smoked hashish and opium, I have done poppers, I have snorted cocaine. I find fresh air more intoxicating than drugs. I smoked my first joint at age fourteen in Segovia, a friend and I had bought some “chocolate” from a guard in the military police, I couldn’t stop laughing and I ate the leaves of an olive tree. I smoked several joints in the bosom of my grammar school, the Collège Stanislas, at the age of fifteen. The girl whom I loved the most left me. At ten I cut my finger in a flour mill. At six I broke my nose getting hit by a car. At fifteen I skinned my hip and -elbow falling off a moped, I had decided to defy the street, riding with no hands, looking backward'

  • Sibel Kaçamak
    2019-02-18 14:31

    'Ağustos ayında bir Cumartesi günü, üstünde tenis giysileri, yanında karın, evinden çıkıyorsun. Bahçenin ortasına geldiğinizde, raketini evde unuttuğunu söylüyorsun ona. Almaya gidiyorsun, ama girişteki, raketini genelde koyduğun dolaba yönelmek yerine, mahzene iniyorsun. Karın bunun farkında değil, dışarıda bekliyor, hava güzel, güneşin tadının çıkarıyor. Birkaç saniye sonra, bir silah sesi duyuyor. Eve koşuyor, adını haykırıyor, mahzene giden merdivenlerin kapısının açık olduğunu görüyor, inince seni buluyor. Önceden özenle hazırladığın tüfekle başına ateş etmişsin. Masanın üstünde, sayfası açık bir çizgi roman bırakmışsın. Ne yapacağını şaşıran karın masaya dayanıyor, kitap o bunun son mesajın olduğunu anlayamadan kapanıp düşüyor.'Edouard Leve'nin otoportresinin hemen ardından intiharını okumak iyi bir strateji. 25 yaşında bir gün aniden intihar eden arkadaşına ikinci tekilden yazılmış bir mektup gibi başlayıp yazarın kendisine mi yoksa hala arkadaşına mı hitap ettiği zaman zaman karışan okuması keyifli ama bir o kadar da hüzünlü bir kitap. Analizler, karakterin yazarın bir alter egosu olarak da okunabileceğini söylüyor. Saptadığım en az 3-5 paragraf var ki, hemen öncesinde otoportreyi okumuş olmasaydım çok rahat atlayabilirdim, bu alter ego fikrini iyice destekliyor. Tabii yazarın kitabı yayın evine teslim ettikten 10 gün sonra kendini asarak öldürmüş olmasını zihnin bir köşesine önceden yazmış olmak da bu sonucu çıkarmaya kesin yardımcı olmuştur. Gerçek hayat hikayesinden yola çıksa da ne kadarı kurgu, ne kadarı otobiyografik hiç bir zaman bilemeyeceğimiz esrarlı bir roman. Hayatla, yaşantılarla, ilişkilerle ilgili güzel saptamalar var. Okumayı bitirdiğimde karakteri yolda görsem tanırdım hissiyle kitabı kapattım. Açtığı parantezlerse hala öyle duruyor.

  • Jale
    2019-03-13 07:28

    Edouard Leve'in bu kitabı yayıncıya teslim ettikten on gün sonra intihar ettiği düşünülürse, bu kitap da bir "intihar güncesi"ne dönüşüyor. “Ağustos ayında bir Cumartesi günü, üstünde tenis giysileri, yanında karın, evinden çıkıyorsun. Bahçenin ortasına geldiğinizde, raketini evde unuttuğunu söylüyorsun ona. Almaya gidiyorsun, ama girişteki, raketini genelde koyduğun dolaba yönelmek yerine, mahzene iniyorsun. Karın bunun farkında değil, dışarıda bekliyor, hava güzel, güneşin tadını çıkarıyor. Birkaç saniye sonra, bir silah sesi duyuyor. Eve koşuyor, adını haykırıyor, mahzene giden merdivenlerin kapısının açık olduğunu görüyor, inince seni buluyor. Önceden özenle hazırladığın tüfekle başına ateş etmişsin.”"Peru'ya gitmedin, siyah potinleri sevmedin, pembe çakıllı bir yolda yalınayak yürümedin. yapmadığın o kadar çok şey var ki insanın başı dönüyor, çünkü bizim de yapamayacağımız ne kadar çok şeyin olacağını gösteriyor. zamanımız yetmeyecek. sen beklememeyi seçtin. Sonsuz sanıldığı için yaşama tutunulmasını sağlayan gelecekten vazgeçtin. İnsan tüm yeryüzünü kucaklamayı, tüm meyvelerin tadına bakmayı, tüm insanları sevmeyi isteyebilir. Bizi umutla besleyen bu yanılsamalara sırt çevirdin."

  • Vilma
    2019-03-17 11:29

    It seems impossible to discuss Edouard Levés Suicide without discussing Edouard Levés suicide, and indeed I am not sure it was such a smart move to write as a blurb "Edouard Levé delivered the manuscript for his final book, Suicide, just a few days before he took his own life." Or maybe it doesnt matter, those who are interested in this small novel will most likely know about it anyway before finally reading the book. But I could not help myself to go to this few lines over and over again, stop the reading itself for a minute just to read them once more, to take a deep breath, and go back where I was in the text. Autobiography or autofiction? That is the question but I have not really an answer yet. The novel, and a novel it is, can be seen as a fragmented piecemeal that will implode in making his own rules and its own identity. An identity that appears to be impulsive, incoherent and with moments of madness.A suicide is portrayed, a friend of the author who took his own life 20 years earlier but I as a reader does not even know his name. Suicide does not question the act itself but it aims to recreate the being who has decided to end his own life. An "I", we sense is the author, adresses a "You", the reader, me, but also the suicidal friend who could also be the author, Levé, himself. It suggests different times of a short life without any moral judgment or simplistic psychological explanations. The author/narrator/spectator merely narrates, set times, take snapshots and recalls the absent: the "you", when "we" were collecting claims without any apparent order or a will of completness of a fragile life that once was but not is anymore. It is a re-creation, an attempt to cope with the loss by juxtaposing atttitudes, reflections and details, placed one behind the other revived through memory.Some themes are resurfacing several times in the story. An ultimate gesture of anomie, a sense of not belonging to the world and the question of what one does on this earth, what is the exact role one has. There is also a fear of decay, of old age which might explain the desire to live fast and die young while being frightend but still fascinated by death. Suicide seems like an obsessive, anxious way of trying to outsmart the (negative) end that awaits one. Condemned as a social inmorality the voluntary death is (still) very much a taboo subject. One of moral reprobation but with a morbid fascination. As with many other things literature is not detached from the real world. It seems impossible to determine how much Edouard Levé was in his writing inspired by his own life, his own problems and obsessions. Nevertheless its a kind of testimony, and in parts at least, a farewell letter. (Maybe) it is a self-portrait, a projection of his own experiences and concerns as an artist which are inextricably mixed with memories and ideas of the absent. Obviously interested in the theme of the double and his split it leads a "you" into a novel to a process of depersonalization that paradoxically leads to a progessive identification. There is a mismatch of the otherness and of duplication, a conceptual proposal of a definition of a setback identity. In mirrorlike reflections it is a game on the minutiae, of what shapes our entire existence of the transient and the accidental.The book ends with a series of triplets, found in the office of Levé by his wife:Happiness precedes meSadness follows meDeaths awaits me

  • Eddie Watkins
    2019-03-08 10:40

    Death was never such a clean reading pleasure.Absolute despair is the unspoken center of this novel. Radiating around it are crisply clinical depictions and descriptions of disconnected experiences haunted by this despair (with suicide as foreknowledge). Despair is an intimate stranger studied with cold obliquity.Total cool never penetrated so deeply.A chill runs through the reader.Suicide has never been so exhilarating; so cold, so paradoxically warming.Suicide as a way to preserve one's clarity before it blurs and fades. Suicide as a mirror of one's estrangement.Suicide as life's microscope.Suicide as a cryogenic literary experiment, preserving one's head and perceptions as is.Suicide as a path of knowledge.Suicide as preserving extinction.Suicide as clear eyes as clear sky.

  • Francisco H. González
    2019-02-23 13:29

    La tristeza me persigue pero yo soy más lento, podemos enunciar a modo de pórtico. Leo que Édouard Levé en su novela Autorretrato, en su última páginas hablaba de un amigo suyo que se suicidó volándose la tapa de los sesos a los 25 años. Suicidio va dedicado a este amigo. Al contrario de la mayoría de novelas fúnebres que vienen a ser cartas abiertas, ya sean a hijos, padres, madres o hermanos muertos, con las que los que se quedan explicitan lo jodido que es no tenerlos nunca más a su vera, aquí Levé dice no sentir dolor, ni pena por la ausencia de su amigo. Al morir joven, su amigo queda así idealizado, sin verse afectado por el óxido del tiempo, como aquel niño cuyo padre muere joven y cuando el hijo rebasa la edad del padre y llega a la vejez tiene la sensación de que se ha convertido en padre de su padre y se queda con la mirada perdida como las vacas mirando al tren sin entender nada y así Levé nos va hablando de su amigo, y no sé si lo que dice de este es cierto o se lo inventa, porque lo que manifiesta son algunas cosas objetivas y otras muchas son pensamientos del difunto o aspectos de su forma de ser. A la hora de hablar de su amigo le serían de utilidad a Levé además de lo que conocía de primera mano en su trato e intimidad con el difunto, los tercetos encontrados y que se reproducen al final de la novela, en los que el muerto ya adelanta que la felicidad le precede, la tristeza le sigue y la muerte le espera. Al poco de entregar este libro a su editor Levé a sus 42 años hace lo propio y se ahorca. Cuando uno lee las páginas finales no entiende el suicidio como algo dantesco, desgarrador, sino todo lo contrario, más bien como una forma de vivir la muerte, pues como dice Levé morir a los noventa es morir la muerte. Tanto su amigo como Levé quieren ser dueños de sus vidas, y buscan el escenario, el momento y la forma de irse ante de ser arrollados por el destino. Se toman esa libertad para hacer con su vida lo que quieren, como hizo por ejemplo Henri Roorda, tal como nos contaba en su libro Mi suicidio, porque su vida es suya y a nadie más le pertenece, aunque como sopesa el amigo muerto o Levé ambos saben que se puede entender su marcha como un acto de egoísmo, donde no solo se va y descansa ya para siempre el que se suicida, sino que de paso arrastra en su caída hacia el vacío a todos aquellos familiares y amigos que lo querían mucho y vivo. Eterna Cadencia. 2017. 95 páginas. Traducción de Matías Battistón

  • Jim Coughenour
    2019-02-22 15:20

    Oulipo, the movement founded in 1960 by a group of French writers committed to the creation of literature using constrained writing techniques, produced works generally more interesting in conception than in execution – novels composed without the letter "e"; the same trivial scene narrated in multiple styles; etc. Edouard Levé's Suicide takes the experiment to its annihilating limit. A short book composed as a meditation to a friend who killed himself, it instantiates itself as a suicide note. Levé hanged himself ten days after submitting the manuscript for his book.This is impressive (or depressive, depending on your point of view) but it certainly dictates how one reads the book and makes it far more interesting than it actually is. Like Augustine's Confessions or Edmund White's Nocturnes for the King of Naples, Suicide is composed in the second-person, as an intimate address to a beloved (although the nature of Levé's affection is improbably obscure). Unfortunately, the "You" to whom the book is directed is an exaggerated, weightless, ascetic object without an ounce of charm, even as an obsession. In fact, he's the kind of friend I'd cross the street to avoid.You would have liked to receive, along with invitations, the menus of the dinners to which you had been invited, in order to delight in advance over the dishes you would consume. To future pleasure would have been added a sequence of present desires.Given the repetition of such preciosity over 100 pages, one can accept the final verdict that the "selfishness of your suicide displeased you" only because everything else did too. The book concludes with a poem of 79 enervating stanzas, each line having the reflexive structure[noun] [verb] meEach tercet enacts an inane elucidation:The basement repels meThe attic appeals to meThe staircase guides me...Earth bears meSand slows meMud traps me...The beginning enthuses meThe middle sustains meThe end disappoints meIndeed.

  • Melda
    2019-02-20 07:23

    "Söylemek beni bağlarDinlemek bana öğretirSusmak beni yatıştırır"

  • Arzu
    2019-03-15 10:39

    otoportre'de "görme yetimi kaybetmeyeceğim, duyma yetimi kaybetmeyeceğim, kim olduğumu unutmayacağım, bunlar olmadan öleceğim." diyen édouard levé, bu kitabı yayıncısına teslim ettikten on gün sonra intihar ediyor.. bi' açıdan kendi intihar güncesini tutuyor..bazı düşünceleri, hissettikleri pek tanıdık.. kitabın en vurucu kısmı, son on sayfadaki üçlükler..

  • Tanuj Solanki
    2019-02-18 14:48

    In one episode in Levé's Suicide, the protagonist buys second-hand shoes and goes to a party wearing them. There he learns, through some not-so-important coincidence, that the previous owner of the shoes had committed suicide. But is second-hand shoes a popular concept in France? Never heard of it, cannot imagine it. **And this complicates things“I do not buy used shoes”Excerpt From: Edouard, Levé. “Autoportrait.” Dalkey Archive Press,

  • Geoff
    2019-03-08 14:49

    Here's how I'd do it : Blow my money on a one-way ticket to some scenic Alpine village on a lake, weight my pockets with stones, walk right out into that cool lake until all of this ain't no more, and the last thing I see is mountain, lake, sun, sky, cloud, green and blue light...

  • Smand
    2019-03-02 09:23

    "Ölümünün acısına arkanda bıraktıkların tek başlarına katlanacaklar. İntiharın bu bencil yanından hoşlanmıyordun. Ama tartınca, ölümün dinginliği yaşamın acı dolu çalkantılarına üstün geldi."

  • Charles Dee Mitchell
    2019-03-19 13:25

    Three things to know about Edouard Levé’s Suicide:1) Sometime in the 1980’s, a childhood friend of Levé’s, with whom he had lost touch, committed a very carefully planned suicide at the age of twenty-five.2) Twenty years later, Levé wrote the novel Suicide, using a second-person narration to meditate upon the life and death of his late friend.3) Ten days after turning in the manuscript, Levé committed suicide himself.Reading Suicide is a fascinating and uncomfortable experience. In the French art world, Levé was known as both a photographer and an author. He knew that his suicide would shape the discussion of not only this novel but of all his previous work. Since Levé had been largely out of touch with his friend for twenty years, most everything in the book will be memories recalled from a distant time or speculation. When he writes in second person, whom is he addressing: his unnamed friend, himself, or the reader? His friend staged every aspect of his suicide but left no note. (Levé says a comic book on the table by the body had been left open to a particular page, but it was dropped to the floor before the page could be noted.) Levé himself left no note. On some level, Suicide must be his elaborate final statement.Early in the text, Levé writes, “Your suicide was scandalously beautiful.” What the fuck? This is the type of statement that encourages Americans to find French writing alternately pretentious and risible. When I read it, the room filled with the odor of an ashtray overflowing with stubbed out Gauloises. Fortunately, Levé seldom slips into such aphoristic excess. His prose is declarative and straightforward, paced to the careful rhythm of thought making its way into a precarious subject. After claiming that his friend preferred the structure of a dictionary over the narrative structure of fiction, a preference that in his work Autoportrait he claims for himself, he writesTo portray your life in order would be absurd; I remember you at random. My brain resurrects you through stochastic details, like picking marbles out of a bag.Levé’s first published novel was Works, a list of 533 proposals for conceptual art projects. In Suicide he imagines that his friend had a concept for his own tomb. It would be of unadorned black marble with a stele listing his name, date of birth, and a date of death announcing that had he lived to be eighty-five. Early visitors to the tomb would understand it to be a fiction. If he died on the date it proposed, they might remark on the striking coincidence. Past that date, strangers seeing the tomb might think what a nice, long life this person had lived. Levé doesn’t question the finality of death, but he accepts it with appreciative irony and an awareness of the unanswerable questions this inevitable moment leaves in its wake. He never proposes a solution to why his friend committed suicide. Instead he has this to say:You were neither malicious nor cynical, just pitiless.

  • Aydan Yalçın
    2019-03-05 09:34

    Bu kitap hayatı, ölümü, doğumu ve varlığımızın her bir zerresini sorguluyor. İntihar eden çocukluk arkadaşına yazılan bir mektuptan oluşan İntihar'da, Levé bir insanı "o" noktaya getiren nedenleri anlatıyor. Ve belki biraz da eleştiriyor. Arkadaşına öldüğün için artık "tamsın" derken aynı zamanda o öldüğü için duyduğu acıyı da paylaşıyor. "Yaşamın bir varsayımdı. Yaşlanıp ölenler bir geçmiş yığınıdır. İnsan onları düşününce, oldukları şey gelir gözünün önüne. Seni düşününce olabileceğin şey geliyor. Sen bir olasılık yığını oldun, hep öyle kalacaksın. İntiharın yaşamındaki en önemli söz oldu, ama meyvelerini toplayamayacaksın.""Sen sonunda boşluktan başka bir şey bulamama tehlikesini göze alarak mutluluğu aradığın için öldün.""Acın havanın kararmasıyla yatışıyordu. Mutluluk olasılığı kışın beşte, yazın daha geç başlıyordu.""Gerçek yaşama sürekli dalgalanmaları içinde katlanmaya çalışırken, kendi ritmine göre okuyarak kurgusal yaşamın akışına söz geçirebiliyordun: Onu durdurabiliyor, hızlandırabiliyor ya da yavaşlatabiliyordun. Geriye dönebiliyor ya da geleceğe sıçrayabiliyordun. Okur olarak bir tanrı gücü vardı sende: Zaman sana boyun eğiyordu.""Egemen olmak beni bunaltırÇekmek beni köleleştirirYalnız olmak beni özgürleştirir""Mutluluk önümde giderÜzüntü beni izlerÖlüm beni bekler"İntiharından on gün önce yayıncısına teslim ettiği bu kitap belki biraz da Édouard Levé'in kendi yaşadıklarını gözler önüne seriyor.

  • Carolyn
    2019-02-20 14:40

    In a sense, Suicide is to be viewed with a sense of pathos. It is merely the document of a paralyzed self. Levé's writing reveals the discrepancies between the inner and outer worlds of those liable to suicide. It appears as though the anonymous departed protagonist (perhaps our auteur himself) is tormented by his own internalization of thought and feeling. His feelings of extreme discontent seep out through cracks in his behaviour and attitude towards life, yet he continues to bear the mask of normalcy and happiness through to his final days. If only, we are forced to think, Levé might have stood to publish the work before his death. To be understood, to communicate oneself, is among the most essential of human desires. One imagines the solace which the author might've found in confessing this book's contents while remaining in life. Ultimately, this is the goal of the writer: to write and feel some sort of resonance of the self amongst one's reading audience. This work is scholastically and artistically unremarkable, but provides a revealing gaze at the existential tristesse that has driven many to the grave by their own hand.

  • Gastón
    2019-03-17 14:42

    El suicidio es disparador de múltiples interpretaciones. Se lo piensa a partir del pasado y se lo describe y condena desde el presente. Eso es lo que hace Édouard Levé en este libro que describe los detalles de una vida que ya no existe. Usando como motor al suicidio de un amigo, Levé justifica el vacío y absurdo que rodea al humano. El tono se mueve entre la imprecación desde el sufrimiento y la exaltación desde el deseo. Propone pensar a la finitud como acercamiento a una verdad. El más allá existe en un gesto que se convierte eterno al ser ejecutado, ya no es el fin sino la suspensión de algo parecido a una certeza.Levé entiende ese modo de conocimiento y hace carne la letra con su propio suicidio.

  • Uyuyan Adam / Engin Türkgeldi
    2019-03-19 13:23

    Rahat okunan, iyi çevrilmiş bir kitap (Çev: Orçun Türkay). Çok çarpıcı bir başlangıcı ve konusu olmasına rağmen sayfalar geçtikçe anlatımın ve içeriğin tek düzeliği zaman zaman yıldırdı. Kitap hakkındaki en çarpıcı şey ise yazarın, kitabı editörüne teslim ettikten iki hafta sonra intihar etmiş olması. Bu, tek başına kitabı okumak için bir neden.

  • david
    2019-03-09 11:25

    Sublime. Singular. Conclusive.

  • Xandra
    2019-03-15 15:28

    There can’t be many subjects that make one more uncomfortable than suicide. Death is repulsive. Choosing it over its much more popular, highly regarded, imposed-by-default alternative, life, is one of the most sensitive topics. Life has a good reputation, it’s regarded as a gift, and, most importantly, it’s customizable. If you don’t like some of its features, you can always make adjustments. That’s why the desire to die comes with shame, regret and a sense of loss and defeat. You’re selfish for wanting to leave a world you’ve never asked to be a part of, for not trying hard enough, for not getting old enough like everybody else. You’ll be condemned if you turn your ghastly thoughts into reality, as rebels always are. Your final gesture is what you’ll be most often remembered for. Worse, they’ll try to rationalize it, find answers and concrete reasons. And they will. All lives, the happiest ones included, provide a multitude of reasons for suicide when you place them under a microscope. They’ll need to know if your motives were valid. Sufficiently good. Where does your suicide stand in the hierarchy of suicides? Because not all suicides are equal. The emo kid and the heartbroken lover won’t get the same treatment as the cancer sufferer or the genius artist. The hypocritical hierarchy of pain doesn’t allow it. It doesn’t matter that you, like each of us, are the center of the universe, that your pain, however objectively insignificant, is infinite and absolute, the greatest pain that ever was. You’re dead because you couldn’t live, but they can’t understand it, they never will. That would require them to stop long enough, hurt deep enough and think, from a position of distance, seriously enough about life. Which would never happen as they’re terrified of what they might find. They’ll keep busy and drive through every day at high speed without paying attention or asking questions. They’ll entertain illusions of eternity, they’ll place their hopes and outsource their fears to supernatural entities. In the back of their minds they know that curiosity only brings up more unanswerable questions and perhaps it’s better not to understand. Answers, while providing clarification, often rob us of something more important. Why sacrifice peace, contentment, ignorance for truth? Unburdened by the conscience of the absurd, they’ll keep on living satisfied with their daily existence, terrified of the responsibility that taking their lives would imply, or simply out of a desire for completion. Most of us like to read the whole book, however bad the first half is. Some of us don’t.I don’t know what I’m getting at with this. All I’m saying is: it feels futile to justify it, wrong to place its motives on a scale of validity, heartless to condemn it, hypocritical to deem it selfish, and maybe unwise – or too wise – to think about it too much. Life is random and objectively meaningless, and part of getting used to it is learning to fabricate a reality that suits us best. Whether it’s the belief in a transcendent being or something more concrete like family or hobbies, it’s this personal meaning that acts as a decoy from life’s absurdity and keeps us alive. In its absence, all that’s left is a heady clarity of the absurd. The book, narrated in second person, outlines the elusive portrait of a friend (real?) of the author who committed suicide 20 years prior to Leve’s own self-inflicted demise. There are no answers in this book because they don’t exist. Trying to find any is like trying to make sense of the absurdity of our presence in the universe. The opening paragraph sets the tone of the book and anticipates a cold, matter-of-fact narration, in the sort of voice that can only surge from depression."One Saturday in the month of August, you leave your home wearing your tennis gear, accompanied by your wife. In the middle of the garden you point out to her that you've forgotten your racket in the house. You go back to look for it, but instead of making your way toward the cupboard in the entryway where you normally keep it, you head down into the basement. Your wife doesn't notice this. She stays outside. The weather is fine. She's making the most of the sun. A few moments later she hears a gunshot." Following this paragraph and until the last page, the narrator constructs a vague portrait of his friend, piecing together disjointed memories and thoughts, some happy (“You collected phrases spoken on the street by passersby. One of your favorites was: A canine is just fine, but I do adore a dinosaur.”), some endearing (“During the week you sometimes thought it was Sunday.”), and most downright depressing (“You lie alone in a stone tomb upon which your first and last names are engraved in gold lettering. Below can be read the date of your birth and that of your death, separated by twenty-five years.”). As you read on, the images of the narrator and his addressee seem to overlap, giving the uncanny feeling that they are the same person.I’m giving it only three stars because it starts trailing off in the second part and because it concludes with an unimpressive poem of which I liked only the last verse. Other than that, it’s a good book, well-written, that doesn’t take sides on the issue of suicide, limiting itself to the anachronistic depiction of a life. “Happiness precedes meSadness follows meDeath awaits me”

  • Daniel
    2019-02-18 12:36

    This is a very long review, and I am sorry, but I have a lot to say about this book.It’s my opinion that Édouard Levé perfects the pointillist technique he experiments with in Autoportrait in Suicide. I’ll explain my reasoning later.Levé is worth reading for reasons other than this unique experimentation. It is in his ability to create character through this pointillism that he really shines. These facts build people who are very real. It reminds me of advice for lovers I once heard: don’t marry until you have seen your partner in a variety of situations. This is what Levé does--he shows us this person at times of euphoria, depression, confusion, horniness, boredom, and fear. Showing us these different experiences creates a complex persona that suddenly seems impossible to find in traditional narratives. Yet despite this close study of character, there is still another dimension here that refuses to be explored. We come to know so much about this character, but his suicide creates questions that can never be answered. The suicide is not a surprise, it happens in the first paragraph, and it soon become clear that there is no answer to why the suicide was committed. But still we read on, perhaps in order to find some hints to this puzzle along the way. I want to say that this novel is deeply felt by Levé, but I don’t know if that is true at all. Levé repeatedly states that he was not close to his friend, that he doesn’t really miss him. So maybe it is me that feels deeply here. I feel inclined to make a somewhat counter-intuitive statement: I feel like I know Leve better in this novel than I do in his Autoportrait. I’m second-guessing myself already, asking how could that possibly be true? Autoportrait was ABOUT Levé! Maybe it is because Suicide is also about Leve, but in more abstract ways. (Levé committed suicide days after turning in this manuscript.) But I think it has to do with the movement and action in the novel. In the poem that ends the novel, there is a stanza that I feel helps explain this:“A single point hypnotizes meA constellation scatters meA line guides me”This is perfect because it is already spoken in terms of Levé’s pointillism. If we consider one of the numerous facts of Autoportrait to be a single point, and the sum of these facts that is Autoportrait in its entirety as a constellation of points, then Suicide is a line that guides us to understanding not only the events of the book, but Levé himself. The facts that make up the two novels are indeed hypnotizing, but Autoportrait underwhelmed me because I did feel “scattered.” There was very little movement, very little motion. Suicide has motion: we are looking for the answers this suicide begs. We begin with the suicide, are engaged in the scattered events of this person’s life, and then suddenly find ourselves getting closer and closer to it. We see this person’s numbness and his depression more clearly as we near the end. The narrator claims to be remembering these events at random, but Levé is clearly guiding us to an end. It’s very likely this end does not exist on the page at all. The answers never come. Perhaps it is Levé’s own suicide that we are being led to. Reading this book is a haunting experience for this reason. It’s very clear to me now that we can never know everything.

  • Michael Palkowski
    2019-03-16 08:49

    A eulogistic piece of writing written in the second person narrative that weaves together the experiences and life of the writer and the subject of death. Leve writes about himself as much as he writes about his friend. He address dying head on and is comforted by the free will in suicide, the act of living in death and his reflections, strength and passion is sad, subtle and unimposing. He writes more fluidly here than in his other works, but the disconnect is in his choice of subject and in his address to the reader. He writes about himself and covers it obliquely in 'you'. He addresses points that he made in his autoportrait text, he stands out of the narrative and you greet him with your familiarity. You know it is him that is lurking behind the page and you feel intimately connected with his reflections. You also realize that this makes sense as his final work, here he is not only discussing his long term friend and discussing his friend's life, but he is becoming the unfamiliar country by embracing what his friend embraced, he is closer to his friend now than he was before. His writing here is a hospitality for the depressed, the chaotic stasis that takes over the body and makes your bones sore from sadness. I read this book sitting in a cafe over the course of a few hours and I found my vision stagnating and failing me somewhat. I found the scene irritating at times, the people talking in the background was a hum, like an air conditioner. I was overcome with loneliness, feeling myself half broken, half stable and drinking coffee after coffee, turning page after page. This was a book that soaked these feelings up, made them slightly more wistful, more reverential and more prophetic. An utter success as a novella, but a timid exit.

  • Jim
    2019-02-23 07:21

    One of the most gripping first paragraphs I've read in ages:"One Saturday in the month of August, you leave your home wearing your tennis gear, accompanied by your wife. In the middle of the garden you point out to her that you've forgotten your racket in the house. You go back to look for it, but instead of making your way toward the cupboard in the entryway where you normally keep it, you head down into the basement. Your wife doesn't notice this. She stays outisde. The weather is fine. She's making the most of the sun. A few moments later she hears a gunshot. She rushes into the house, cries out your name, notices that the door to the stairway leading to the basement is open, goes down, and finds you there. You've put a bullet in your head with the rifle you had carefully prepared. On the table, you left a comic book open to a double-page spread. In the heat of the moment, your wife leans on the table; the book falls closed before she understands that this was your final message."

  • Jeremy
    2019-02-25 07:42

    This is an odd, improbable thing. A short novel addressed in the second person to a friend who committed suicide by a man who would commit suicide 10 days after finishing it. It's obviously somewhat impossible to read this book without keeping Leve's own suicide in mind. The austere, almost pointillist style of his book 'Auto-portrait' is expanded here as he ruminates about what it means for a person to end their own life, about the perpetual mystery around it, about how it reshapes, re-orients and above all clouds our own perceptions of the victim around the final, annihilating act. Yet the writing still has the cool, dispassionate, almost reportorial quality which makes Leve's work feel almost outside of time. In so far as Leve wanted to confront this question; directly, without any real dogma or ideological agenda, he is in his own way a better philosopher and thinker than most actual philosophers. Highly recommended.

  • Regan
    2019-02-18 14:48

    The rating is not a recommendation. As I was reading Suicide, it occurred to me that I would not feel comfortable recommending it to anyone, regardless of how excellent it is, how raw, or how truthful.

  • M. Sarki
    2019-03-16 10:48 recently acquired this little white book titled SUICIDE, published by The Dalkey Archives, for two reasons. Maybe three. The translator goes by the name of Jan Steyn who seems to be an interesting fellow who would be more inclined to his working hard on helping us English-speaking readers to understand a great piece of literature than in turning over a quick buck. Steyn translated the fantastic Alix’s Journal by Alix Cleo Roubaud and I loved that book very much. Another reason for me purchasing this book was the subject, suicide, my favorite all-time most-interesting subject, besides the one about condoning adulterous sex. The book, SUICIDE, was marketed as being about suicide and the author himself, Edouard Levé, also committed suicide ten days after turning over the manuscript to his original French publisher. Now that is something interesting and powerful in total. But the caveat for my eventual purchase was the simple French design of the book. Small, white, and a volume similar to the paperbacks found all over the sidewalks of Paris, stacked neatly on tables, with only their printed black titles to entice you to buy as the books all pretty much look the same, one from the other. I do like that look and had patterned my own collection of poems titled Mewl House after that same style. But this book was disappointing on every level but that one. I never learned a thing I didn’t already know about suicide by reading this book. I still do not understand why, how, or what this particular suicide was all about. I have read thousands of words on the subject and this book rates in the tank compared to most others. Especially the extremely crappy lyrical stuff found in the last fourteen pages. If I had known Edouard Levé was going to wax poetical on me at the end I would have resisted buying it no matter how pretty it looked, no matter that Jan Steyn translated it, and that Jan Steyn also thought enough about the author to write an afterword. There was nothing in the afterword to offer any light on the subject of suicide either. Jan Steyn fell a peg down on that one. Perhaps two when you add the afterword to an already inferior work. My own investigative efforts discovered the author Edouard Levé had actually hung himself, which is more interesting to me than any words read in his book. I am already fascinated with writers, especially writers who hang themselves. David Foster Wallace hung himself. But in the Edouard Levé novel the suicidal friend shot himself in the head instead of hanging his neck from the rafters. Not cool. Much mess to clean up, and the violence and monstrosity of the whole affair I am sure caused his spouse to puke all over herself. But we didn’t read about that. These guys always seem to like having their women find them. I don’t get that. In the novel, I feel Edouard Levé should have had his suicidal friend hang himself. But maybe that is why Edouard Levé saved hanging for himself. But all in all, I felt cheated. And the poetry is bad. Oh it is bad. Honestly, Levé’s prose really is not much better than his verse. All in all a poor purchase on my part. And Dalkey Archives produced it for the ages. Sort of shows where we might be going for the future of books in print.