In the Labyrinth

Alain Robbe-Grillet

Description

The Battle of Reichenfels has been fought and lost. The army is in flight. The enemy is expected to arrive in town at any moment. A soldier, carrying a parcel under his arm, is wandering through an unknown town. All the streets look the same, and he cannot remember the name of one where he was supposed to meet the man who had agreed to take the parcel. But he must deliver the parcel or at least get rid of it...A brilliant work from one of the finest exponents of the Nouveau Roman, In the Labyrinth showcases an inventive, hypnotic style which creates an uncanny atmosphere of deja vu, yet undermines the reader's expectations at every turn.

Informations

• Publié par: Alma Books
• Date de parution: 21 juin 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780714546612
• Langue: English

Extrait

In the Labyrinth
Alain Robbe-Grillet
Translated by Christine Brooke-Rose



calder publications an imprint of
alma books Ltd 3 Castle Yard Richmond Surrey TW10 6TF United Kingdom www.calderpublications.com
In the Labyrinth first published in French in 1959 by Les Editions de Minuit
© Alain Robbe-Grillet, 1967
This translation first published in 1967 by Calder & Boyars Limited
Translation © Christine Brooke-Rose, 1967
This edition first published by Alma Books Limited in 2018
Cover image by Will Dady
isbn : 978-0-71454-457-1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the express prior consent of the publisher.


In the Labyrinth


This story is fiction, not a report. It describes a reality which is not necessarily that of the reader’s own experience: thus the infantry in the French army does not have the military number on the coat-collar. Similarly, the recent history of Western Europe has recorded no important battle at Reichenfels or even nearby. And yet the reality here in question is strictly physical, that is to say it has no allegorical significance. The reader should therefore see in it only the objects, the gestures, the words and the events that are told, without seeking to give them either more or less meaning than they would have in his own life, or in his own death.
A. R-G.




I am alone here now , safe and sheltered. Outside it is raining, outside in the rain one has to walk with head bent, hand shielding eyes that peer ahead nevertheless, a few yards ahead, a few yards of wet asphalt; outside it is cold, the wind blows between the bare black branches; the wind blows among the leaves, sweeping whole boughs into a swaying motion, swaying, swaying, that throws its shadow on the white roughcast of the walls. Outside the sun is shining, there is not a tree, not a bush to give shade, one has to walk in the full sunlight, hand shielding eyes that look ahead, a few yards ahead only, a few yards of dusty asphalt where the wind traces parallels, curves and spirals.
Here the sun does not enter, nor does the wind, nor the rain, nor the dust. The fine dust that dulls the shine of the horizontal planes, the varnished tabletop, the polished parquet, the marble of the mantelpiece and that of the chest of drawers, the cracked marble of the chest of drawers, the only dust here comes from the room itself: from the gaps in the parquet possibly, or from the bed, or the curtains, or the ashes in the fireplace.
On the varnished tabletop the dust has marked the place occupied for a while – for a few hours, a few days, minutes, weeks – by small objects since removed, the bases of which are clearly outlined for a while longer, a circle, a square, a rectangle, other less simple forms, some of them partly overlapping, already blurred or half-erased as if by the flick of a rag.
When the outline is precise enough for the shape to be definitely identified, the original object can easily be found not far away. Thus the circular shape has obviously been left by a glass ashtray now placed just beside it. Similarly, away on its own, the square in the far left-hand corner of the table corresponds to the base of a copper lamp now standing at the right-hand corner: a square base about an inch high, topped by a disc of the same thickness bearing at its centre a fluted column.
The lampshade projects a circle of light onto the ceiling. But this circle is not complete: on one side it is cut at ceiling level by the wall, the wall behind the table. This wall, unlike the other three which are entirely papered, is hidden from top to bottom and across most of its width by thick red curtains made of some heavy, velvety material.
Outside it is snowing. The wind drives the fine dry crystals over the dark asphalt of the pavement, and with each gust the crystals fall in white lines, parallels, curves, spirals, no sooner disrupted than they are again taken up in whirls, chased round at ground level, now suddenly immobilized again, forming renewed spirals, scrolls, forked undulations, arabesques in motion, and then again disrupted. One has to walk with head further bent, hand firmer on the brow to protect eyes that can only just see a few inches of ground in front of the feet, a few inches of grizzled white where the feet appear, one after the other, withdrawing, one after the other, alternately.
But the staccato sound of metallic heels on the asphalt, approaching steadily along the rectilinear street, ringing out more and more clearly in the dead calm of the frozen night, the sound of heels cannot reach this place, nor can any other noise from the outside. The street is too long, the curtains too thick, the house too high. No noise, not even muffled, ever penetrates the walls of the room, no vibration, no breath of air, and in the silence minute particles float slowly down, hardly visible in the light from the lampshade, gently down, vertically, always at the same speed, and the fine grey dust settles in an even layer on the parquet floor, the counterpane, the furniture.
Across the polished floor the felt slippers have traced gleaming paths, from the bed to the chest of drawers, from the chest of drawers to the fireplace, from the fireplace to the table. And, on the table, the removal of objects has also disturbed the continuity of the dust film which, more or less thick according to the age of the surfaces, has here and there been interrupted altogether: a square of varnished wood, as sharp as if drawn with a ruler, occupies the rear left-hand corner of the table, not in the angle itself but parallel to the edges, about four inches from them. The square itself measures some six by six inches. The wood, reddish brown, shines there, almost untouched by dust.
To the right a simple shape, more blurred, already covered by several days’ deposit, is nevertheless still discernible; at a certain angle it acquires sufficient clarity for its outline to be followed without too much difficulty. It is a kind of cross: an elongated main shape, like a table knife but wider, coming to a point at one end and slightly swollen at the other, cut across by a much shorter cross-piece consisting of two flame-shaped projections laid out symmetrically on either side of the main axis, just at the base of the swollen part, that is to say at about a third of the total length. It looks like a flower, the swollen end representing a long closed corolla, at the end of a stem, with two small lateral leaves below it. Or it could be a vaguely human figurine: an oval head, two very short arms, and the body ending in a point below. Or even a dagger, with a hilt separating the handle from the stout, blunt-ended, double-edged blade.
Still further to the left following the direction of the flower’s tail or the dagger’s point, a circle, hardly blurred at all, is just broached on one side by a second circle of the same size, but consisting of more than just a projection on the table: the glass ashtray. Then come a few uncertain lines, criss-crossing, left no doubt by various papers, moved several times in such a way as to blur the pattern, very clear in places, or on the contrary veiled by the grizzled film, and elsewhere more than half-erased as if by the flick of a rag.
Beyond them stands the lamp, in the right angle of the table: a base six by six inches square, a disc of the same diameter, a fluted column bearing a dark and very slightly conical lampshade. On the upper circle of the lampshade a fly is moving slowly, continuously, projecting on the ceiling a distorted shadow in which no element of the initial insect is recognizable: neither wings, nor body, nor legs; the whole has become a single filiform stroke, a regular dotted line, unclosed, like a hexagon with a missing side: the image of the glowing filament in the electric bulb. At one of its angles this small open polygon touches the inside edge of the vast circle of light produced by the lamp. It moves slowly but continuously all round the circumference. When it reaches the angle of the wall and ceiling it disappears into the folds of the heavy red curtain.
Outside it is snowing. Outside it has snowed, it was snowing, outside it is snowing. The massed flakes descend gently, their fall steady, uninterrupted, vertical – for there is not a breath of wind – in front of the high grey houses, preventing a clear view of their façades, the alignment of the roofs, the positions of the doors and windows. There must be rows of identical, regular windows repeated at every level from one end to the other of the rectilinear street.
An intersection, at right angles, shows another entirely similar street: the same roadway without traffic, the same high, grey houses, the same closed windows, the same deserted pavements. At the corner of the pavement a street lamp is alight, although it is broad daylight. But the daylight is without brightness, making everything look flat and dull. Instead of the spectacular perspectives which these rows of houses ought to display, there is only a meaningless criss-crossing of lines, and the snow that falls continuously, removing all depth from the landscape as if this blurred view were a badly painted trompe l ’ œ il on a flat wall.
In the angle of the wall and ceiling the shadow of the fly, a blown-up image of the filament in the electric bulb, reappears and continues on its journey around the edge of the white circle violently lit by the lamp. Its speed is still the same: feeble an