09-07-2016, 10:29 PM
I just finished reading Le mausolée des amants (The Mausoleum of Lovers), and it was an exceptional book throughout. (One I would recommend to [MENTION=21558]Emiliano[/MENTION] to check out too, if he's in the mood).
![[Image: Nightboat_TMOL_FINAL_WEB_cover.jpg?itok=iYUo0rfs]](http://www.nightboat.org/sites/default/files/styles/book_cover_200_300/public/Nightboat_TMOL_FINAL_WEB_cover.jpg?itok=iYUo0rfs)
Guibert originally started it as notes and letters written to his lover, Thierry, but it grew into a journal and was published posthumously as such. His honesty is outstanding, the way he opens up about his life and events. It is not composed of long-winding self-analyses or self-search. Instead it's made up of what is, in small passages -- glimpses -- of daily happenings, and events. They are all too brief, but altogether they end up forming a very clear and comprehensive image of Guibert. In a way, this book is composed of images in the written form. That's part of its beauty.
I felt incredibly close to him throughout the read. He's just there, on the pages, alive. Not less so because his method of documenting his life and his approach to himself is close to my own and I could immediately get it. I can understand him, and he makes sense to me.
[MENTION=1766]princealbertofb[/MENTION], I was too young then, in 1991 when he died. I wasn't even 10 years old, and I can't remember ever having heard of him till now. But he has been one of the greatest discoveries of my life. I was quickly taken by his person. I think, in Guibert's case, the work of art is not his books or photography as such -- the work of art here is Hervé Guibert himself. Not because he 'creates' himself as such, there is nothing 'invented' there, but because he is sublime in his person, by default. I don't think it is possible to even understand his fiction without knowing how he was as a person. He is always there in his work, and the line between fiction and reality is very blurred. In a way, in his case, fiction can be reality, and reality can be fiction. And the two are not necessarily opposites, or exclusive of one another.
Guibert originally started it as notes and letters written to his lover, Thierry, but it grew into a journal and was published posthumously as such. His honesty is outstanding, the way he opens up about his life and events. It is not composed of long-winding self-analyses or self-search. Instead it's made up of what is, in small passages -- glimpses -- of daily happenings, and events. They are all too brief, but altogether they end up forming a very clear and comprehensive image of Guibert. In a way, this book is composed of images in the written form. That's part of its beauty.
I felt incredibly close to him throughout the read. He's just there, on the pages, alive. Not less so because his method of documenting his life and his approach to himself is close to my own and I could immediately get it. I can understand him, and he makes sense to me.
[MENTION=1766]princealbertofb[/MENTION], I was too young then, in 1991 when he died. I wasn't even 10 years old, and I can't remember ever having heard of him till now. But he has been one of the greatest discoveries of my life. I was quickly taken by his person. I think, in Guibert's case, the work of art is not his books or photography as such -- the work of art here is Hervé Guibert himself. Not because he 'creates' himself as such, there is nothing 'invented' there, but because he is sublime in his person, by default. I don't think it is possible to even understand his fiction without knowing how he was as a person. He is always there in his work, and the line between fiction and reality is very blurred. In a way, in his case, fiction can be reality, and reality can be fiction. And the two are not necessarily opposites, or exclusive of one another.
''Do I look civilized to you?''
![[-]](https://gayspeak.com/images/duende_v3_local/collapse.png)
