BEF 2011/28 – American Diary [France]

14/07/2011

My first thought on reading Frenchman Eric Laurrent’s ‘American Diary’ was on the reception it might get from American readers.  The story is some dozen entries of a diary written by a Frenchman (thus inviting us to identify the diarist with the author, a presumption Laurrent does nothing to dissuade) that reads as xenophobic and dismissive, the condescension of a refined man of taste touring a glittering cultural wasteland.  Laurrent’s distaste is there from day one as he describes the imitation of Gothic Venetian architecture and the bastardization of high art (Boticelli’s Venus as a bathing-suited, roller-skated tourist sans the shell) of the Venice Beach hotel in which he is staying.  What follows is a satirical slideshow of the diarist’s misadventures as he travels from Los Angeles to San Francisco, Salt Lake City and in between.

Despite his statement that we are more perceptive when traveling due to the “hypersensitivity into which out constant attentiveness plunges us,” Laurrent’s observations on la vie des Americains range from trite to almost piquant.  From the sights that come his way our flâneur cobbles together a record of American excess: the gigantic pornography industry, roadside diners inhabited by the obese, love of litigation, ubiquitous advertising.  In his entry dated “Los Angeles. Thursday, April 2,” Laurrent writes,

On Wiltshire Boulevard there’s a monument commemorating the conquest of the West: it’s an equestrian statue depicting the actor John Wayne, whose pedestal is sculpted with bas-reliefs featuring battle scenes with cowboys and Indians.  Can you imagine, in France, a monument commemorating World War I being adorned with an effigy of Jean Gabin, on the grounds that he starred in Grand Illusion?

There is a statement to be made here about the aestheticization and interpenetration of history and pop culture, but which Laurrent ignores in favour of another similarly fertile but tossed aside observation:

Los Angeles abounds in places of worship to such an extent that it’s not impossible that everything on this planet which might be considered a religion, from the most ancient to the most recent, the most widespread to the least known, the most serious to the most harebrained, has a home here.  There’s no one building manifesting any sort of spiritual heritage, like Notre Dame in Paris.  They all seem to be equal.

These two extracts are the kernels of greater works than the soil that surrounds them.  Either observation, interesting in itself, could have furnished sustained contemplation of the cross-pollination of American entertainment and history, or the architectural paucity of her spiritual heritage.  Instead they serve as eccentricities to be simply logged and not investigated; the quick snapshot is favoured over deeper thought and meaningful analysis.

I admit to some confusion over Laurrent’s aim here.  Is ‘American Diary’ nothing more than his turn at the piñata of American insularity on which it has become so fashionable to flail?  Is he confident that the work, appearing as it does in an anthology of European fiction, won’t find a sizeable audience in the United States?  It is unclear that Laurrent has anything more in mind than a broad caricature of American life, dutifully taking note of its weighty excess and emptiness in sex, entertainment, religion, architecture, gastronomy, going no deeper than does a spinning stone of the surface of a lake.

An expected defence against such a charge might be the claim that Laurrent was being ironic and that he meant something entirely other.  But any meaning beyond the comment that, as outsiders, we are seeing only the surface of American and ignoring its cultural depths (a comment made by giving us nothing but more of the same surface) is difficult to imagine.  Furthermore, Laurrent treads almost on the tail of sincerity when he admits at the end of the piece to liking (not quite genuflecting) and purchasing a song by Madonna; a conciliatory gesture that might be intended to soften what came before it but comes rather as a noncommittal shrug.

Ultimately, ‘American Diary’ is a patchwork of cheap and empty cynicisms and, aside from a few remarks (see above), there is nothing of interest here.

‘American Diary’ is translated from French by Ursula Meany Scott.

This is a review of a story from Best European Fiction 2011, an anthology edited by Aleksandar Hemon and published by Dalkey Archive Press.  There will appear on this website each Friday just such a review until the entire book is done.

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7 Responses to “BEF 2011/28 – American Diary [France]”


  1. An easy target — La La Land. Tinseltown. Your voice spoke in perfect (Yankee) pitch.


  2. An easy target–La La Land. Tinseltown. You had perfect pitch in your critique, David. Shooting fish in a barrel. Not much sport there.

    • David J Single Says:

      It really was quite terrible. Undoubtedly there is a lot of weak fiction being written in America, but what country can claim otherwise? Certainly not Australia. When we speak of a nation’s literature, we speak too broadly to really be saying much at all. There is a cold shoulder being given American letters by the elitist foreign literati at present in response to a perceived “insularity.” You have probably heard the talk. Are we, then, to meet American writers with a blindfold and a gag, and thus keep them from the global dialogue of the arts that others charge them of soliloquizing? With figures such as Emerson, Thoreau, Melville, the James brothers, Hemingway, Bellow, Faulkner standing in the past some might argue that America has reached her literary apotheosis, but I say they are Newton’s giants, and there are further heights to be scaled.


  3. European countries are small—emigrate elsewhere if you don’t like living there. Adopt a new nationality. The US is big, each state, each part of the country with its own distinctive personality—if you don’t like it in one place, move to another. You’re still an American.
    We tolerate eccentricity in our various regions, often ridicule it ourselves, but, like that of members of our own family, we accept it. We don’t love them less for it. Would die for them (for our Union) if it came to that.


  4. Perhaps the ascendancy of Indian, African (3rd World) writers is due to their experiencing (and having experienced)—pain. Americans have forgotten their heritage. Alas, we’ve lost more than our fiction.


  5. David, The June 13-20 issue of The New Yorker included a personal history by Aleksandar Hemon entitled “The Aquarium.” I had hoped it was fiction it devastated me so when I read it, but maybe it wasn’t. Anyway, this week’s issue devotes it’s entire “letters” section to this one story. Something it does very seldom, usually including only one or two letters related to any article. The power of good writing.

    • David J Single Says:

      The article is behind the paywall so I couldn’t read it, but the comments were there. With such a subject it’s only reasonable to expect strong and numerous responses. Perhaps they constituted the majority of the letters for that week. An awful thing to happen to anybody.


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