{"id":63200,"date":"2013-12-03T13:15:42","date_gmt":"2013-12-03T18:15:42","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=63200"},"modified":"2013-12-04T07:26:22","modified_gmt":"2013-12-04T12:26:22","slug":"teeth-marks-three-early-poems-by-albert-cossery","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/12\/03\/teeth-marks-three-early-poems-by-albert-cossery\/","title":{"rendered":"Teeth Marks: Three Early Poems by Albert Cossery"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"cosserylarge\"<\/a>

Image via 3ammagazine.com.<\/p><\/div>\n

Like his friend, fellow Scorpio, and confidant\u00a0Albert Camus, Albert Cossery would also have celebrated his one hundredth birthday last month. The patron saint of indolence\u2014who wrote only when he had nothing better to do\u2014died in 2008. But one can imagine that Cossery, had he made it to his centenary, would have been exactly like Cossery at any age. The elegant Egyptian novelist, impeccably dressed, forever held fast to his routine. For nearly sixty years, until his death, he lived in an austere room in the Hotel La Louisiane in St. Germain des Pr\u00e9s. Each day he slept late, venturing out only in the afternoons, to bask in the sun and watch the girls of the Luxembourg Gardens, or to have a plate of lentils and fizzy water at the Caf\u00e9 de Flore and linger for hours, doing nothing. Even when, toward the end of his life, he was hospitalized for an operation, Cossery\u2014still wearing the ward\u2019s pajamas\u2014escaped the hospital for the caf\u00e9, pushed in a wheelchair by a beautiful blonde.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere comes Tutanhkamun,\u201d the waiters whispered behind his back. Just so, Cossery\u2019s writings, forever returning to the same scenes and casts\u2014of mendicants and saltimbanques<\/em>, failed revolutionaries and hashish-addled philosophers\u2014preserved a certain consistency over the decades. The young Albert, who attended French schools as a child in Cairo, began his first novel at age ten. At seventeen, he published a book of poems, titled Les Morsures<\/i>, \u201cThe Teeth Marks\u201d or \u201cBites.\u201d By all accounts the book has been lost, and Cossery himself up until his death coyly refused to aid any devoted readers in search of a copy. Yet three poems were preserved in the monumental anthology Po\u00e8tes en Egypte<\/i>, edited in Cairo in 1955 by Jean Moscatelli. The anthology, which brought together over fifty-five Franco-Egyptian writers, captured the collective achievements of a literary community in the twilight of its end. It included Cossery\u2019s friends Georges Henein and Edmond Jab\u00e8s, as well as Joyce Mansour and Horus Schenouda\u2014all of whom were soon to leave, or had already left, for exile in Paris in the wake of Nasser\u2019s coup. <\/p>\n

In the extant poems\u2014\u201cThe Beggars,\u201d \u201cMisery,\u201d and \u201cNight,\u201d translated into English for the first time by Jocelyn Spaar\u2014the teeth marks we find belong to Baudelaire, and the \u201cmacabre puerilities,\u201d in Moscatelli\u2019s words, of Flowers of Evil<\/i>. At times, Cossery even seems to lift verses from his boyhood god: the scholar Bassem Shahin has pointed out, for instance, similarities between the first line of Baudelaire\u2019s \u201cThe Sun\u201d and Cossery\u2019s \u201cThe Beggars.\u201d The putrid, cadaverous mass in the poem further recalls the stench of \u201cA Carcass.\u201d And the blood-sucking temptress of Baudelaire\u2019s \u201cThe Vampire\u201d seems to strike again in Cossery\u2019s \u201cNight,\u201d as the shadowy woman \u201cwho bit my dream \/ in times far-off like the moon.\u201d But in the face of her, Cossery, unlike the vanquished Baudelaire, remains firm.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe verses already carry the mark of a life haunted by all that is mortal,\u201d writes Moscatelli, \u201cthe temperament of Albert Cossery being more attuned to the black than the blue of life.\u201d Stealing a glimpse into the teenage abyss, we find flickers of what is to come. The battalion of the dead in \u201cThe Beggars\u201d might well be the impoverished inhabitants of The House of Certain Death<\/i> (1944), Cossery\u2019s first novel, who await the imminent collapse of their derelict tenement on their heads. The speaker of \u201cMisery,\u201d if he combed his hair, could become the heroic, pickpocketing fl\u00e2neur Ossama, cavalierly ignoring the advances of women as he takes on the corruption of the bourgeoisie in Cossery\u2019s final novel The Colors of Infamy<\/i> (1999). And the ode to blessed \u201cNight\u201d summons the endless dream of Laziness in the Fertile Valley<\/i> (1948)\u2014republished this month by New Directions\u2014about a family that sleeps all day. Shrouded in quilts, their idleness is a refusal to participate in the evils and indignities of this world. Their house is as quiet as the cemetery of Montparnasse, where Cossery and Baudelaire meet.<\/p>\n

\u2014Anna Della Subin\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

THE BEGGARS<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Along a sad wall, at the end of an old quarter,
Like puppets wanting strings,
Poor ragged ones expose in broad daylight
Their countless tatters to the cruel vermin.<\/p>\n

These ghastly rattletraps grotesquely deaf,
Half-witted, drag along the wall their spindly corpses
Projecting their lament to the crossroads\u2019 ladies
Who give them a cent to merit Heaven.<\/p>\n

From their toothless mouths the stinking breath
Rises like incense toward the splendid blue\u2026
One would think, seeing them so frayed,<\/p>\n

That a battalion of the dead, with their threadbare allure\u2014
Revived at the fingers of a magician\u2014
Had come to vomit certain ancient sins.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

MISERY<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

For having loathed their vile melee
The bourgeois had outraged looks for me,
And, sad vagabond on a stranger ground,
I walk like a madman, with tangled hair.<\/p>\n

At this bohemian sight of ravaged clothes,
Little painted girls put on ruined airs\u2026
But I walk on, lost in my winged dreams,
Yawning dolefully at the rabid passers-by.<\/p>\n

On edge from the heavy hunger
My skeleton too weak to carry\u2014
I fear I must, with regret, prostitute my soul,<\/p>\n

And that, one fine day, for the paltry loaf
My gut demands, tired of waiting for the ideal,
To the morning flea market I might sell my genius.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

NIGHT<\/strong><\/p>\n

For Jean Moscatelli<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Night set with my tears
\u2014Tears fled to hopelessness\u2014
You are the negress who charms
My isle of gold and black.<\/p>\n

Lascivious night, night of brown flesh,
You are the sex of a lost woman
Who bit my dream
In times far-off like the moon.<\/p>\n

For now, blessed night,
I have refused the shaming weight:
I am alone like a pretty corpse,
The first night of the tomb.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

—Translated by Jocelyn Spaar<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Like his friend, fellow Scorpio, and confidant\u00a0Albert Camus, Albert Cossery would also have celebrated his one hundredth birthday last month. The patron saint of indolence\u2014who wrote only when he had nothing better to do\u2014died in 2008. But one can imagine that Cossery, had he made it to his centenary, would have been exactly like Cossery […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":622,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2157],"tags":[5123,270,165],"class_list":["post-63200","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-poetry","tag-albert-cossery","tag-paris","tag-poetry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nTeeth Marks: Three Early Poems by Albert Cossery by Anna Della Subin<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"December 3, 2013 \u2013 Like his friend, fellow Scorpio, and confidant\u00a0Albert Camus, Albert Cossery would also have celebrated his one hundredth birthday last month. 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