OOKS
117
MARTEREAU. By Nllthillie SlIrrllute, Trllnsillted by Mllrill JollIs.
George Brllziller. $3.50.
This is a unique book, and as always when dealing with
he unique one is uncertain just how much attention it deserves.
he unique resists definition, but where one cannot define, one can
urround. Oddly, perhaps, the uniqueness of
Martereau
can be sur–
rounded most effectively by cliches: "breaking new ground,"
eopening new territory," "the novel turning in upon itself"-these
~pply,
as do others; the question remains, however, whether the
preaking, opening, and turning achieve very much. One suspects
~at
they do and, to employ another cliche, that Mme. Sarraute
as achieved a minor triumph. What keeps the novel minor is an
ppressive over-elahoration of form. One feels that very large guns
e being trained on very small game, and no matter how impress–
by the concentration of the prose, one is invariably conscious of
the reverberation.
The action of the novel, of which there is very little, is nar–
rated by an orphaned young demi-invalid living with an aunt and
uncle in Paris. Though he has pretensions to interior design, his
real profession is that of dissector. Under his knife comes virtually
every sentence spoken in his hearing by the members of his menage
and by the mysterious family acquaintance, Martereau.
I had to catch them all on the wing without allowing anything
to pass, all their words, their slightest intonation, and examine them
slowly as one would a dangerous contrivance.
Much of the novel does precisely this, and we are treated to a
mammoth spectacle of dissection. It is this spectacle which appears
quite often to be an over-elaboration of form, unsupported by
content.
Whether or not the perceived parallels to dangerous contriv–
ances are legitimate is the central mystery of the novel, obscuring
even the ostensible mystery of Martereau who, as an associate of
