UNDERNEATH THE BUNKER

[In early 2007 I penned the following introduction to three critical approaches to the de Roquet rooms. Essential reading, if I may say so myself...]

Unless, like the proverbial ostrich (that well-known ornithological ignoramus) you have had your pretty head lodged in the sands of sciolism for the last four months or so, you will not require me to inform you that the de Roquet rooms are, at long last, open to visitors. In the generally gentle world of obscure European literature, this news could be said to have arrived with the force of a thunderbolt wielding elephant riding on the back of a meteorite. Outside of this relatively closed microcosm it may be said to have made as much of an impression as a nimble feather falling in an ocean during a vociferous storm. But you are one of us, are you not? You understand the profound significance of those things; you grasp the cogent potential that may be seen to coat the surface of seemingly nugatory disclosures. For was it not as far back as 1978 when we first put our names to the de Roquet petition? When, warm-blooded youngsters as we were, we marched along the streets of La Monche in our hundreds (or tens, maybe) holding aloft aesthetically – if not grammatically – challenging banners: ‘Ouvrir Les Chambres De Roquet!’

Twenty-five years or so later, and here we are. The De Roquet Rooms are finally open, almost a hundred years since they passed into the hands of the Board for Nineteenth Century French Culture. More than enough time, you would have thought, to have wiped the dust off the mantelpiece. But then, has not the cult-like stature of Natalie de Roquet’s work relied partly on its inaccessibility? Had the rooms opened several years ago, perhaps we would have lost interest by now. But allow me (for the moment) to press my lips together on this subject (dare I utter the word ‘anticlimax?’). It would be incorrect of me to pretend that I have the time to give the issue my full attention. For today at least, like the imperious swan who allows the mucky ducks to suck up the choicest chunks of soggy bread, I leave the interpretative element to my fellow critics. My task, meanwhile, is to do no more than reacquaint you with the facts of which (we have established) you are already aware.

It was sometime in the early nineteenth century – let particulars not bother us – that Claude de Roquet, the most insanely jealous man outside of any English town, imprisoned his wife in two rooms of her own home. He had caught her winking at the servant’s twelve year son and, though she maintained that she simply had something stuck in her eye, he did not choose to exercise leniency. Rather than risk having his wife communicating in any way with a member of the male sex, he preferred to lock her away from the world and himself, visiting her only at night for the exchange of pleasantries and less-pleasantries. For the remainder of the day she was left alone, fed at irregular intervals, able to enjoy no more than what could be derived from the contents of her bedroom and bathroom, all of which never amounted to much, the over-possessive Claude having removed several pieces of furniture in the fear that she might transfer her love from him to a footstool. Her diary was another object to be confiscated: like any self respecting husband, Claude feared the consequences of his wife’s literary outpourings. Who can say what might happen when a women mixes in the giddy world of words? It was as if he thought she might write herself out of the room; out of his precious clutches: out of the world. But keeping her away from blank paper was never to be enough. Natalie found other ways. In the absence of a spiral notebook, did not the Almighty himself resort to similarly drastic measures? As King Belshazzar proudly nibbled upon a piece of pork crackling, a divine message was scribbled across his chamber wall: a timely reminder that even God has belief in avant-garde literature (when circumstances allow it). Thus it was with Natalie de Roquet. Missing a pad of paper on which to throw her mingled thoughts, she fell back on this celestially approved alternative. She wrote on the walls. But she not only wrote on the walls: she wrote novels on the walls. One on the four walls of her bedroom, another on the four walls of the bathroom and a third across the ceilings of both rooms. In each case the works use the totality of the space, covering every inch, without ever asking for a further foot. They begin at the top of one wall and end, without due sense of hurry, at the bottom of another. As such, they appear to be masterfully structured. They also present the viewer/reader with a unique viewing/reading experience. For some time critics have trumpeted the concept of ‘space’ within the modern novel: here we have a novel which takes place in a specific space of its own – literal architectural prose; structure which you can not only feel, but comprehend in visual terms. A work such as this is for the literary critic what a truffle is for a French chef: a palette enriching delicacy whose worth, whilst debated, remains for the meantime refreshingly secure. This is what we call a phenomenon; not necessarily because it is, but in seeming to be, yet becomes so. As to its true worth, or significance, we can only rely on the passing of time: an inferior judge, who nevertheless continues to rule the roost, like some flatulent cockerel with a trigger-happy temperament. Before then, I invite you to share the thoughts of three critics who – unlike me – have made full use of the De Roquet room openings and have, in their inimitable way, come to separate conclusions as to the importance of all that is contained within.

The first of these critics is the Spanish born Jon José Engreido. Now based in Chicago, Engreido gained prominence in the late 80s with a group of plays exposing the soft underbelly of the porcine trade in Southern Canada. Since then, he has relinquished drama on the basis that ‘no one was watching’ and has transferred his talents to the much more popular trade of obscure literary criticism. His interest in Natalie de Roquet stretches back to the early 90s, when a nasty cold forced him to read a stack of cultural journals belonging to his brother-in-law. In 2001 he led an Internet campaign to open the de Roquet rooms, which attracted as many as six signatures. Engreido’s style has, of late, been criticised for its self-indulgent and somewhat eccentric use of capital letters. That he claims to have taken this literary device from A A Milne’s ‘Winnie-the-Pooh’ may  sum up the ultimate maturity of his approach.

CRITICAL APPROACHES I – Jon José Engreido

Our second critic is Underneath the Bunker regular Jinpes Terenk. Like Engreido, Terenk’s interest was originally in creating, rather than interpreting literature. Unlike Engreido, Terenk’s critical approach is altogether less than willing to give artistic products the respect that others suppose them to automatically deserve. Though he has never been less than intrigued by the de Roquet phenomenon, he is also more than happy – as this article reveals – to voice his suspicions.

CRITICAL APPROACHES II – Jinpes Terenk

Our third and final critic is the young Finnish student, Maria Novak, whose recently completed thesis (‘Space Is The Place: Avant-garde Literature and Home Improvement in the Twentieth Century’) won the marginally prestigious Vorgolay Prize. In this article, Novak argues that we will never understand the de Roquet rooms until we consider the relationship between a writer’s style and their furniture.

CRITICAL APPROACHES III – Maria Novak