Blaise Cendrars’ Moravagine assaults from the outset. Moravagine’s life begins with an assassination (his father’s), which hastens his mother’s. At once truly appalling and appallingly funny, Blaise Cendrars’s Moravagine bears comparison with Naked Lunch—except that it’s a lot more. It’s not all cold-blooded murder and nihilistic despair. After all, this is a comic adventure, even if the comedy often reeks with the stink of death.

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Staff Pick: Blaise Cendrars’ Moravagine – The Millions

Released from a hospital for the criminally insane by his starstruck psychiatrist the narrator of the book Book Circle Reads 17 Rating: Then they return to France and Moravagine becomes a pilot before the outbreak of the First World War. They travel the globe doing moderately shocking things.

Another favorite I read in The nihilists of were a set of mystics, dreamers, the routineers of universal happiness. It was unhealthy impulse in a bookshop. He invites you into the madness as an accomplice or as a hostage, you are not sure whether to have fun or fear for your life.

His hands dangle at the ends of arms as long as a monkey’s” In this unprepossessing figure, first seen masturbating into a goldfish bowl, our narrator sees “the superb creature who was to lead me to a grandstand seat at a tremendous spectacle of revolution and transformation, the transvaluation of all social values and of life itself” and so he assists the superb creature from a psychiatric asylum operated by Doctor Stein who lives “exclusively on curds of milk, steamed rice and buttered bananas Rivers, flow back to your source: Stand alone against them all, young man, kill, kill, you are unique, you’re the only man alive, kill until the others cut you short with the guillotine or the cord or the rope, with or without ceremony, in the name of the Community or King.


He and the narrator mess around a bit and cause the Russian Revolution, I think. Read it if you have a taste for the noxious and macabre. Full throttle misogyny in hand, he disembowels women and children, embraces murder, anarchy and debauchery, feels empowered when he kills, laughs when the world cries, has no remorse but tons of energy for yet new and new escapade.

No eBook available Click here to buy this book Amazon. C’est pourquoi tous les beaux livres se ressemblent. He goes about it informally. I fed, raised a parasite at my expense. Now see the double sphere of a forehead, the sudden crest of a nose, its flinty ledges, its steep walls.

But as the brief interlude comes to an end and the two men and the ape share a final liqueur and round of conversation, Olympio slips his hand under his shirt and gives the lie to civilized propriety with a crude gesture of self-satisfaction.

Staff Pick: Blaise Cendrars’ Moravagine

You have been warned. Finally they blaisee to Europe just in time for World War I, when “the whole world was doing a Moravagine.

Moragavine, then, is Raymond aka Cendrars doppelganger: Its style is mostly conventional, with a strong narrative momentum, but its substance suggests an author whose powers of concentration or fortitude were limited. A uniquely French embodiment of the prevailing madness of his era, monstrous and magnetic, Moravagine seems to be the spawn of Mirbeau, Fantomas, and dada, and a contemporary of Celine. The main characters are pretty horrible and disturbing and their adventures range from whimsical to pretty dark as they encounter a cendraars version of Russia during the revolt, trouble with Indians in America, hanging out with a monkey on an ocean liner, and finally a strangely heartbreaking ending in the aftermath of the world war.


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We meet Moravagine in a mental institute, all of 4’11”, monstrous, born of a moravwgine womb, and jacking off mroavagine a fish bowl. Paul le Farge points out in his learned introduction to the nyrb edition of this tremendous novel that, as Blaise Cendrars is the alter ego of the author, Federic Sauser, so is Moravagine Blaise Cendrars’ alter ego. On Bullshit by Harry G. Paul La Farge is the author of two novels: Early in the morning there he is in white flannels, in a colored sweater from which emerges the collar of a Byronic shirt, his feet shod in suede, his moeavagine gloved in chamois, playing tennis, shuffleboard or deck-golf.

The genres aren’t new to him – his novels Amnesia Moon and Motherless Brooklyn ventured into futuristic sci-fi and mystery, albeit taking routes into these genres that I hadn’t taken before – but it’s a different experience to get these flights of fancy and fear in seven short bursts.

Everything that falls under my hand I devour.

If you want to live, kill. I felt myself strong, all-powerful. A Novel of World War I. We were men of action, technicians, specialists, the pioneers of a modern generation dedicated to death, the preachers of world revolution, the precursors of universal destruction, realists, realists.

I don’t think it’s immaterial, the way he smolders in his jacket photos, his knowing, virile gaze framed by that fratty, bountiful hair.