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As an adolescent who spent most school lunch breaks on my own, counting the hours until I returned home, I always felt emboldened with my copy of Comte de Lautréamont’s Les chants de Maldoror under my arm. At my high school in Mexico City in the late eighties, few recognized the name or the title, which made it even more of a shield between me and the outside world. I also kept a little blue notebook, in my old bedroom drawer to this day, with “Notes on Lautréamont” inked on the cover. In it, I’d jot down every interesting detail I came across. On the first page, I open with “Words recurring in Maldoror.” Foul, ignominious, strophe, sinews, phenomenon. The force of these words, and their savagery, meant my shield was also my sword.
As for the man himself, whose real name was Isidore Lucien Ducasse, among the few facts I knew were that he suffered from migraines, hated Latin verse, and was pale, silent, and withdrawn. Very few photographs remain. “Je ne laisserai pas de Mémoires” (I shall leave no memoirs), he wrote in Poésies, leaving it to the rest of us to create our own, however fantastical, under the muffled contours of a sewing machine roped shut. Man Ray’s sculpture L’enigme d’Isidore Ducasse (1920) embodies the fierce mystery of its author, a thing we can only divine, inciting us to imagine what we would find were we to dare untie the twine and unwrap the thick fabric that shrouds the mysterious form underneath. The artwork alludes to Lautréamont’s line about the beauty of a chance encounter between an umbrella and a sewing machine on a dissecting table, but it is also a celebration of enigma itself.
I was drawn to the puzzle of the author and to his violent poetry, which seemed to carve open the unconscious, and to the moments of tenderness that undercut the violence and audacity, one of my favorite cantos that of the solitary hermaphrodite napping in their grove. But my attraction went further. I was drawn to the hybridity of the author. My own childhood had straddled different cultures and languages. I was the daughter of a Mexican poet and diplomat and an American mother, and had spent my childhood in Holland before moving to Mexico City at age eight. I suppose I identified with Ducasse in a distant spiritual way. As the son of a French consular officer in Uruguay, he had spent his early years in Montevideo before his father sent him to school in France. He must have maintained this aura from elsewhere, since his schoolmates at the lycée called him “le Montevidéen” and “le vampire.”
Never entirely one thing or another—isn’t that something the surrealist project embraced? Lautréamont was considered a godfather to the surrealists, many of whom emigrated from Europe to foreign lands with the outbreak of World War II, harboring the language and customs of their native countries while melding or shaping to those of the new. They became composite beings, like so many of the creatures they painted and drew.
