A series of scenes, snapshots of the same moment in time (almost 8:00 p.m. on June 23, 1975) in each room of an apartment complex in Paris, presented in a generally random order. I thought to read it as a series of short stories with some interlinking, but it doesn't really lend itself to that. For one thing, 'scenes' is a better descriptor than stories since there is practically no dialogue in these. For another, Perec explicitly opens with an essay about jigsaw puzzles, describing how each piece on its own reveals nothing until it is made part of the whole. It would be possible to 'sort' the pieces based on chapter headings, but even then you would not succeed at getting the entire story for any one character that way since some bits about their lives appear in other chapters; thus the pieces may be said to interlink.

Like any story told out of order, perceiving the whole in all its detail is possible but in this case requires more powers of memory and observation than I can bring to bear (I'm not terribly good at either.) An index is offered as an aid, but it runs to sixty pages. Perec at least somewhat relieves the task he's set by using straightforward language, making his pieces plain though very detailed, and he adds entertainment value to what threatens to be dry content with several nested stories that illuminate the occupants while also delving into the lives of several former residents and the building's history.

Why so many descriptions of the artworks in each room? I see a parallel between these and Perec's frozen-in-time rooms themselves; he is painting with literature. Laurence Sterne would have some satiric things to say about this, but Perec shows us the advantage of his medium: he can give us the backstory behind the scene, or at least clues with which to piece that backstory together. This metaphor also suggests a parallel between Perec and the declared aim of Bartlebooth as described in Chapter 26. He has made it his aim to produce scenes which can be perceived as puzzle pieces, that may be brought together to make a whole (a novel), but that whole does not need to have any ultimately deeper meaning in order to achieve his aesthetic aim.

The book offers another lesson or reminder; the mystery of the enormous variety in others' lives with which we are surrounded in our urban environments, as when you pass a few dozen cars on the freeway and have the idle thought of wondering about the business of each. I feel certain that Michael Hutchence was inspired by Perec when he co-wrote "The Stairs" for INXS. It is a melancholy song about isolation in the midst of a crowded space, a kind of starvation surrounded by plenty. Some of the song's lines are cribbed from this novel's opening scene (which is even titled "On the Stairs"). Conversely, Perec's denizens who surround one another are all explicitly linked together in some way, although what the whole looks like is left even more a mystery to them than it is to us. Hutchence and Perec reach the same conclusion, but Perec doesn't see any problem. His stairs, his entire building, is an end in itself that you are welcome to simply wash your mind clean of once more, like the empty building outline which Valene leaves behind. ( )

One of the most bizarre books I have ever read. I'm not sure how to describe it, or whether it deserves one star or whether it deserves more stars than any rating system can provide. Laboriously cataloguing the lives, possessions, pasts and futures of the residents and rooms of an entire Parisian apartment building, Perec weaves little threads of puzzles throughout a dense narrative. It can be heavy-going to read, but at the same time feels immensely rewarding, even when you're not quite sure what that reward is.

Okay, this is the vaguest review I have EVER written, but I'm at a loss for words. It's certainly an astounding achievement, but I might need a few decades to figure out why I liked it... or even IF I did! ( )

Ein Haus, Paris, Rue Simon-Crubellier 11, 99 Zimmern, jedes Zimmer eine Geschichte, die zusammen ein Buch ergeben: „Das Leben, Gebrauchsanweisung“.

Die verrückten zerstreuten Geschichten einer Pariser Nachbarschaft, mit all ihren vielen Gesichtern: Zum Beispiel die Geschichte vom Akrobaten, der nicht mehr von seinem Trapez herunter wollte; Geschichte vom Hauptlagerverwalter, der die Beweise für ein Weiterleben Hitlers sammelte; Geschichte der Dame, die sich Nichten erfand; Geschichte es Innenarchitekten, der die Küche wieder abreißen ließ, auf die er so stolz war; die Geschichte vom Koch, der das Theater liebte; die Geschichte vom Juwelier, der dreimal ermordet wurdet wurde. Und viele, viele mehr.

Neben den Geschichten enthält das Buch unendlich viele Aufzählungen, unendlich viele Dinge werden im Detail beschrieben. Der Ton ist häufig ironisch, auch wenn viele Geschichten einen traurigen Ausgang haben.

Perec sagt über sein Buch: „Es ist ein Buch, das viel von der Leidenschaft erzählt, von der Leidenschaft der Leute für die unnützen Dinge.“

Im Grunde ist das ganze Buch, wie ein Puzzle, das aus 99 Zimmern besteht. Aber es ist auch die Erzählung eines einzigen Momentes, in dem etwas passiert, das ich euch nicht verrate.

Perec ist ein Magier der Sprache, auf eine Stufe zu stellen mit Jorge Luís Borges. Wer diesen mag, sollte unbedingt auch mal zu Perec greifen!

Perec hat noch einen interessanten Roman geschrieben, in dem er vollständig auf die Verwendung des Buchstaben "e" verzichtet: „Anton Voyls Fortgang“.
( )

This modern novel was written according to a Method, and boy does the author let you know it.

Perec drew up a list of 179 descriptions (and includes the actual list on page 228, almost halfway through the novel, as if daring you to keep going), super-imposed those descriptions on the 179-room (well, 179 location) map of an apartment building, then did a 'knight's tour' through the descriptions to develop the for-lack-of-a-better-word narrative. Presumably to disassociate related rooms from each other, so that no two sequential chapters cover the same characters. The book is a snapshot of the apartment building at a single moment in time (1975-06-23 20:00): every character is frozen in mid-step, their surroundings meticulously detailed, and their backstories revealed in a cloying, yet still rather haphazard, fashion.

Does it work? Of course not -- does it sound like it would work?

Writing a novel according to some geometric principle or another is never a good idea. Sure, there are a broad variety of topics on display, and some of the stories are interesting, but there is a lot of chaff to sort through for the occasional unsatisfying wheat. Perec can find lots to talk about, and displays a broad knowledge of life and culture, but he never succeeds in making the reader care. Another apartment full of knickknacks -- so what? Another family that experienced luck or misfortune -- who cares?

Which is a shame, because the core story is quite good. This is the tale of Bartlebooth, born rich and bored, who devises an overcomplicated scheme to spend his fortune, keep himself entertained, and leave no lasting trace of doing either. The guy could have saved himself a lot of time and trouble -- and the readers a good 500 pages -- just by finding an opium den.

It is this story which drives the novel, providing the framework in which to discuss the inhabitants of the building, and concluding the story once all 179 descriptions have been elaborated upon.

Gaspard Winckler had clearly conceived of the manufacture of these five hundred puzzles as a single entity, as a gigantic five-hundred-piece puzzle of which each piece was a puzzle of seven hundred and fifty pieces, and it was evident that the solution of each of these puzzles called for a different approach, a different cast of mind, a different method, and a different system.

I like to think that this is how Perec imagined his novel was to be written: a series of intricate puzzles, each slightly different from the last, to be teased apart by the reader and culminating in a sense of satisfaction and closure. Would that it were so! Instead, we got [b:Mulligan Stew|155159|Mulligan Stew|Gilbert Sorrentino|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1347434721s/155159.jpg|822237] without the sense of humor. ( )

The book's formal structure is so clear as to constrict the plot into a straitjacket of character and description, but as such, is a tour throughout the shape of an apartment building. (This source was particularly useful in illuminating Perec's intent: http://wordaligned.org/knights-tour)
This was my first experience with a book generated by the mathematically preoccupied Oulipo movement. It provided the secondary kind of reading obsession: rather than spurring me off to the library for other Oulipo works, it gave me a need to try something similar. The intricacy of executing any such clever project would require the realization of my dreams for a novel built on many charts, many plans, many restrictions. It seems that I might be able to plan my way out of the mysteries of the long work, clarify the structure, and feel justified in the excessive number of words I write.
Related: between finishing this and writing about it, I've started Rings of Saturn, and realized my own obvious taste for books which use photos, diagrams, and reproductions inside them. It should have been easy to tell when I was younger and loved the American Girl scrapbook series, but after loving New Topics in Calamity Physics and The Scrapbook of Frankie Pratt, I cannot imagine how I missed the signs.
Anyway, to get to the meat of the review, Bellos' translation provides an exquisite hall of curiosities. His and Perec's efforts present the apartment building's inhabitants as if they're on display in a museum. The dramatic moment of the narrative (another clever conceit: the whole thing takes place in the space of five minutes) mimics the temporary intersection of audience and exhibit. The most scintillating sections of the book are the backstories, presented with the candor of an explanatory notecard next to the exhibit. Yet these stories go far, far further than any placard could, with the luxury of depth that his page count affords him. Because of his chosen timeframe, it's in these histories that the plot moves forward, although there are also details in his painstaking descriptions of environment that provide secrets about the characters.
I am reminded of those people who say that no book should be longer than 200 pages, and of other reviews I've read which suggest he could have sent half the manuscript through a wood chipper and come out better on the other side. But that would be a fundamentally different book.
I wish I had read this all in one go, and remembered all of it, and also been a good deal more clever so that I could catch more of Perec's jokes. ( )