Tony O’Neill at The Guardian has a nice recap of the hoax and controversy surrounding Boris Vian’s I Shall Spit on Your Graves, which was originally published back in 1947 and is still one of the greatest (and most tragic) literary hoaxes.
In late 1946 Vian announced that he had found the perfect American novel to kick-start his friend’s new publishing house (Editions du Scorpions). He claimed that J’irai cracher sur vos tombes (I Shall Spit on Your Graves) was his translation of an underappreciated young black author whose work was banned in his native country. Vernon Sullivan, it was claimed, was now an expatriate, living in France to escape racism and censorship in the US. Vian wrote the book in a two-week burst, and concocted the story of Sullivan as a way to get it published.
The book is still fairly shocking, centering on Lee Anderson, a black man who can pass for white, who eventually takes revenge on society for the lynching of his brother, which results in Anderson being lynched himself.
“Vernon Sullivan’s” I Shall Spit on Your Graves was enormously successful when it was released, especially after being denounced by the Cartel d’Action Sociale et Morale.
Unfortunately things took a turn for the worse:
The original book proceeded to grow even more controversial, being linked quite directly to a real-life murder. A man had strangled his mistress, and left an open copy of the book on the bedside table with the following passage circled and underlined: “I again felt that strange sensation that ran up my back as my hand closed on her throat and I couldn’t stop myself; it came; it was so strong that I let her go . . .”
The book went into reprints and sold more than 500,000 copies, but the case against it had gathered too much momentum: Vian was tried for translating “objectionable material” (funnily enough, the author was still nowhere to be found), fined 100,000 francs, and in the summer of 1950 the French government banned further sales of the book.
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the book basically ended up killing Vian at the age of 39:
He died, ironically enough, at a 1959 screening of the movie adaptation of I Shall Spit On Your Graves. He had already disowned the film, and asked to have his name removed from it. Ten minutes into the film, Vian is reputed to have sneered, “These guys are supposed to be American? My ass!” before collapsing back into his seat, suffering a fatal heart attack.
Vian’s other books are also worth checking out, especially Heartsnatcher and Foam on the Daze, which includes a hilarious dig at Jean-Paul Sartre in the form of “Jean Sol-Patre,” the “author of a book exploring the hermeneutics of neon signs.”
“Rambling Jack—what’s that?”
“A novel. Novella, I guess.”
“Yeah, it looks short. What is it, a hundred pages?”
“Sorta. It’s a duel language book, so really, only about… 50 pages total.”
“And this—what. . .
Many authors are compared to Roberto Bolaño. However, very few authors have the privilege of having a Roberto Bolaño quote on the cover of their work; and at that, one which states, “Good readers will find something that can be. . .
In Josep Maria de Sagarra’s Private Life, a man harangues his friend about literature while walking through Barcelona at night:
When a novel states a fact that ties into another fact and another and another, as the chain goes on. . .
César Aira dishes up an imaginative parable on how identity shapes our sense of belonging with Dinner, his latest release in English. Aira’s narrator (who, appropriately, remains nameless) is a self-pitying, bitter man—in his late fifties, living again with. . .
Originally published in French in 2007, We’re Not Here to Disappear (On n’est pas là pour disparaître) won the Prix Wepler-Fondation La Poste and the Prix Pierre Simon Ethique et Réflexion. The work has been recently translated by Béatrice Mousli. . .
Even though the latest from Jean Echenoz is only a thin volume containing seven of what he calls “little literary objects,” it is packed with surprises. In these pieces, things happen below the surface, sometimes both literally and figuratively. As. . .
Who is this woman? This is the question that opens Xiao Bai’s French Concession, a novel of colonial-era Shanghai’s spies and revolutionaries, police and smugglers, who scoot between doorways, walk nonchalantly down avenues, smoke cigars in police bureaus, and lounge. . .
For the past 140 years, Anna Karenina has been loved by millions of readers all over the world. It’s easy to see why: the novel’s two main plots revolve around characters who are just trying to find happiness through love.. . .
Linn Ullmann’s The Cold Song, her fifth novel, is built much like the house about which its story orbits: Mailund, a stately white mansion set in the Norwegian countryside a few hours drive from Oslo. The house, nestled into the. . .
Karel Schoeman’s Afrikaans novel, This Life, translated by Else Silke, falls into a genre maybe only noticed by the type of reader who tends toward Wittgenstein-type family resemblances. The essential resemblance is an elderly narrator, usually alone—or with one other. . .