E-lit Module 4
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12-oulipo-p.pdf
12. The Oulipo
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12.[Introduction] Six Selections by the Oulipo One Hudred Thousand Billion Poems and
“Yours for the Telling” by Raymond Queneau “A Brief History of the Oulipo” by Jean Lescure “For a Potenteial Analysis of Combinatory
Literature” by Claude Berge “Computer and Writer: The Centre Pompidou
Experiment” by Paul Fournel “Prose and Anticombinatorics” by Italo Calvino
Looming over the development of the literary machine in the last century stand the smiling members of the Oulipo (Ouvroir de Littérature Potentille, Workshop for Potential Literature). The ouvroir of the group’s name is not a workshop of the Bread Loaf or Bennington sort, but a knitting room, a place where procedural effort produces a tangible textile, or in this case textual, outcome. This knitting circle is not primarily about producing texts, however—it is potential literature, not literature, that its members fashion. As François Le Lionnais wrote in the group’s first manifesto, an ordinary literary work is the result of rigorous constraints in areas such as vocabulary and syntax, novelistic or dramatic convention, poetic meter and form, and so forth. The idea of potential literature is to both analyze and synthesize constraints—drawn from current mathematics as well as from older writing techniques that never entered the literary mainstream. One such technique is the lipogram, in which a certain letter of the alphabet may not be used; another is the palindrome.
Some forms, demonstrated in short Oulipian works, have proven their broader merits. Raymond Queneau’s “Un Conte à votre façon” is an application of simple algorithmic techniques to narrative, and is itself the structural model for countless works of hypermedia and more than a hundred Choose- Your-Own-Adventure books. (John Crombie’s translation “Yours for the Telling” is included; another translation, by Warren Motte, is called “Story as You Like It.”) Systems of lexical or phonetic constraints have proven productive in novels such as George Perec’s La Disparation (A Void), which does not contain the letter e. More elaborate schemas resulted in two stunning works that sit innocently alongside their non-Oulipian fellows as major novels of the past century: Perec’s La Vie mode d’emploi (Life a User’s Manual) and Italo Calvino’s Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore (If on a winter’s night a traveler).
Perhaps the prototypical example of Oulipian potential, however, remains the group’s founding text, Queneau’s Cent Mille Milliards de poèmes, included here in French and in the English translation by Stanley Chapman, One Hundred Thousand Billion Poems. (Another English translation of this intricate work has been done by John Crombie: One Hundred Million Million Poems.) One sees the Poems at any moment as a sonnet. If the reader cuts along the dotted lines as this book invites her to do, one of 10 interchangeable lines of the poem (which fit with the others in terms of the rhyme scheme as well as syntactically and metrically) can be selected to take its place in each of the poem’s 14 positions. As described in “Computer and Writer: The Centre Pompidou Experiment,” the Oulipians realized that such a system had the potential to define a new type of computer-mediated textuality, producing custom poems in ways that give the reader an enhanced role in the process of literary creation.
Also see the discussion of Queneau’s potential poem by Espen Aarseth (◊52).
◊52 123
Italo Calvino, in the essay here about the composition of his story “The Burning of the Abominable House,” shows that the computer can be used to do more than spin out practically infinite variations from a set of initial materials. Instead, Calvino’s computer takes a very large space of possible stories and narrows it to one. This is a potentially powerful story-production method, and yet the conclusion of Calvino’s essay argues that the solution of any algorithm, the narrowing of even the most artfully constructed set of combinatory possibilities, cannot create literature. He states that it is the “‘clinamen’ which, alone, can make of the text a true work of art.” The clinamen is the deviation, the error in the system. In interactive systems, in new media, the most important clinamen can be that which is introduced from outside of the system, by the reader in the company of the reader’s personal and cultural experiences. A similar point was made by Calvino in an important lecture he gave in Turin and elsewhere in Italy, “Cybernetics and Ghosts.”
The potential that lies within such an understanding of interactive experiences is a reconfiguration of the relationship between reader, author, and text. The playful construction within constraints that the Oulipo defined as the role of the author can become an activity extended to readers, who can take part in the interpretation, configuration, and construction of texts. —NM & NWF
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Further Reading
Braffort, Paul. “The Education of Adams (Henry) / ALAMO.” ebr (Electronic Book Review) 10. Winter 1999/2000. <http://www.altx.com/ebr/ebr10/10bra.htm>
Calvino, Italo. Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore. Turin: Einaudi, 1979. [If on a winter’s night a traveler, trans. William Weaver. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1985.]
Calvino, Italo. Comment j’ai écrit un de mes livres. Paris: Bibliothèque Oulipienne 20, 1983. [“How I Wrote One of My Books.” In Oulipo Laboratory, translated by Harry Mathews and Ian White. London: Atlas Press, 1995.]
Calvino, Italo. “Cybernetics and Ghosts.” The Uses of Literature, 3-27. New York, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1986.
Calvino, Italo. “The Burning of the Abominable House.” Numbers in the Dark, 176-189. Trans. Tim Parks. New York: Pantheon Books, 1995.
Mathews, Harry, and Alistair Brotchie, eds. Oulipo Compendium. London: Atlas Press, 1998.
Motte, Warren F., Jr., ed. and trans. Oulipo: A Primer of Potential Literature. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1986.
Perec, George. La Vie mode d’emploi. Paris: Hatchette, 1980. [Life A User’s Manual, trans. David Bellos. Boston: David Godine, 1987.]
Wittig, Rob, and IN.S.OMNIA. Invisible Rendezvous: Connection and Collaboration in the New Landscape of Electronic Writing. Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan University Press, 1994.
Original Publication
Queneau, Raymond. “100,000,000,000,000 Poems,” Trans. Stanley Chapman. Oulipo Compendium. Ed. Harry Mathews and Alastair Brotchie. London: Atlas Press, 1998, 15–33. Facing the original French text of Cent Mille Milliards de poèmes, Paris: Gallimard, 1961, as corrected in One Hundred Million Million Poems, Trans. John Crombie. Paris: Kickshaws, 1983.
Queneau, Raymond. Yours for the Telling. Trans. and desgined by John Crombie, graphics by Sheila Bourne. Paris: Kickshaws, 1982. From the French “Un Conte à votre façon.” La Littérature potentielle, Paris: Gallimard, 1973.
Lescure, Jean, “A Brief History of the Oulipo.” In Motte 1986, 32–39. From the French “Petite Histoire pour un tri-centenaire,” with four additional paragraphs. La Littérature potentielle, Paris: Gallimard, 1973.
Berge, Claude. “For a Potential Analysis of Combinatory Literature.” In Motte 1986, 115–125. From the French “Pour une analyse potentielle de la litterature combinatoire.” La Littérature potentielle, Paris: Gallimard, 1973.
Fournel, Paul “Computer and Writer: The Centre Pompidou Experiment.” In Motte 1986, 140–152. From the French “Ordinateur et écrivain.” Atlas de littérature potentielle, Paris: Gallimard, 1981.
Calvino, Italo. “Prose and Anticombinatorics.” In Motte 1986, 143–152. From “Prose et anticombinatoire” Atlas de littérature potentielle, Paris: Gallimard, 1981.
To enjoy One Hundred Thousand Billion Poems and allow this literary work to function as inteneded, please cut along the lines to allow any of 10 lines to occupy each of the 14 positions in the sonnet. Those too timid to operate on their books may wish to photocopy the pages and cut the photocopies. Cutting out a small gap between each strip will allow the strips to turn and be interchanged most easily.
12. The Oulipo
One Hundred
Thousand
Billion
Poems
Raymond Queneau
Translated by Stanley Chapman
“Only a machine can appreciate a sonnet
written by another machine.”
—Turing
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theNEWMEDIAREADER12. The Oulipo
Le roi de la pampa retourne sa chemise
pour la mettre à sécher aux cornes des taureaux
le cornédbîf en boîte empeste la remise
et fermentent de même et les cuirs et les peaux
Je me souviens encor de cette heure exeuquise
les gauchos dans la plaine agitaient leurs drapeaux
nous avions aussi froid que nus sur la banquise
lorsque pour nous distraire y plantions nos tréteaux
Du pôle à Rosario fait une belle trotte
aventures on eut qui s’y pique s’y frotte
lorsqu’on boit du maté l’on devient argentin
L’Amérique du Sud séduit les équivoques
exaltent l'espagnol les oreilles baroques
si la cloche se tait et son terlintintin
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12. The Oulipo
Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the f leas
The bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
Old corned-beef ’s rusty armour spreads disease
That suede ferments is not at all well known
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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theNEWMEDIAREADER12. The Oulipo
Le cheval Parthénon s’énerve sur sa frise
depuis que lord Elgin négligea ses naseaux
le Turc de ce temps-là pataugeait dans sa crise
il chantait tout de même oui mais il chantait faux
Le cheval Parthénon frissonnait sous la bise
du climat londonien où s’ébattent les beaux
il grelottait, le pauvre aux bords de la Tamise
quand les grêlons fin mars mitraillent les bateaux
La Grèce de Platon à coup sûr n’est point sotte
on comptait les esprits acérés à la hotte
lorsque Socrate mort passait pour un lutin
Sa sculpture est illustre et dans le fond des coques
on transporte et le marbre et débris et défroques
Si l’Europe le veut l’Europe ou son destin
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12. The Oulipo
The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
The Turks said just take anything you please
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
To break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
A piercing wit would sprightliest horses f log
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Their sculptors did our best our hulks they clog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
For Europe’s glory whjiole Fate’s harpies strum
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theNEWMEDIAREADER12. The Oulipo
Le vieux marin breton de tabac prit sa prise
pour du fin fond du nez exciter les arceaux
sur l’antique bahut il choisit sa cerise
il n’avait droit qu’à une et le jour des Rameaux
Souvenez-vous amis de ces îles de Frise
où venaient par milliers s’échouer les harenceaux
nous regrettions un peu ce tas de marchandise
lorsqu’on voyait au loin f lamber les arbrisseaux
On sèche le poisson dorade ou molve lotte
on sale le requin on fume à l’échalote
lorsqu’on revient au port en essuyant un grain
Enfin on vend le tout homards et salicoques
on s’excuse il n’y a ni baleines ni phoques
le mammifère est roi nous sommes son cousin
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12. The Oulipo
At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
With cherry-pips his cottage f loor is sown
The Frisian Isles my friends are cherished things
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Shallots and sharks’ fins face the smould’ring log
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
They’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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theNEWMEDIAREADER12. The Oulipo
C’était à cinq o’clock qu’il sortait la marquise
pour consommer un thé puis des petits gâteaux
le chauffeur indigène attendait dans la brise
elle souff lait bien fort par-dessus les côteaux
On était bien surpris par cette plaine grise
quand se carbonisait la fureur des châteaux
un audacieux baron empoche toute accise
lorsque vient le pompier avec ses grandes eaux
Du Gange au Malabar le lord anglais zozotte
comme à Chandernagor le manant sent la crotte
le colonel s’éponge un blason dans la main
Ne fallait pas si loin agiter ses breloques
les Indes ont assez sans ça de pendeloques
l’écu, de vair ou d’or ne dure qu’un matin
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12. The Oulipo
At five precisely out went La Marquise
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
How it surprised us pale grey underlings
When f lame a form to wrath ancestral gave
A darling baron pockets precious Mings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
In Indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
And lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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theNEWMEDIAREADER12. The Oulipo
Du jeune avantageux la nymphe était éprise
snob un peu sur les bords des bords fondamentaux
une toge il portait qui n’était pas de mise
des narcisses on cueille ou bien on est des veaux
Quand on prend des photos de cette tour de Pise
d’où Galilée jadis jeta ses petits pots
d’une étrusque inscription la pierre était incise
les Grecs et les Romains en vain cherchent leurs mots
L’esprit souff le et resouff le au-dessus de la botte
le touriste à Florence ignoble charibotte
l’autocar écrabouille un peu d’esprit latin
Les rapports transalpins sont-ils biunivoques?
les banquiers d’Avignon changent-ils les baïoques?
le Beaune et le Chianti sont-ils le même vin?
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12. The Oulipo
From playboy Chance the nymph no longer f lees
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
Were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
The leaning linguist cameramaniac sings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
With gravity at gravity’s great cog
On wheels the tourist follows his hostess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb?
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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theNEWMEDIAREADER12. The Oulipo
Il se penche il voudrait attraper sa valise
que convoitait c’est sûr une horde d’escrocs
il se penche et alors à sa grande surprise
il ne trouve aussi sec qu’un sac de vieux fayots
Il déplore il déplore une telle mainmise
qui se plaît à f louer de pauvres provinciaux
aller à la grand’ville est bien une entreprise
elle effraie le Berry comme les Morvandiaux
Devant la boue urbaine on retrousse sa cotte
on gif le le marmot qui plonge sa menotte
lorsqu’il voit la gadoue il cherche le purin
On regrette à la fin les agrestes bicoques
on mettait sans façon ses plus infectes loques
mais on n’aurait pas vu le métropolitain
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12. The Oulipo
He bent right down to pick up his valise
That hordes of crooks felt they’d more right to own
He bent right down and well what did he seize
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Filching the lolly country thrift helped save
He’s gone to London how the echo rings
Through homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The peasant’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
And starve the snivelling baby like a dog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
Yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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theNEWMEDIAREADER12. The Oulipo
Quand l’un avecque l’autre aussitôt sympathise
se faire il pourrait bien que ce soit des jumeaux
la découverte alors voilà qui traumatise
on espère toujours être de vrais normaux
Et pourtant c’était lui le frère de feintise
qui clochard devenant jetait ses oripeaux
un frère même bas est la part indécise
que les parents féconds offrent aux purs berceaux
Le généalogiste observe leur bouillotte
gratter le parchemin deviendra sa marotte
il voudra retrouver le germe adultérin
Frère je te comprends si parfois tu débloques
frère je t’absoudrai si tu m’emberlucoques
la gémellité vraie accuse son destin
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12. The Oulipo
When one with t’other straightaway agrees
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Replies like this the dumbstruck brain may tease
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just f lings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
The fertile mother changeling drops like kings
In purest cradles tha’s how they behave
The genealogist with field and fess
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
But I can understand you Brother Gog
And let you off from your opinions glum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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theNEWMEDIAREADER12. The Oulipo
Lorsqu’un jour exalté l’aède prosaïse
pour déplaire au profane aussi bien qu’aux idiots
la critique lucide aperçoit ce qu’il vise
il donne à la tribu des cris aux sens nouveaux
L’un et l’autre a raison non la foule insoumise
le vulgaire s’entête à vouloir des vers beaux
l’un et l’autre ont raison non la foule imprécise
à tous, n’est pas donné d’aimer les chocs verbaux
Le poète inspiré n’est point un polyglotte
une langue suffit pour emplir sa cagnotte
même s’il prend son sel au celte c’est son bien
Barde que tu me plais toujours tu soliloques
tu me stupéfies plus que tous les ventriloques
le métromane à force incarne le devin
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12. The Oulipo
Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
The understanding critic firstly sees
’Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
They both are right not untamed mutterings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum
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theNEWMEDIAREADER12. The Oulipo
Le marbre pour l’acide est une friandise
d’aucuns par-dessus tout prisent les escargots
sur la place un forain de feu se gargarise
qui sait si le requin boulotte les turbots?
Du voisin le Papou suçote l’apophyse
que n’a pas dévoré la horde des mulots?
le gourmet en salade avale le cytise
l’enfant pur aux yeux bleus aime les berlingots
Le loup est amateur de coq et de cocotte
le chat fait un festin de têtes de linotte
chemin vicinal se nourrit de crottin
On a bu du pinard à toutes les époques
grignoter des bretzels distrait bien des colloques
mais rien ne vaut grillé le morceau de boudin
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12. The Oulipo
The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
While sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
In salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
The country land just thrives on farmyard mess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
Fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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theNEWMEDIAREADER12. The Oulipo
Lorsque tout est fini lorsque l’on agonise
lorsque le marbrier astique nos tombeaux
des êtres indécis vous parlent sans franchise
et tout vient signifier la fin des haricots
On vous fait devenir une orde marchandise
on prépare la route aux pensers sépulcraux
de la mort on vous greffe une orde bâtardise
la mite a grignoté tissus os et rideaux
Le brave a beau crier ah cré nom saperlotte
le lâche peut arguer de sa mine pâlotte
Les croque-morts sont là pour se mettre au turbin
Cela considérant ô lecteur tu suffoques
comptant tes abattis lecteur tu te disloques
toute chose pourtant doit avoir une fin
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12. The Oulipo
The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
When masons clutch the breath we hold on loan
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
And empty cages show lif ’e bird has f lown
It’s one of many horrid happenings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
The best of all things to an end must come
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171;
2 Would you prefer the tale of the three tall, lanky beanpoles? If so, go to 16;
if not, go to 3.
3 Would you rather read the one about thethree rather common or garden shrubs? If so, go to 17;
if not, go to 21.
Yours for the Telling Raymond Queneau
Translated by John Crombie
1 Would you like to read the tale of the three sprightly peas? If so, go to 4;
if not, go to 2.
4 Once upon a time there were three wee peasdressed in green dozing cosily in their pod. They had chubby, moon-shaped faces and breathed through their funny little nozzles, snoring softly and euphoniously.
If you’d prefer another description, go to 9;
if this one will do you, proceed to 5.
theNEWMEDIAREADER
Brief History of the Oulipo Jean Lescure History will never question it: the Oulipo was founded by François Le Lionnais. Queneau said it on the radio. Leaves and writings fade, but words remain. On the same occasion, furthermore, Queneau indicated that he himself was the cofounder. On the cause of this foundation, he expressed himself in the following terms
I had written five or six of the sonnets of the Cent Mille Milliards de poèmes, and I was hesitant to continue; in short, I didn’t have the strength to continue; the more I went along, the more difficult it was to do naturally [here I note that the Gallimard edition, p. 116 of the Entretiens with Georges Charbonnier, doesn’t punctuate this part of the sentence, whereas one wonders if, when pronouncing it, Raymond Queneau didn’t put a comma between do and naturally. So that we don’t know whether the author’s intended meaning is it was difficult to do naturally, which brings us to the very heart of Oulipian thought, or it was difficult to do, naturally]. But [I continue to quote] when I ran into Le Lionnais, who is a friend of mine, he suggested that we start a sort of research group in experimental literature. That encouraged me to continue working on my sonnets.
It must be admitted: this encouragement, the necessity of which was not evident to everyone, didn’t appear sufficient to anyone. We have the proof of this in the minutes of the first meeting, on 24 November 1960, minutes which we owe to the invigorating eagerness of Jacques Bens, named from that day forward, and definitively so, provisional secretary. We read therein:
It would not seem that the composition of poems arising from a vocabulary composed by intersections, inventories, or any other process may constitute an end in itself.
For the activity of the Oulipo, that goes without saying. As to anyone else’s activity, we didn’t object that their assigned task be the composition of poems. That day in the basement of the Vrai Gascon, what more necessary task brought together Queval Jean, Queneau Raymond, Lescure Jean, Le Lionnais François, Duchateau Jacques, Berge Claude, and Bens Jacques as is noted in the minutes? (With, moreover, the intention to urge Schmidt Albert-Marie, Arnaud Noël, and Latis to attend the next luncheon.)
We asked ourselves that question. We asked ourselves that question the next day in written form: Considering that we do not meet merely to amuse ourselves (which is in itself appreciable, surely), what can we expect from our work?
Obviously, if we were asking ourselves this question, the fact was that we had not yet answered it. Allow me to slip a remark into this vacillation of our early days. This is that of the seven persons meeting on the occasion of the first luncheon, six had attended the ten-day conference organized at Cerisy in September, two months earlier, dedicated to Raymond Queneau, entitled Une nouvelle défense et illustration de la langue française. Not all of those six had been friends before the meeting at Cerisy. Some of them had never even met. Those six, plus André Blavier, who would later become a corresponding member of the Oulipo, had already met at Cerisy in the little entry pavilion with the intention of forming a group within the Collège de Pataphysique.1 During that session, Queval was banned several times, for a total of 297 years, and each time readmitted by popular acclaim. Which of course colored his later career as an Oulipian, condemning him to ban himself unceasingly and equally unceasingly to cede to our objections.
At the time of this first meeting in November of 1960, the Oulipo still called itself the S.L.E., short for sélitex, or séminaire de littérature expérimentale. It wasn’t until a month later, on 19 December 1960, and on the happy initiative of Albert-Marie Schmidt, that this S.L.E. became the Oulipo, or rather the Olipo: ouvroir de littérature potentielle. One can therefore legitimately say that during a month there was a
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5 Their sleep was dreamless. The factis that these creatures never deam. If you’d rather they did dream, go to 6;
if not, go to 7.
6 They were dreaming. The fact is these littlecreatures are always deaming, and their nights are quite deliciously oneiric.
If you wish to know what they were dreaming, go to 11;
if it’s neither here nor there to you, proceed to 7.
7 Their cute little tootsies were muffled incozy socks, and they wore black velvet mittens in bed.
If you’d prefer mittens of another colour, proceed to 8;
if you’re happy with black, go to 10.
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po oulipo. A potentialoulipo. What important difference did the oulipo introduce compared to the stillborn sélitex, or S.L.E.? The li did not change. Of course, certain people claimed that there was a lot to be said about “li.” But our work at Cerisy had convinced us that language only solicited our attention as literature. Thus we kept the li of literature. Séminaire bothered us in that it conjures up stud farms and artificial insemination; ouvroir, on the contrary, f lattered the modest taste that we shared for beautiful work and good deeds: out of respect for both fine arts and morals, we consented to join the ou to the li. There remained the po, or the po of this ouli. The inspiration was general. And the word expérimental having seemed to us to base the entire operation on acts and experiments as yet only poorly discernible, we judged it advisable to settle ourselves squarely on an objective notion, on a real fact of every literary being: his potential. (This potential remaining in any case sufficient unto itself, even when the experimental energy of the littérateurs would find it lacking.)
It was, finally, the thirteenth of February 1961 that the Private General Secretary to the Baron Vice-Curator of the Collège de Pataphysique, M. Latis, concluded the nomination of this enterprise by suggesting, for the sake of symmetry, that we add the second letter of the word ouvroir to the O, which definitely rendered the Olipo the Oulipo.
Our first labors immediately indicated the desire to inscribe the Oulipo within a history. The Oulipo didn’t claim to innovate at any price. The first papers dealt with ancient works, works that might serve as ancestors if not as models for the work we wanted to begin. This led us to consider according a good deal of our efforts to an H.L.E., or Histoire des littératures expérimentales. Here, we saw the notion of experimentation or exercise reappear; at the same time we were beginning to realize that which distinguished us from the past: potentiality.
But in any case the essential object of our quest was still literature, and François Le Lionnais wrote: Every literary work begins with an inspiration . . . which must accommodate itself as
well as possible to a series of constraints and procedures, etc. What the Oulipo intended to demonstrate was that these constraints are felicitous, generous, and are in fact literature itself. What it proposed was to discover new ones, under the name of structures. But at that time, we didn’t formulate this as clearly.
The position of the Oulipo in regard to literature is determined in memorandum #4, minutes of the meeting on 13 February 1961, in the following form:
Jean Queval intervened to ask if we are in favor of literary madmen. To this delicate question, F. Le Lionnais replied very subtly:
—We are not against them, but the literary vocation interests us above all else.
And R . Queneau stated precisely: —The only literature is voluntary literature. If I may refer to the henceforth famous dictum in Odile, we
can add to this notion the considerable consequences resulting from the fact that: The really inspired person is never inspired, but always inspired. What does this mean? What? This thing so rare, inspiration, this gift of the gods which makes the poet, and which this unhappy man never quite deserves in spite of all his heartaches, this enlightenment coming from who knows where, is it possible that it might cease to be capricious, and that any and everybody might find it faithful and compliant to his desires? The serious revolution, the sudden change this simple sentence introduced into a conception of literature still wholly dominated by romantic effusions and the exaltation of subjectivity, has never been fully analyzed. In fact, this sentence implied the revolutionary conception of the objectivity of literature, and from that time forward opened the latter to all possible modes of manipulation. In short, like mathematics, literature could be explored.
We know that for Queneau, at Cerisy, the origin of language might be traced back to a man who had a stomachache and wanted to express that fact.2 But as Queneau stated to Charbonnier, Of course he didn’t succeed in
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8 They wore midnight blue velvet mittensin bed. If you’d prefer mittens of another colour, go back to 7;
if you have no objection to blue, proceed to 10.
9 Once upon a time there were three wee peas who travelled the open road. In the evening,foot-sore and weary, they would drop off to sleep in no time at all. If you wish to know what happened next, go back to 5;
if not, proceed to 21.
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expressing this; never could succeed; nobody will ever succeed. Since this mysterious origin, the failures of language have little by little led its users to ref lect on this strange tool which one could consider, which sometimes commands consideration, without reference to utility.
People noticed that they were language from head to toe. And that when they thought they had a stomachache, it was in fact a language-ache. That all of that was more or less indiscernible. That medicine was fine and dandy, but if we were suffering in our language, medicine wasn’t enough, although it itself is a language. We started therefore to explore, or to want to explore, language. We began by relying on its properties. We let it play by itself. Word games became the game of words in Queneau, subject of the excellent Daubercies’s doctoral thesis. We directed the games of language, searched, found, and encouraged certain of its capacities. We remained attentive to this nature which it seems to have, or which it constitutes for itself and which, in turn, constitutes us.
This movement became entirely natural. And this is why I underlined Queneau’s words a little while ago: the more difficult it was to do naturally. It has become so natural that we forget the punctuation and everyone jumps in.
Let me point out that Lévi-Strauss begins the Pensée sauvage with a remark on nomination, and the expression of the concrete by the abstract. He quotes two sentences from Chinook, a very useful language for linguists. These two sentences use abstract words to designate properties or qualities of beings or things. Thus, in order to say: The bad man killed the unfortunate child, one will say: The badness of the man killed the misfortune of the child; and to say: This woman is using a basket which is too small, one will say: She is putting potentilla roots into the smallness of a shell basket.
It is clear in this case that the notions of abstract and concrete are confused and, as Lévi-Strauss says, that “oak” or “beech” is just as abstract as “tree.” But another thing becomes clear to the wise poet who examines this text. This is that the badness of the man killed the misfortune of the child is
not precisely the same thing as the bad man killed the unfortunate child. In fact, it’s not the same thing at all. And this difference reveals a new concreteness which is not only that of the thing referred to by the words but also that of the words themselves. Language is a concrete object.
One can therefore operate on it as on other objects of science. Language (literary language) doesn’t manipulate notions, as people still believe; it handles verbal objects and maybe even, in the case of poetry (but can one draw a distinction between poetry and literature?), sonorous objects. Just as in painting the dissimulation of the object of reference by grids of nonfiguration claimed less to annihilate this object, table, landscape, or face, than to divert attention toward the painting-object, a certain number of sentences written today fix the attention of the observer on the singular object that is literary language, whose significations because of this multiply indefinitely. Unusual designations point to the sign rather than to the signified.
A simple example will clarify this: the beginning of Le Chiendent:3 A man’s silhouette was outlined, simultaneously thousands. A realist novelist would have written: Jules came along. There was a crowd. But in writing this, the realist novelist would only have shown that he was confusing the concreteness of things with literary concreteness, and that he was counting on quashing the latter in favor of the former. He would have claimed to have rendered his sentence wholly transparent to that which it designates. That is literature according to Sartre, and transitive language. In literature, the smallest combination of words secretes perfectly intransitive properties. The recourse to the abstract in Queneau means simply the choice of a system of concreteness at once both very ancient and very new: literature itself.
I don’t mean to suggest that this is an absolute discovery. Queneau knows better than anyone that literature existed before us. For example, one finds in Ange Pitou a description of a fight that conforms precisely to what we’ve been saying. Ange Pitou fights with the seminarist who had raised him, if memory serves me, and whom he had just
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11 They were dreaming they had gone to fetch their soup from the soup kitchen and,upon opening their billy-cans, discovered it to be vetch soup. Sickened with horror, they awoke.
If you wish to know why they awoke sickened with horror, consult your Oxford English Dictionary under “vetch” and draw your own conclusions;
if it’s all the same to you, proceed to 12.
10 All three were dreaming the same dream;for they loved each other tenderly and, old inseparables that they were, always dreamed alike.
If you wish to know their dream, proceed to 11;
if not, go to 12.
12. The Oulipo73
found again. The seminarist throws a punch which, says A . Dumas, Ange Pitou warded off with an eye. Everything here is concrete in its terms, but the organization of these various concretes is absurd. It’s not the world that’s being referred to, but literature. But of course, literature is always the world.
It’s because we had the profound feeling that we were not an absolute beginning, but rather that we belonged to a tradition, that the Oulipo decided to devote a large share of its work to bringing together texts for an anthology of exper- imental literature. For there were not only these naive and aleatory illuminations of Alexandre Dumas’s sort: other writers systematically sought to transform the constraints of literary rules into sources of inspiration. Hugo’s famous Je rime à dait4 is an example of the energetic virtues of rhyme, if not of the work of the greatest of French poets.
Experimentation was thus reintroduced into the Oulipo, not only in order to establish our genealogical tree, the history of our origins, but also to give direction to our exploration. For most of the experiments that one can conduct on language reveal that the field of meanings extends far beyond the intentions of any author. It’s a commonplace today that an author understands only very few of the meanings offered by his work. And one can no longer find a single writer provincial enough to explain: I intended to say that. . . . When questioned today, the writer responds: I wanted to . . . and the description of a machine producing at the discretion of consumers follows. In short, every literary text is literary because of an indefinite quantity of potential meanings.
That involves the objects of literature, and one notices that, from this point of view, all literature is potential. For which the Oulipo rejoices. But as the equating of potentiality and literature would perhaps cause the Oulipo to lose itself in the totality of language, we had to seek a specific potentiality which we intended to use for our purposes. It’s not that of literature already written but that of literature which remains to be written.
It was not an easy thing to accomplish. It was even exceedingly difficult. First, we elaborated the following broad definition. Oulipo: group which proposes to examine in what manner and by what means, given a scientific theory ultimately concerning language (therefore anthropology), one can introduce aesthetic pleasure (affectivity and fancy) therein. We will never know exactly who came up with this definition, the definitive secretary having generously attributed it to all in his minutes of the 5 April 1961 meeting.5
Things could only get worse. And the same day, the Oulipians “slyly” followed this definition with another: Oulipians: rats who must build the labyrinth from which they propose to escape.
The storm broke on the twentieth of April.6 The word “affectivity” unleashed the tempest that Jacques Bens had been brooding for a month. Appealing to a method, and a scientific one, the provisional secretary claimed that we could only work from real things, from existing texts. To Albert- Marie Schmidt, who worried that the treatments to which these texts were subjected in order to actualize their potentialities in fact destroyed the latter as such, transforming them into realities, Arnaud answered that we must begin with the concrete, with the material. Oulipian activity applies systematic and predictable treatments to these materials. That’s the experimental method. To which Queneau replied: Our method could be applied to nonexistent acts. And Lescure Jean going so far as to suggest that the greatest potentiality is that of nonexistence, Bens cried in an aggressive voice: That’s poetic method, not scientific. Queneau: Historically, we may consider that the day when the Carolingians began to count on their fingers 6, 8, and 12 to make verse, they accomplished an Oulipian task. Potential literature is that which doesn’t yet exist. With the worst insincerity in the world, Jacques Bens then affirmed that that was precisely what he had been saying: To get to the potential (in the future), one must begin with that which exists (in the present). Granted that it’s he himself who writes the minutes, he didn’t interrupt himself, and he gave himself the last word.
175;
12 “Eeky-peeky!” they cried as they popped open their optics. “Eeky-peeky! What aghastly dream we’ve just dreamed!” “A bad omen,” the first pea said. “Amen,” said the second pea, “I feel quite glum.” “Don’t let it upset you so,” said the third pea, who was the smartest of the three; “the point is not to mope and fret but to understand, right? Just you listen while I analyse it all . . .”
If you can’t wait to know his interpretation of the dream, go to 15;
if you’d rather learn how the other two responded, proceed to 13.
13 “Come off it!” piped the first pea. “Sincewhen were you able to analyse dreams?” “Yes, since when?” piped the second pea.
If you too wish to know since when, proceed to 14.
if not, proceed to 14 anyway, as you’ll not be any the wiser.
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It was during the night of 28 August 1961, in the gardens of François Le Lionnais and in the presence of Lady Godiva,7 that the Oulipians began to understand what they had been trying to do for so long. Le Lionnais expressed himself in these terms: It is possible to compose texts that have poetic, surrealist, fantastic, or other qualities without having qualities of potential. Now it is these last qualities that are essential for us. They are the only ones that must guide our choice. . . . The goal of potential literature is to furnish future writers with new techniques which can dismiss inspiration from their affectivity. Ergo, the necessity of a certain liberty. Nine or ten centuries ago, when a potential writer proposed the sonnet form, he left, through certain mechanical processes, the possibility of a choice.
Thus, continues Le Lionnais, there are two Lipos: an analytic and a synthetic. Analytic lipo seeks possibilities existing in the work of certain authors unbeknownst to them. Synthetic lipo constitutes the principal mission of the Oulipo; it’s a question of opening new possibilities previously unknown to authors.
Finally elaborated, this definition remains the Oulipo’s rule. In his conversations with Charbonnier, Queneau returns to it nearly word for word: The word “potential” concerns the very nature of literature; that is, fundamentally it’s less a question of literature strictly speaking than of supplying forms for the good use one can make of literature. We call potential literature the search for new forms and structures that may be used by writers in any way they see fit.
Finally, and more recently, Le Lionnais: The Oulipo’s goal is to discover new structures and to furnish for each structure a small number of examples.
As we can see, the rules of the sonnet, which are the Oulipo’s bread and butter, remain the perfect example of our aims. But in all of this there is a relatively new way of considering literature, and it is not by chance (and without bad feelings toward the old world) that Queneau writes that we propose to elaborate a whole arsenal in which the poet may pick and choose, whenever he wishes to escape from that which is called inspiration (Entretiens, p. 154).
History will testify that the Oulipo saved men from the infantile diseases of writers and gave true freedom to the latter, which consists, exercising “their passionate taste for the obstacle,”8 in finding the springboard of their action in the world itself.
Having understood its mission, the Oulipo happily embarked upon the centuries that awaited it.9 Barely into the fifth of these, it had astutely mixed the sap which Oulipians were unknowingly making from lipo with the diverse characters of its members. Exercises sometimes illustrated these characters. There were snowballs, isosyntactic, isovocalic, or isoconsonatic poems, anterhymes, lipograms, etc. . . . and numerous proposals for permutations for a combinatory literature.
Bereavements darkened our history. The very dear, very lettered, and very fraternal Albert-Marie Schmidt first, through whose death we lost much of our scholarship, depriving us as well of the most amusing works. Marcel Duchamp, from one of the Americas, became interested in the Oulipo. The Ouvroir f lattered itself to count him among its corresponding members. He died an Oulipian.
New ones were born:10 Georges Perec, Jacques Roubaud, Luc Etienne, Marcel Bénabou, Paul Fournel. And we saw works appear bearing obvious traces of our ref lections. By Perec, precisely, La Disparition. By Roubaud, whose ∈ invents constraints that will continue to provoke comment. Zinga 8 by Jacques Duchateau surprised and even astonished me. Raymond Queneau’s Un Conte à votre façon, a “programmed” story. Le Petit Meccano poétique n° 00, modest exercises for beginners.
Although the goal of the Oulipo is not to give birth to literary works, one ought to mention that the work of the best can draw new force from it—and we are delighted to note from Le Vol d’Icare that Raymond Queneau is making very good progress.
Each of our centuries having been celebrated by a conference, it’s rather satisfying to realize that we have now youthfully passed our first millennium.
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14 “Since when?” cried thethird pea. “How should I know? The fact is, I analyse them, OK? You’ll soon see!”
If you too wish to see, proceed to 15;
if not, proceed likewise to 15, as you won’t see a thing.
15 “OK, let’s see!” said his brothers. “I don’t care much for your irony,” the other replied; “you shan’t seea thing. Besides, hasn’t your feeling of horror dimmed and even faded quite away since this rather heated exchange began? So why bother to stir up the sink of your leguminous unconscious? Let’s go and bathe in the fountain, rather, and greet this bright morning in that state of holy euphoria that is hygiene’s own reward!” No sooner said than done. Slipping out of their pod, they rolled downhill and scampered merrily off to the theatre of their ablutions.
If you wish to know what happens at the theatre of their ablutions, proceed to 16;
if not, go to 21.
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For a Potential Analysis of Combinatory Literature Claude Berge When, at twenty years of age, Leibniz published his Dissertatio de Arte Combinatoria,1 he claimed to have discovered a new branch of mathematics with ramifications in logic, history, ethics, and metaphysics. He treated all sorts of combinations therein: syllogisms, juridical forms, colors, sounds; and he announced two-by-two, three-by-three, etc., combinations, which he wrote: com2natio, com3natio, etc. . . .
In the field of plastic arts, the idea was not entirely new, since Breughel the Elder several years before had numbered the colors of his characters in order to determine their distribution by a roll of the dice; in the field of music, people were beginning to glimpse new possibilities, which were to inspire Mozart in his “Musical Game,” a sort of card index that allows anyone to achieve the aleatory composition of waltzes, rondos, and minuets. But what about literature?
One has to wait until 1961 for the expression combinatory literature to be used, undoubtedly for the first time, by François Le Lionnais, in the postface to Raymond Queneau’s Cent Mille Milliards de poèmes. Literature is a known quantity, but combinatorics? Makers of dictionaries and encyclopedias manifest an extreme degree of cowardice when it comes to giving a definition of the latter; one can hardly blame their insipid imprecision, since traditional mathematicians who “feel” that problems are of combinatory nature very seldom are inclined to engage in systematic and independent study of the methods of resolving them.
In an attempt to furnish a more precise definition, we shall rely on the concept of configuration; one looks for a configuration each time one disposes a finite number of objects, and one wishes to dispose them according to certain constraints postulated in advance; Latin squares and finite geometries are configurations, but so is the arrangement of packages of different sizes in a drawer that is too small, or the disposition of words or sentences given in advance (on the condition that the given constraints be sufficiently “crafty” for the problem to be real).2 Just as arithmetic studies whole numbers (along with the traditional operations), as algebra studies operations in general, as
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16 Three tall, lanky beanpoles werewatching them. If you don’t much care for the three tall lanky beanpoles, go to 21;
if you like the look of them, proceed to 18.
17 Three rather common or gardenshrubs were watching them. If you don’t care for the three common or garden shrubs, go to 21;
if, contrariwise, they rather take your fancy, proceed to 18.
18 Observing that they were being ogled,the three sprightly peas, who were very bashful, took to their heels.
If you wish to know what they did next, proceed to 19;
if it’s immaterial to you, go to 21.
811961
Figure 12.1. Principle of the graph of the Cent Mille Milliards de poèmes (not all of the arcs and vertices have been drawn).
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analysis studies functions, as geometry studies forms that are rigid and topology those that are not, so combinatorics, for its part, studies configurations. It attempts to demonstrate the existence of configurations of a certain type. And if this existence is no longer open to doubt, it undertakes to count them (equalities or inequalities of counting), or to list them (“listing”), or to extract an “optimal” example from them (the problem of optimization).
It is thus not surprising to learn that a systematic study of these problems revealed a large number of new mathematical concepts, easily transposable into the realm of language, and
that the pruritus of combinatorics has wrought its worst on the Oulipian breast.
Although the first complete literary work of frankly combinatory nature is the Cent Mille Milliards de poèmes, and although Raymond Queneau and François Le Lionnais are the cofounders of the Oulipo, created simultaneously, it should not be deduced that combinatory literature is the Oulipo.
If one dissects Oulipian tendencies with a sharp enough scalpel, three currents become apparent: the first Oulipian vocation is undoubtedly “the search for new structures, which may be used by writers in any way they see fit,” which means that we wish to replace traditional constraints like the “sonnet” with other linguistic constraints: alphabetical (Georges Perec’s poems without e), phonetic (Noël Arnaud’s heterosexual rhymes), syntactic (J. Queval’s isosyntactic novels), numerical (J. Bens’s irrational sonnets), even semantic.
The second Oulipian vocation, apparently unrelated to the first, is research into methods of automatic transformation of texts: for example, J. Lescure’s S + 7 method.
Finally, the third vocation, the one that perhaps interests us most, is the transposition of concepts existing in different
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19 They skedaddled back to their pod,pulled down the lid over themselves and fell fast asleep again.
If you wish to know the sequel, proceed to 20;
if not, go to 21.
20 There is no sequel. The tale isfinished. Finished! 21 In this case too, the tale isfinished. Ended!
Figure 12.3. Bifurcating graph representing the structure of Raymond Queneau’s “A Story as You Like It,” [“Yours for the Telling,”] Lettres Nouvelles, July–September 1967. (We owe this sagittal representation to Queneau.)
Figure 12.2. The verses corresponding to the arcs arriving at the same point (or leaving from the same point) were chosen in function of a very precise constraint; for example, those that end up at point D contain the word “man”; those leaving from point D have the same grammatical structure, etc. . . . Using this figure, the reader may choose a priori the point of departure and the point of arrival, and look for “the shortest path.” He can also construct “Hamiltonian Poems,” which correspond to an itinerary in which each point is encountered once and only once. Thus, the Hamiltonian Path BADC gives:
“No no says the offended lady I am not looking for the man who spits in the pitcher.”
One can even construct quasi-Eulerian poems, traveling through the figure without passing twice by the same arc, and in maximizing the number of arcs used; fundamental, purely mathematical concepts from the Theory of Graphs furnish thus so many constraints . . . and the number of texts that may be constructed using the same figure is infinite!
12. The Oulipo73
branches of mathematics into the realm of words: geometry (Le Lionnais’s poems which are tangentical among themselves), Boolian algebra (intersection of two novels by J. Duchateau), matrical algebra (R. Queneau’s multiplication of texts), etc. . . .
It is within this last current that combinatory literature is situated. Let us sharpen our scalpel a little bit more and cut up a few specimens.
The roughest form, the Stone Age of combinatory literature, it must be noted, is factorial poetry, in which certain elements of the text may be permuted in all possible ways as the reader (or chance) sees fit; the meaning changes, but syntactic correctness is preserved.
As early as the seventeenth century, Harsdörffer published in his Récréations factorial couplets like:
Ehr, Kunst, Geld, Guth, Lob, Weib und Kind
Man hat, sucht, fehlt, hofft und verschwind3
The ten words in italics may be permuted in all possible ways by the speaker without altering the rhythm (for they are all monosyllabic); whence 3,628,800 poems, different and grammatically correct (if one changes sucht to Sucht, fehlt to Fehl, man to Mann). With n words to permute, the number of possibilities would be “n factorial,” that is, the number:
n! = 1 × 2 × . . . × n This form of poetry seems moreover to have been
common during the period when it was called “Protean Poetry”(Poetices Proteos), following Julius Caesar Scaliger, who supposedly invented it. Leibniz, in his Dissertatio, cites numerous examples in monosyllabic Latin, from Bernhardus
179;
Figure 12.5. Tree representing the embedding of the parentheses in Raymond Roussel, Nouvelles Impressions d’Afrique, canto I (the encircled numbers represent the number of the verse wherein the parentheses are opened or closed).
Figure 12.4. Graphs of the Ternary Relation: X Takes Y for Z (paper delivered by Raymond Queneau at the 26 December 1965 meeting of the Oulipo.)
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Bauhusius, Thomas Lansius, Johan Philippus Ebelius, Johan Baptistus Ricciolus, etc. . . .
And, as nothing is invented, we must wait until 1965 for Saporta to write and publish a “factorial” novel, whose pages, unbound, may be read in any order, according to the whim of the reader.4
Finally, in 1967, the Oulipo stated that it no longer expected any good to come from pure, unbridled chance, and Jacques Roubaud published his collection of poems, ∈ (Gallimard, 1967), wherein the author proposes the reading of the 361 texts that compose it in four different but well- determined orders.
Another more elaborate form of combinatory poetry: Fibonaccian poems. We call thus a text which has been split into elements (sentences, verses, words), and which one recites using only elements that were not juxtaposed in the original text.
This type of poetry is called Fibonaccian because, with n elements, the number of poems one can engender is none other than “Fibonacci’s Number”:
Fn = 1 + n! + (n-1)! + (n-2)! + (n-3)! + . . . 1!(n-1) 2!(n-2)! 3!(n-5)! 4!(n-7)!
Here is an example, whose origin is easily recognizable:
Feu filant,
déjà sommeillant,
bénissez votre
os
je prendrai
une vieille accroupie
vivez les roses de la vie!5
Unfortunately, it is difficult to invent texts that lend themselves to such manipulations or rules for intervals that permit the conservation of literary quality.
In the Cent Mille Milliards de poèmes, Raymond Queneau introduces ten sonnets, of fourteen verses each, in such a way that the reader may replace
as he wishes each verse by one of the nine others that correspond to it. The reader himself may thus compose 1014
= 100,000,000,000,000 different poems, all of which respect all the immutable rules of the sonnet. This type of poetry could be called “exponential,” for the number of poems of n verses one can obtain with Queneau’s method is given by the exponential function, 10n. However, each of the hundred thousand billion poems may also be considered as a line drawn in a graph of the sort indicated in figure 12.1. According to this point of view, it should be noted that the reader advances in a graph without circuits; that is, he can never encounter the same verse twice in a reading respecting the direction of the arrows.
For this reason, in 1966 we proposed the dual form, the antipode: that is, poems on graphs without cocircuits. Without wishing to define a cocircuit here, let us say that these graphs are characterized by the property that, beginning from a given point, one can always end up at a point determined in advance.
Let us consider the simplified example of figure 12.2. Other pathway procedures were proposed by Paul Braffort
and François Le Lionnais at the 79th meeting of the Oulipo. This principle is also behind Raymond Queneau’s “A Story as You Like It” [“Yours for the Telling.”] This text, submitted at the Oulipo’s 83rd working meeting, draws its inspiration from the instructions given to computers, the reader at each moment disposing of two continuations, according to whether the adventures of the “three alert peas” suit him or not. Presented in the form of a bifurcating graph (figure 12.3), imbrication of circuits becomes apparent, as do converging paths, etc. . . . whose properties might be analyzed in terms of the Theory of Graphs. [See figure 12.4 for additional Queneau graphs.]
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Figure 12.6. Representation by means of a bifurcating arborescence of the preceding system of parentheses.
Figure 12.7. Representation by means of a bifurcating arborescence of another system of parentheses: [( )] {[( )]}.
12. The Oulipo
Finally, it should be noted that in his Drailles (Gallimard, 1968), Jean Lescure travels pleasantly through a graph of order 4:
Feuille de rose porte d’ombre
Ombre de feuille porte rose
Feuille, porte l’ombre d’une rose
Feuille rose à l’ombre d’une porte
Toute rose ombre une porte de feuille
. . . Another form of literature, which may lend itself to
schemas rich in combinatory properties, is what has come to be called the episodic story. Since Potocki’s famous novel, Un Manuscrit trouvé à Saragosse, especially since the episodic novels of Eugène Sue, certain authors have imagined characters who relate adventures in which figure other garrulous heroes who in turn relate other adventures, which leads to a whole series of stories embedded one in the other. In his poems, Raymond Roussel6 went so far as to embed progressively six sets of parentheses [see figure 12.5].
In order to describe or count the agglomerations of parentheses in a monoid, the Polish logician /Lukasiewicz established the bases of a mathematical theory; it is to this theory that we refer in figure 12.6, where we represent the structure of the first canto of Raymond Roussel’s Nouvelles Impressions d’Afrique by a bifurcating arborescence. It may be remarked that this arborescence is much less complex than that of figure 12.7, for instance . . . which seems to open the door to a new field of research for the Oulipo.
We could not conclude this little inventory without mentioning bi-Latin literature and the work begun within the Oulipo by the author with Jacques Roubaud and Georges Perec. Since Euler, combinatorics has been interested in Latin bi-squares; a Latin bi-square of order n is a table of n × n squares, filled with n different letters and n different numbers, each square containing a letter and a number, each letter figuring only once in each line and each column, each number figuring only once in each line and each column.
A Latin bi-square of order 10 is reproduced in figure 12.8; it is, moreover, an extremely rare specimen, and at the present time only two are known to exist. We thus proposed to write 10 stories (represented by the 10 lines of the table) wherein appear 10 characters (represented by the 10 columns of the table). Each character’s attribute is
determined by the letter of the corresponding square; his action is likewise determined by the number of the corresponding square.
These 10 stories contain thus all the possible combinations in the most economical fashion possible. Moreover, they are the result of a century of arduous mathematical research, for Euler conjectured that a Latin bi- square of order 10 could not exist, and we had to wait until 1960 for Bose, Parker, and Shrikhande to prove him wrong. . . .7
It is clear that the contribution of combinatorics to the domains of words, rhymes, and metaphors is more complex than it seems, and that it is far from the anagrams of the Rhétoriqueurs or the stammerings of the Protean poets.
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Figure 12.8. Specimen of the Latin bi-square of order 10; the letters represent a characteristic attribute: A = violent lover, B = stupid as an ox, C = rascal; etc. . . . The numbers represent the dominant action of the character: 0 = does nothing, 1 = steals and assassinates, 2 = behaves in a strange and inexplicable way; etc. . . .
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Computer and Writer The Centre Pompidou Experiment
Paul Fournel When the literary project of the A.R.T.A. was launched, rapid efforts had to be made to establish a basis for a possible agreement between computer science and literary creation.1
Christian Cavadia entrusted the whole of the project to Paul Braffort (logician, computer scientist, and writer), whose first goal was to educate the public and the writers themselves about this new undertaking.
Aided Reading At first, work was brought to bear on preexisting literary material. There are, in fact, a few combinatory or algorithmic works that may be read far more easily with the help of a computer. Here, the machine performs a simple task of selecting and editing. Combinatory Literature The Cent Mille Milliards de poèmes2 by Raymond Queneau furnishes material particularly favorable to this type of experiment. It consists of ten sonnets composed such that each verse of each of them may be combined with any of the other verses in the ten texts, which gives a total of 1014
sonnets. The printed collection is very prettily conceived, but the manipulation of the strips on which each verse is printed is sometimes tedious.
The computer, though, makes a selection in the corpus in function of the length of the “reader’s” name and the time which he takes to type it into the terminal, then prints the sonnet, which bears the double signature of Queneau and his reader.3
The author himself may profit from this process: when the combinations are this numerous, he may take soundings of his work. The computer in this case serves as an assistant in the definitive fine-tuning of the text.
Algorithmic Literature Same application in the domain of algorithmic literature: Dominique Bourguet has programmed Raymond Queneau’s “A Story as You Like It” [“Yours for the Telling”]4 so as to facilitate its reading. In this brief text, the reader is repeatedly invited to choose what follows in the tale through a system of double questions. The elements of narration being very short, the game dominates the reading of the text itself. This is unfortunate, since all of these possible texts have real charm. The computer first of all “speaks” with the reader, proposing the different choices to him, then prints the chosen text “cleanly” and without the questions. The pleasure of play and the pleasure of reading are thus combined.
In the same spirit and according to the same principles, a medieval tale was programmed by Jean-Pierre Enard and Paul Fournel,5 and the 720 fairy tales of a work group directed by J. P. Balpe will be programmed.
Aided Creation After all of this, the relation work→computer→reader must be replaced by other sorts of relations in which the author plays a role (without necessarily stripping the reader of his role). Among the different projects submitted by authors to Paul Braffort, one may already find examples of very different types of relations. Type 1: Author→Computer→Work In this type, only creation is aided. The computer is an integral part of the drafting process and its work serves to elaborate the definitive text. Italo Calvino proposes lists of characters, constraints, and events to the machine, asking it to determine through progressive refinement who may indeed have done what. The author thus chooses to work on material that the machine allows him to dominate.6
Type 2: Author→Computer→Work→Computer→Reader The computer intervenes on two levels this time. For one of the chapters in the Princesse Hoppy, Jacques Roubaud elaborates, with the help of a machine, a chapter which the reader must read with this same machine.7 He will be called upon to solve a series of enigmas, and the machine will furnish him with clues (inspired by the game of cork-penny) as to his groping progression in the text.
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Type 3: Author→Computer→Reader→Computer→Work With this third type we enter into the domain of projects that are more distant and more technically complex. In Marcel Bénabou’s “artificial aphorisms,” the author furnishes a stock of empty forms and a stock of words destined to fill them; the reader then comes along to formulate a request, and, following this request, the machine combines words and forms to produce aphorisms.8
The reader’s participation is limited, but it nonetheless necessitates a few elementary f lexions in the resultant text. In spite of everything, one may affirm that the author dominates his material in these aphorisms; this is not so in the case of the S.S.A.Y.L.I. (Short Story As You Like It) project.
The goal of this enterprise is to produce diversified short stories in very large quantities according to the precise and various wishes formulated by the reader (he may choose the length, the theme, the decor, the characters, and the style).
Beginning with a few homosyntactic short stories, Paul Braffort and Georges Kermidjian attempt to establish an extremely supple general ossature and a stock of “agms,” minimal unities of action or description. Their exact description is in permanent evolution, but one may say, roughly, that they are the intermediary unities between the word and the sentence, which in theory ought to permit one to avoid both the pitfalls of grammar and the feeling of suffocation provoked by sentence types that recur incessantly (as in the work of Sheldon Kline). Each of these agms receives specific attributes which will come into play according to the reader’s wishes.
The interest of this project is triple: first, it allows one to produce short stories, and this is nice when one likes producing short stories; second, it enables one to elaborate a particular grammar prudently, step by step; third, it allows one to constitute a stock of agms that may be used on other occasions. But it is a long-term project that is only beginning. It will take patience, work, and time (= money).9
Prose and Anticombinatorics Italo Calvino The preceding examples concerned the use of the computer as an aid to literary creation in the following situations:
The structures chosen by the author are relatively few in number, but the possible realizations are combinatorily exponential.
Only the computer may realize a number (more or less large) of these potentialities.
On the contrary, the assistance of the computer takes on an anticombinatory character when, among a large number of possibilities, the computer selects those few realizations compatible with certain constraints.
Order in Crime I have been working for some time on a short story (perhaps a novel?) which might begin thus:
The Fire in the Cursed House In a few hours Skiller, the insurance agent, will come to ask for the computer’s results, and I have still not introduced the information into the electronic circuits that will pulverize into innumerable impulses the secrets of the Widow Roessler and her shady pension. Where the house used to stand, one of those dunes in vacant lots between the shunting yards and the scrapyards that the periphery of our city leaves behind itself like so many little piles of trash forgotten by the broom, nothing now remains but scattered debris. It might have been a cute little villa beforehand, or just as well nothing other than a ghostly hovel: the reports of the insurance company do not say; now, it has burned from the cellar to the attic, and nothing was found on the charred cadavers of its four inhabitants that might enable one to reconstitute the antecedents of this solitary massacre.
A notebook tells more than these bodies, a notebook found in the ruins, entirely burned except for the cover, which was protected by a sheet of plastic. On the front is written: Accounts of horrible acts perpetrated in this house, and on the back there is an index divided into twelve headings, in alphabetical order: To Bind and Gag, To Blackmail, To Drug, To Prostitute, To Push to Suicide, To Rape, To Seduce, To
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Slander, To Spy Upon, To Stab, To Strangle, To Threaten with a Revolver.
It is not known which of the inhabitants of the house wrote this sinister report, nor what was its intent: denunciation, confession, self-satisfaction, fascinated contemplation of evil? All that remains to us is this index, which gives the names neither of the people who were guilty nor those of the victims of the twelve actions—felonious or simply naughty—and it doesn’t even give the order in which they were committed, which would help in reconstituting a story: the headings in alphabetical order refer to page numbers obscured by a black stroke. To complete the list, one would have to add still one more verb: To Set Ablaze, undoubtedly the final act of this dark affair—accomplished by whom? In order to hide or destroy what?
Even assuming that each of these twelve actions had been accomplished by only one person to the prejudice of only one person, reconstituting the events is a difficult task: if the characters in question are four in number, they may represent, taken two by two, twelve different relations for each of the twelve sorts of relations listed. The possible solutions, in consequence, are twelve to the twelfth power; that is, one must choose among solutions whose number is in the neighborhood of eight thousand eight hundred seventy-four billion two hundred ninety-six million six hundred sixty-two thousand two hundred fifty-six. It is not surprising that our overworked police preferred to shelve the dossier, their excellent reasoning being that however numerous were the crimes committed, the guilty died in any case with the victims.
Only the insurance company needs to know the truth, principally because of a fire insurance policy taken out by the owner of the house. The fact that the young Inigo died in the flames only renders the question that much thornier: his powerful family, who undoubtedly had disinherited and excluded this degenerate son, is notoriously disinclined to renounce anything to which it may have a claim. The worst conclusions (included or not in that abominable index) may be drawn about a young man who, hereditary member of the House of Lords, dragged an illustrious title over the park benches that serve a nomadic and contemplative youth as beds, and who washed his long hair in public fountains. The little house rented to the old landlady was the only heritage that remained to him, and he had been admitted into it as sublessee by his tenant, against a reduction of the already
modest rent. If he, Inigo, had been both guilty incendiary and victim of a criminal plot carried out with the imprecision and insouciance that apparently characterized his behavior, proof of fraud would relieve the company from payment of damages.
But that was not the only policy that the company was called upon to honor after the catastrophe: the Widow Roessler herself each year renewed a life insurance policy whose beneficiary was her adopted daughter, a fashion model familiar to anyone who leafs through the magazines devoted to haute couture. Now Ogiva too is dead, burned along with the collection of wigs that transformed her glacially charming face—how else to define a beautiful and delicate young woman with a totally bald head?—into hundreds of different and delightfully asymmetric characters. But it so happened that Ogiva had a three-year-old child, entrusted to relatives in South Africa, who would soon claim the insurance money, unless it were proved that it was she who had killed (To Stab? To Strangle?) the Widow Roessler. And since Ogiva had even thought to insure her wig collection, the child’s guardians may also claim this indemnization, except if she were responsible for its destruction.
Of the fourth person who died in the fire, the giant Uzbek wrestler Belindo Kid, it is known that he had found not only a diligent landlady in the Widow Roessler (he was the only paying tenant in the pension) but also an astute impresario. In the last few months, the old woman had in fact decided to finance the seasonal tour of the ex–middleweight champion, hedging her bets with an insurance policy against the risk of contract default through illness, incapacity, or accident. Now a consortium of promoters of wrestling matches is claiming the damages covered by the insurance; but if the old lady pushed him to suicide, perhaps through slandering him, blackmailing him, or drugging him (the giant was known in international wrestling circles for his impressionable character), the company could easily silence them.
My hero intends to solve the enigma, and from this point of view the story belongs thus to the detective mystery genre.
But the situation is also characterized by an eminently combinatory aspect, which may be schematized as follows:
4 characters: A, B, C, D. 12 transitive, nonref lexive actions (see list below). All the possibilities are open: one of the 4 characters may
(for example) rape the 3 others or be raped by the 3 others.
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One then begins to eliminate the impossible sequences. In order to do this, the 12 actions are divided into 4 classes, to wit:
m
Objective Constraints Compatibility between Relations For the actions of murder: If A strangles B, he no longer needs to stab him or to induce him to commit suicide.
It is also improbable that A and B kill each other. One may then postulate that for the murderous actions
the relation of two characters will be possible only once in each permutation, and it will not be reversible.
For sexual actions: If A succeeds in winning the sexual favors of B through seduction, he need not resort to money or to rape for the same object.
One may also exclude, or neglect, the reversibility of the sexual rapport (the same or another) between two characters.
One may then postulate that for the sexual acts, the relation of two characters will be possible only once in each permutation, and it will not be reversible.
For the appropriation of a secret: If A secures B’s secret, this secret may be defined in another relation that follows in the sequence, between B and C, or C and B (or even C and D, or D and C), a sexual relation, or a relation of murder, or of the appropriation of will, or of the appropriation of another secret. After that, A no longer needs to obtain the same secret from B by another means (but he may obtain a different secret by a different means from B or from other characters). Reversibility of the acts of appropriation of a
secret is possible, if there are on both sides two different secrets.
For the appropriation of will: If A imposes his will on B, this imposition may provoke a relation between A (or another) and B, or even between B and C (or A), a relation that may be sexual, murderous, the appropriation of a secret, the appropriation of another will. After that, A no longer needs to impose the same will on B by another means (but he may, etc.).
Reversibility is possible, obviously, between two different wills. Order of Sequences In each permutation, after an action of murder has taken place, the victim may no longer commit or submit to any other action.
Consequently, it is impossible for the three acts of murder to occur in the beginning of a permutation, because no characters would then be left to accomplish the other actions. Even two murders in the beginning would render the development of the sequence impossible. One murder in the beginning dictates permutations of 11 actions for 3 characters.
The optimal case is that in which the three acts of murder occur at the end.
The sequences given by the computer must be able to reveal chains of events held together by possible logical links. We have seen that the acts of will and of secret can imply others. In each permutation will be found privileged circuits, to wit:
or:
Each new relation in the chain excludes others.
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appropriation of a secret
of a sexual appropriation
of a muder
determines an appropriation of will that determines
a murder
a sexual appropriation
appropriation of a will leads to
a murder
a sexual appropriation that determines, etc.
an appropriation of a secret
appropriation of will
to incite
to blackmail
to drug
appropriation of a secret
to spy upon
to brutally extort a confession from
to abuse the confidence of
sexual appropriation
to seduce
to buy sexual favors from
to rape
murder
to strangle
to stab in the back
to induce to commit suicide
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Subjective Constraints Incompatibility of each character with certain actions committed or submitted to. The 12 actions may also be divided according to a second sort of system, classifying them in 4 subjective categories.
—Of A it is known that he is a man of enormous physical strength, but that he is also an almost inarticulate brute.
A cannot submit to acts of physical strength. A cannot commit acts of persuasion.
—Of B it is known that she is a woman in complete control of herself, with a strong will; she is sexually frigid; she hates drugs and drug addicts; she is rich enough to be interested only in herself.
B cannot submit to acts of persuasion. B is not interested in acts that exploit another’s weakness
(she is not interested in buying sexual favors, she does not touch drugs, she has no motive for blackmail). —Of C it is known that he is a very innocent Boy Scout, that he has a great sense of honor; if he takes drugs, he vomits immediately; his innocence protects him from all blackmail.
C cannot submit to acts that exploit another’s weakness. C cannot commit disloyal acts.
—Of D it is known that she is a terribly mistrustful woman and physically very weak.
D cannot submit to disloyal acts. D cannot commit acts of strength.
An ulterior complication could be introduced!!!! Each character could change in the course of the story
(after certain actions committed or submitted to): each might lose certain incompatibilities and acquire others!!!!!!!!
For the moment, we forgo the exploration of this domain.
Esthetic Constraints (or Subjective on the Part of the Programmer) The programmer likes order and symmetry. Faced with the huge number of possibilities and with the chaos of human passions and worries, he tends to favor those solutions that are the most harmonious and economical.
He proposes a model, such that: —each action be perpetrated by one and only one
character and have one and only one character as a victim; —the 12 actions be equally distributed among the 4
characters; that is, each of them perpetrates 3 actions (one on each of the others) and is the victim of 3 actions (each perpetrated by one of the others);
—each of the 3 actions perpetrated by a character belongs to a different (objective) class of actions;
—the same as above for each of the three actions submitted to by any given character;
—between two characters there be no commutativity within the same class of actions (if A kills B, B cannot kill A; likewise, the three sexual relations will occur between differently assorted couples).
Is it possible at the same time to take account of the subjective constraints and of the so-called esthetic constraints?
This is where the computer comes in; this is where the notion of “computer-aided literature” in exemplified.
Let us consider, for instance, 4 characters whom we shall call: ARNO, CLEM, DANI, BABY
A very simple program permits us to engender selections of 12 misdeeds. Each of these selections might be, in theory, the scenario our hero is trying to reconstitute.
A few examples of such scenarios are given on the next page under the headings SELEC1.
The absurdity of these scenarios is obvious. In fact, the program used is completely stupid: it permits a character to commit a misdeed against himself.
The program can be improved in imposing: —that autocrimes be excluded; —that each character figure only 3 times as criminal and 3
times as victim. One then obtains scenarios as shown under the headings
SELEC2 on the next page. This new program comprises obvious inefficiencies.
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acts of physical strength
to extort
to rape
to strangle
acts of persuasion
to incite
to seduce
to induce to commit suicide
disloyal acts
to abuse the confidence
to stab in the back
to spy upon
acts that exploit another’s weakness
to buy good graces
to blackmail
to drug
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Thus, in the first scenario it is not possible for Clem to blackmail Arno who has already been poisoned by Dani. In the second scenario, Baby cannot rape Clem because Arno has already cut the latter’s throat, etc. Paul Braffort, who ensures the development in computer science necessary to the progress of our work, has also written a series of programs for selections that progressively account for the constraints our story must respect in order to remain “logically” and “psychologically” acceptable.
This clearly demonstrates, we believe, that the aid of a computer, far from replacing the creative act of the artist, permits the latter rather to liberate himself from the slavery of a combinatory search, allowing him also the best chance of concentrating on this “clinamen” which, alone, can make of the text a true work of art.
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SELEC1
ARNO BUYS CLEM CLEM EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM ARNO ARNO CONSTRAINS ARNO ARNO EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM BABY CLEM RAPES DANI ARNO CUTS THE THROAT OF DANI DANI CONSTRAINS BABY BABY EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM ARNO CLEM POISONS ARNO DANI EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM CLEM ARNO ABUSES ARNO CLEM EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM CLEM
SELEC1
ARNO POISONS ARNO DANI SEDUCES DANI BABY SPIES UPON CLEM BABY RAPES CLEM BABY EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM DANI CLEM SPIES UPON ARNO CLEM THREATENS CLEM DANI CONSTRAINS BABY DANI EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM BABY DANI EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM ARNO CLEM ABUSES BABY BABY BLACKMAILS ARNO
SELEC1
DANI SEDUCES ARNO BABY CONSTRAINS ARNO ARNO SPIES UPON DANI BABY ABUSES ARNO CLEM RAPES CLEM BABY CUTS THE THROAT OF DANI ARNO STRANGLES ARNO DANI BUYS ARNO ARNO ABUSES ARNO DANI CUTS THE THROAT OF CLEM DANI SEDUCES CLEM ARNO CONSTRAINS BABY
SELEC2
DANI POISONS ARNO BABY THREATENS CLEM BABY SPIES UPON ARNO CLEM BLACKMAILS ARNO CLEM EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM BABY DANI SEDUCES BABY DANI STRANGLES CLEM ARNO RAPES BABY BABY CUTS THE THROAT OF DANI ARNO CONSTRAINS CLEM ARNO ABUSES DANI CLEM BUYS DANI
SELEC2
ARNO CONSTRAINS CLEM CLEM BLACKMAILS ARNO DANI BUYS ARNO ARNO CUTS THE THROAT OF BABY ARNO EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM DANI BABY RAPES CLEM CLEM SEDUCES BABY DANI THREATENS CLEM CLEM ABUSES DANI BABY STRANGLES DANI BABY POSIONS ARNO DANI SPIES UPON BABY
SELEC2
BABY SPIES UPON CLEM ARNO CUTS THE THROAT OF DANI DANI STRANGLES CLEM DANI THREATENS ARNO BABY BLACKMAILS ARNO DANI BUYS BABY CLEM EXTORTS A CONFESSION FROM BABY BABY RAPES DANI CLEM CONSTRAINS DANI ARNO ABUSES BABY ARNO SEDUCES CLEM CLEM POISONS ARNO
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Brief History of the Oulipo — Notes
1. The Collège de Pataphysique takes its name from “pataphysics,” the discipline proposed by Alfred Jarry, which he defined in his Gestes et opinions du Docteur Faustroll (II, viii) as “the science of imaginary solutions.” Jarry himself spelled the word with an initial apostrophe, perhaps to suggest épataphysique, or “shocking physics.” The Collège itself was founded on 11 May 1948, the fiftieth anniversary of Faustroll; its principal (if by no means exclusive) function is to promote work on Jarry. Publications of the group include the Cahiers du Collège de Pataphysique and the Dossiers du Collège de Pataphysique. See Linda Klieger Stillman, Alfred Jarry (Boston: Twayne, 1983), 41–42. Several of the founding members of the Oulipo held titles within the Collège de Pataphysique: Queneau, for example, was a Transcendent Satrap; Latis was the Private General Secretary to the Baron Vice-Curator; Noël Arnaud is the Regent of General Pataphysics and the Clinic of Rhetoriconosis, as well as Major Conferant of the Order of the Grande Gidouille. (WM)
2. See Noël Arnaud, “Et naquit l’Ouvroir de Littérature Potentielle,” in Jacques Bens, Oulipo 1960–1963, 8. (WM)
3.Raymond Queneau’s first novel, published by Gallimard in 1933. (WM)
4. In the penultimate quatrain of his “Booz endormi,” Victor Hugo rhymes Jérimadeth with se demandait. As the former place name figures in no known atlas, it has been conjectured that Jérimadeth may be read as je rime à dait, or “I rhyme with dait.” (WM)
5. According to Bens’s minutes, this meeting took place not on April 5 but on April 17. See Oulipo 1960–1963, 42–43. (WM)
6. Again, according to Bens, the date of the meeting was not April 20 but April 28. See Oulipo 1960–1963, 45–52. (WM)
7. Lady Godiva was a female tortoise who lived in François Le Lionnais’s garden. See Oulipo 1960–1963, 71. (WM)
8. Baudelaire, of course.
9. Years become centuries in Oulipospeak. (WM)
10. Let us recall the names of the old ones: Noël Arnaud, Jacques Bens, Claude Berge, Paul Braffort, Jacques Duchateau, François Le Lionnais, Jean Lescure, Raymond Queneau, Jean Queval. Foreign correspondents: André Blavier, Ross Chambers, Stanley Chapman.
For a Potential Analysis of Combinatory Literature — Notes
1. Dissertatio de Arte Combinatoria, J.-E. Erdmann (1666). It is surprising to note that this very rare work, written in Latin, has never to our knowledge been translated. We owe certain of the references we used in the inventory of combinatory literature to Y. Belaval. Let us also cite another famous mathematician, Leonhard Euler, who suggested principles for a Combinatory Art in his Lettres à une princesse d’Allemagne sur divers sujets de physique et de philosophie, Steidel (1770–74), 27.
2. One could mathematize the concept of configuration in defining it as an application of a set of objects within an abstract finite set provided with a known structure; for example, a permutation of n objects is a “bijective application of the set of objects within the set ordered 1, 2, . . . , n.” Nevertheless, we are interested only in those applications that satisfy certain constraints, and the nature of these constraints is too varied to allow us to use this definition as the basis for a general theory.
3. “Honor, Art, Money, Property, Praise, Woman, and Child/One has, seeks, misses, hopes for, and disappears.” G. P. Harsdörffer (1607–58), a founder of the “Pegnitz Shepherds,” a Nuremberg society, wrote a Poetischer Trichter (Poetic Funnel) (1647–53) with which one could “pour” the art of poetry into anybody in six hours. See J. G. Robertson, Outlines of the History of German Literature (Edinburgh: Blackwood, 1950), 83. (WM)
4. Marc Saporta’s Composition No. 1 (Paris: Seuil, 1962) was published in 1962, not 1965. (WM)
5. The poem Berge has transformed is Ronsard’s “Quand vous serez bien vieille”:
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle, Assise auprès du feu, devidant et filant, Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous esmerveillant: Ronsard me celebroit du temps que j’estois belle.
Lors vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle, Desja sous le labeur à demy sommeillant, Qui, au bruit de Ronsard, ne s’aille réveillant, Benissant vostre nom de louange immortelle.
Je seray sous la terre, et, fantosme sans os, Par les ombres myrteux je prendray mon repos; Vous serez au fouyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour et vostre fier desdain. Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain; Cueillez dés aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.
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Humbert Wolfe, in Pierre de Ronsard, Sonnets for Helen (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1934), translates the poem as follows:
When you are old, at evening candle-lit beside the fire bending to your wool, read out my verse and murmur, “Ronsard writ this praise for me when I was beautiful.”
And not a maid but, at the sound of it, though nodding at the stitch on broidered stool, will start awake, and bless love’s benefit whose long fidelities bring Time to school.
I shall be thin and ghost beneath the earth by myrtle shade in quiet after pain, but you, a crone, will crouch beside the hearth
Mourning my love and all your proud disdain. And since what comes tomorrow who can say? Live, pluck the roses of the world to-day. (WM)
6. See the study Jean Ferry devoted to him in the journal Bizarre 34–35 (1964).
7. Work on the literary applications of the Latin bi-square was pursued by Georges Perec; in 1978 it resulted in his La Vie mode d’emploi. (WM)
Computer and Writer: The Centre Pompidou Experiment — Notes
1. A.R.T.A.: “Atelier de Recherches et Techniques Avancées,” or “Workshop of Advanced Studies and Techniques,” a group working at the Centre Pompidou. For a time, the Oulipo used A.R.T.A. equipment in their work on computer-aided literature. Personal letter from Paul Fournel to the editor, 5 December 1983. (WM)
2. Gallimard.
3. In the same spirit and using a very similar technique, Michel Bottin programmed the 1067 poems contained in the XLIst kiss of love of Quirinus Kuhlman.
4. This story is published in Oulipo, La Littérature potentielle, Gallimard’s “Idées” collection, 277. [It also appears in the present volume (WM).]
5. A prototype of this text may be found in Oulipo, La Littérature potentielle, Gallimard’s “Idées” collection, 281. [Appearing here as “The Theater Tree: A Combinatory Play.” (WM)]
6. See Calvino’s “Prose and Anticombinatorics.” (WM)
7. See Roubaud’s La Princesse Hoppy ou le conte du Labrador: Bibliothèque Oulipienne 2 (ch. 1); Bibliothèque Oulipienne 7 (ch. 2); Change 38 (1980), 11–29 (chs. 3, 4). (WM)
8. See Bénabou, Un Aphorisme peut en cacher un autre. (WM)
9. This paper was presented at the “Writer-Computer” meetings of June 1977.
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13. Two Selections by Marshall McLuhan The Medium is the Message (from Understanding Media), 1964 The Galaxy Reconfigured or the Plight of Mass Man in an Individualist Society (from The Gutenberg Galaxy), 1969
14. Four Selections by Experiments in Art and Technology The Garden Party (excerpts) Billy Klüver, 1961 From 9 Evenings E.A.T., 1966 [Press Release] E.A.T., 1966 The Pavilion Billy Klüver, 1972
15. Cybernated Art • Nam June Paik, 1966
16. A Research Center for Augmenting Human Intellect • Doug Engelbart and William English, 1968
17. From Software—Information Technology: Its New Meaning for Art Ted Nelson, Nicholas Negroponte, and Les Levine, 1970
18. Constituents of a Theory of the Media • Hans Magnus Enzensberger, 1970
19. Requiem for the Media • Jean Baudrillard, 1972
20. The Technology and the Society • Raymond Williams, 1974
21. From Computer Lib / Dream Machines • Ted Nelson, 1970–1974
22. From Theatre of the Oppressed • Augusto Boal, 1974
23. From Soft Architecture Machines • Nicholas Negroponte, 1975
24. From Comptuer Power and Human Reason • Joseph Weizenbaum, 1976
25. Responsive Environments • Myron Krueger, 1977
26. Personal Dynamic Media • Alan Kay and Adele Goldberg, 1977
27. From A Thousand Plateaus • Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, 1980
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