Narcissism
A portrait of narcissism is presented with imagery that, frankly, rings a bit of untrue. While a great many people had no real first-hand concept of what a narcissist is like for most of their lives, a national event changed that forever, offering the world a daily glimpse into this creature. The following imagery rings just a little hollow—certainly less than full and complete—in retrospect of what the world has learned:
“And think about the precise meaning of that term: a Narcissus is not proud. A proud man has disdain for other people, he undervalues them. The Narcissus overvalues them, because in every person’s eyes he sees his own image, and wants to embellish it. So he takes nice care of all his mirrors.”
Opening Paragraph
The book opens with an instance of imagery. The entire opening paragraph is constructed upon sensory details filtered through the perception of a character’s vision. What he focuses on and perceives becomes an entryway into his mind and that is a place the reader will find himself again and again:
“It was the month of June, the morning sun was emerging from the clouds, and Alain was walking slowly down a Paris street. He observed the young girls, who—every one of them—showed her naked navel between trousers belted very low and a T-shirt cut very short. He was captivated; captivated and even disturbed: It was as if their seductive power no longer resided in their thighs, their buttocks, or their breasts, but in that small round hole located in the center of the body.”
A Little Story About Stalin
Former Soviet Union dictator Josef Stalin keeps popping up in the narrative via the good old story-within-a-story literary device. The stories about Stalin are intended to be comical and a good portion of the humor relies upon the absurdity of imagery:
“One day he [Stalin] decides to go hunting. He puts on an old parka, clamps on skis, he takes a long shotgun and treks out thirteen kilometers. Then he sees before him a flock of partridges perched on a tree. He stops and he counts them. There are twenty-four of them. But what rotten luck—he’s only brought along twelve shells! He fires, kills twelve birds, then turns around and treks the thirteen kilometers back to his house and picks up another dozen shells. Again he skis out the thirteen kilometers and reaches the partridges, who are still sitting on the same tree. And he finally kills them all…”
Wine People, Right?
It is surely fitting that the application of insignificance taking on the appearance of a festival is applied to the ritualistic practice of wine-tasting. If there is one single ritual to which the title of most insignificant should be applied, it is the utter silliness of people acting as though tasting wine is a serious thing, right?
“the gentlemen picked up their glasses, warmed them for a long moment between their palms, took a sip and held it in their mouths, displayed to one another their faces, expressing first intense concentration, then amazed admiration, and finished by loud proclamations of delight. The whole thing lasted barely a minute, until this festival of tasting was harshly interrupted by their conversation, and Ramon, watching them, had the sense that he was attending a funeral where three gravediggers were burying the sublime taste of the wine by tossing onto its coffin the earth and the dust of their chatter”
