Since the publication of his 1997 French bestseller, The First Sip of Beer and Other Pleasures, a significant portion of author Philippe Delerm’s non-journalistic output has focused on brief prose jags, typically under 500 words in length, which may be categorized as something between diary entry and op-ed, poem and discursive ramble. In these excursions, body language speaks louder than any voice might, inanimate objects control humanity, and the acknowledgement of life’s fragility presents the mind with a cornucopia of possible futures. Delerm packs big ideas into small packages, and as the subtitle to Second Star, a playful new compilation of Delerm’s musings notes, these writings also are intended to act as “reasons for lingering.” To some, such a declaration may suggest the clichéd chestnut “stop and smell the roses,” or worse, new age claptrap bent on injecting piousness into the mundane. Yet while Delerm is interested in slowing the reader down to savor minutiae and to question some of life’s accepted nuisances, holiness is averted. In its place are intelligent observations and terse judgments laden with wit, and though not every missive hits its target, there are enough charmers over the collection’s 60 entries to satisfy even the most cynical of readers.
Much of Delerm’s success springs from his use of the second-person point of view. Nearly every piece in Second Star opts to employ “you” as its primary pronoun, and though several snapshots ruminate on more universal subjects — the annoyance of vaping, say, or the feeling of running one’s hand over a book — many of the situations Delerm describes drill into a world that is individual and specific. This blending of general and personal forms a bond between audience and author. “Passing Smiles,” for example, presents the “you” as a voyeur eyeing a person “focused on her mobile phone,” an act that most people bored on public transit will recognize. Similarly, “Shower” places the “you” in a rainstorm, huddled under a building’s overhang with other trapped pedestrians, waiting for the clouds to break. In both, environments are familiar and relatively anonymous, and they permit one to fill in the blanks with his, her, or their own neighborhoods and memories.
Comparatively, in “His Lips Barely Move,” Delerm describes riding on a bus with his (or “your”) seven-year old grandson, zeroing in on the “imperceptible movement” of the boy’s lips as he reads a book:
“You don’t disturb him with questions like ‘Do you like it? Is it good?’ You know that sleepwalkers must not be taken by surprise. Nor do you want to bring him back to reality, the presence of a grandfather with his grandson on a crowded bus in the late afternoon.”
Here, Delerm makes no effort to mask the “you” as anything but his own lived experience. We see this again in “I Really Like This Place!,” as Delerm’s “you” takes his grandchildren on the metro to a nearby book room; in “A Hip Move and Memory,” concerning the reflex movements Delerm’s “you” makes when anticipating the entrance of a pet cat who recently died; and in “The Third Balcony,” where the “you” lucks into nosebleed seats for a stage performance of Exit the King starring Michel Bouquet. In these dispatches, the “you” reads as an implied “I,” as in Delerm himself. Unlike in “Passing Smiles” or “Shower,” the reader cannot drop directly into the scene. The reader cannot fill in empty details with their own familiarities. Instead, these intimate works welcome the audience into Delerm’s musings not as protagonists but co-pilots, slipping into the author’s skin and speaking the “you” back to Delerm, guiding the author through his own reflections. The mixing of both implied “you”s throughout the collection is important, for it results in a melding of personae. The reader can see themself in the book, and they can also see Delerm in the text.
This relationship between reader and author is further enhanced by Delerm’s use of recurring scenarios — like traveling with grandchildren — which build patterns in the collection and create something akin to a circular conversation. Like so many chats with friends and colleagues, the same topics come up time and again, and each reappearance produces a comfort of understanding. In addition, these callbacks allow Delerm to tinker with variation: swapping objects, zigging rather than zagging, to see where these new vectors lead. More than once, Delerm’s “you” visits the theater, and every excursion results in a different tiny moment of bliss. Sometimes, the ecstasy comes from the performance on stage, but in “Alone!,” the “you” finds happiness by jumping ship mid-concert, proclaiming when bursting into the night, “It’s marvelous. You’ve never felt this free, this light. What a joy not to have to share in such predictable zeal!” Meanwhile, in “Holding a Glass of Wine,” “The Troubled Waters of the Mojito,” and “Gazing at Your Whisky,” the “you” contemplates life via nursing a beverage. The stem of a wine glass provokes a riff on the power of deferment:
“Every waking moment, in the very depths of each sleepless night, you’ve felt swallowed by time. And here you are in command, simply because the wine is there for the taking, and you haven’t downed it, you won’t let yourself taste or even smell it.”
At the other end of the bar, the wide base of a whisky tumbler inspires a deliberation on hardships hiding in plain sight:
“To gaze at your whisky is to be amazed that the tonality of sunlit autumn can harbor so many menacing shadows, that such perfect serenity can engulf so many unleashed winds. You really feel it.”
“The Lie of the Watermelon,” “A Clementine, One-Handed,” “Wringing Red Currants,” and “Munching a Turnip” add food to the mix. “Rolling Up Your Sleeves,” “Crossing Your Hands Behind Your Back,” and “Palming It” consider the ways one’s hands and arms, and how they are clothed, project personality. Over and over, Delerm returns to previously investigated situations, tweaks elements, and lets the scenes play anew. In doing so, he demonstrates for the reader the countless ways pleasure can be derived from the commonplace.
Of course, as is often the case with collections containing a large number of entries, not everything works in Second Star. Delerm keeps his essays concise, but some of his descriptions telegraph as too precious. Noting the difference in proportion between a thumb and a forefinger, for instance, he decides that the digits seem, “almost antagonistic, one a burley worker, the other threatening or reflexive.” In another dispatch, a shopping cart is “a vaguely obscene outgrowth.” Really? Still, the beauty of an assemblage like Second Star is that, thanks to the brevity of the work, even the duds are easy to forgive. Delerm’s literary snapshots nestle well into the long history of authors penning atmospheric flash and micro essays. Think of writers like Robert Walser, who also committed himself to the study of minor details, or the prose of Delerm’s fellow countryman, Stéphane Mallarmé. When reading Second Star, one never has the urge to flip ahead, and much praise should find its way to translator Jody Gladding, who tackles Delerm’s scenarios and references with aplomb. This is the perfect book to keep handy after a rough day. In Delerm’s words, paying respect to the small stuff may not be holy, but appreciating it can certainly take on a devotion close to religion.
[Published by Archipelago Books on May 16, 2023, 164 pages, $18.00 paperback]