Photo by Karl Bissinger, Morocco, 1949
I have a special fondness for the stories of wayward—particularly British—ex-pats getting into trouble in foreign places that they fail to completely understand. Often these protagonists (sometimes the authors themselves) are heavy drinkers, stumbling through essentially existential narratives. Graham Greene would be the quintessential example of these kind of writers, but also Anthony Burgess—particularly when he writes about his own life—and, of course, the ultimate cautionary tale: Malcolm Lowry.
One of my favourite writers, Paul Bowles, would seem to fit this mold, but the more of his work you read, the more you realize that he comes from very different tradition.
At the last Ottawa Antiquarian Book Fair, I picked up this lovely Black Sparrow Press limited edition of Bowles’ poetry from Benjamin Books:
Bowles’ poetry is quite good and ties him a little closer to The Beat writers, with whom he is often associated—like the odd man in a police lineup. Bowles’ poetry reveals his surrealist influences, but is still more formal than the beat writers that he hung out with in Tangiers. And his prose is a thing apart entirely.
Paul Bowles had no interest in the so-called American Experience, which often informed the beats. From an interview in the Paris Review, on the U.S. and his need to travel: “Boring. There was nothing I wanted there, and once I’d moved away I saw that all I needed from the States was money. I went back there for that. I’ve never yet gone there without the definite guarantee of making money. Just going for the pleasure of it, I’ve never done…Even as a small child I was always eager to get away. I remember when I was six years old, I was sent off to spend two weeks with someone—I don’t know who it was or why I was sent—and I begged to stay longer.”
In fact, Bowles is different from the ex-pat British writers I mention above, in that he seemed to have a more in-depth, inside-out, understanding of the cultures he wrote about. His later work as a translator and collaborator with Muslim storytellers in Tangies helps to underscore that apparent sympathy with his environments. It’s clear that Bowles had a lot more understanding of the “exotic” places he wrote about than many of the characters in his fiction.
I have long admired Bowles’ most famous novel, The Sheltering Sky, but I recently picked up the Library of America’s Collected Stories volume and I’m stunned by the quality of his short fiction. It’s in Paul Bowles’ short stories that his true gifts become apparent. His stories are razor-sharp depictions of existential dread and unavoidable violence.
The key to unpacking Bowles’ writing is contained in the introductory material to the Library of America volume. Bowles’ single greatest influence in terms of literature was Poe. As a child, Bowles’ mother would read him the terrifying tales of E.A. Poe at his beside. He would later even attend the University of Virgina knowing Poe had gone there. Paul Bowles’ short stories are best understood as part of the Gothic tradition—existential horror stories minus an obviously supernatural aspect.
The best of his work, like the chilling The Delicate Prey, lack Poe’s overt romanticism but retain the laser-like focus of Poe’s approach to achieving a singular affect. “The Delicate Prey” is a tragic tale of misplaced trust in your fellow man, extreme violence and degradation, and cold-bloodied revenge. The story concerns Saharan tribesmen and feels like it could have been written by them—like a Filala version of a Poe revenge tragedy— absolutely haunting, but seemingly without a wasted word.
2010 marked the Centennial of Paul Bowles’ birth, and events took place all over the world in rememberance. But I fear that Bowles is becoming unfashionable and forgotten. I don’t really know anyone of my generation who has read any of his work. I hope his legacy sustains, and I will continue to do my small part to spread the word.
