QUENEAU'S 1973 SUBSTITUTIONS
et theory
On the S bus, let us consider the set A of seated passengers and the set U of upright passengers. At a particular stop is located the set P of people that are waiting. Let C be the set of passengers that get on; this is a subset of P and is itself the union of the set C' of passengers that remain on the platform and of the set C" of those who go and sit down. Demonstrate that the set C" is empty.
H being the set of cool cats and {h} the intersection of H and of C', reduced to a single element. Following the surjection of the feet of h onto those of y (any element of C' that differs from h), the yield is the set W of words pronounced by the element h. Set C" having become non-empty, demonstrate that it is composed of the single element h.
Now let P' equal the set of pedestrians to be found in front of the gare Saint-Lazare, {h, h'} the intersection of H and of P', B being the set of buttons on the overcoat belonging to h, B' the set of possible locations of said buttons according to h', demonstrate that the injection of B into B' is not a bijection.
efinitional
In a large self-propelled urban public transportation vehicle designated by the nineteenth letter of the alphabet, a young excentric with a nickname given to him in Paris in 1942, having that part of the body that connects the head to the shoulders stretched out over a certain distance and wearing on the upper extremity of his body a piece of headgear of variable shape with a thick intertwined ribbon forming a plait around it—this young excentric, imputing to an individual who was going from one place to another a misdemeanour consisting of displacing his feet one after the other onto his own, set off to place himself on a piece of furniture placed in such a way that it could be sat upon, said piece of furniture recently having become unoccupied.
One hundred and twenty minutes later, I saw him once again in front of the grouping of buildings and of railroad tracks where the unloading of merchandise and the loading or unloading of passengers takes place. Another young excentric with a nickname given to him in Paris in 1942 was furnishing him with advice on what it is appropriate to do with a round of metal, of horn, of wood, etc., covered with fabric or not, used to fasten clothing, on this occasion a garment for men that one wears over top of the others.
anka
The S bus arrives
A behatted dude gets in
There follows a clash
Later outside Saint-Lazare
There is talk of a button
Lescurian translation
In the Y, in the Russian housing. A chapelry about thirty-two yeomen old, felt hauberk with a corduroy instead of a rictus, nectarine too long, as if someone had been pulling on it. Peradventures getting off. The chapelry in quickness gets annoyed with one of his neologisms. He accuses him of jostling him every time anyone goes past. A snivelling tonight which is meant to be aggressive. When he sees a vacant seclusion he throws himself onto it.
Two housings later, I meet him in the Couture de Röntgen, in front of the Saint-Leaderette statuary. He is with a frill who says to him: “You ought to get an extra byblow put on your overdraft.” He shows him where (at the larcenies) and why.
ipogram
Okay.
At this stop, our bus did stop. Climbing on is a hip young chap with a collar that was too long, who had on his noggin a cap with a limp ribbon. This young man attacks both first foot and adjoining foot of an individual of which bottoms, corns, and calli quickly turn to pulp; and post hoc, jumps for a stall and sits on a foldaway chair that nobody was occupying.
At a postliminiar position of his watch’s big hand, across from Saint-Thingy or Saint-You-Know Station, a companion was informing him: “That button on your topcoat is in too high a location.”
That is all.
eometrical
Within a rectangular parallelepiped moving along the length of a straight line of equation 84x + S = y, a homoid A having a spherical cap surrounded by two sinusoids, above a cylindrical section with a length of l > n, presents a point of osculation with a trivial homoid B. Demonstrate that this point of osculation is a cusp.
If homoid A comes into contact with homologous homoid C, then the point of osculation is a disk of radius r
EXERCISES PUBLISHED OUTSIDE
OF EXERCICES DE STYLE
oq-tale
Ever since the bistros got closed down, we just have to make do with what we have. That’s why, the other day, I took a pub bus, at cocktail hour, on the N.R.F. line. No point in telling you that I had a terribly hard time getting in. I even had a permit, but IT WASN’T ENOUGH. It was also necessary to have an INVITATION. An invitation. They are doing pretty well, the R.A.T.P. But I managed. I yelled, “Coming through! I’m an Éditions Julliard author,” and there I was inside the pub bus. I headed straight for the buffet, but there was no way to get near it. In front of me, a young man with a long neck who hadn’t removed the Tyrolean hat with a plait around it that he wore—a lout, a boor, a caveman, obviously—seemed set on gobbling down every last crumb that was before him. But I was thirsty. So I whispered in his ear, “You know, back on the platform, Gaston Gallimard is signing contracts.” And off he ran, the sucker.
An hour later, I see him in front of the gare Saint-Bottin, in the midst of devouring the buttons of his overcoat, which he had swapped for some macarons.
(first published in Arts, November 1954)
cience fiction
On a flying saucer found on Cassiopeia’s Alpha Line (via Betelgeuse and Aldebaran), I noticed, among my travelling companions, a young Martian whose too-long neck and plaited head prodigiously irritated me. That is how Martians are built—sure. But, I don’t know why, this one really grated on my system—my solar system, naturally. (That’s a little cosmic joke.) We were really packed in there, on that saucer, which is easily understandable: if it had only been a plate (another cosmic joke…). And suddenly my young Martian starts marsing, pardon me, marching on the extrapods of a Moon Man. The poor Moon Man hardly had time to collect himself than the other—the Martian—had gone and comfortably sat down in the middle of the saucer… in the teacup…
A light-year later, I see him again—the Martian—doing some astro-helicoptering over near Sirius. He was in the company of one of his own species, who was telling him:
“Your vrxtz… you should have it moved higher up, your vrxtz.”
(first published in Arts, November 1954)
othing
In the S + 7, in the russet houseboat. A chape about twenty-six yellows old, felt hatching with a cordoba instead of a riblet, necromancer too long as if someone had been pulling on it. Peppercorns getting off. The chape in queue gets annoyed with one of his nematologies. He accuses him of jostling him every time anyone goes past. A sniveling tonga which is meant to be aggressive. When he sees a vacant sea urchin he throws himself onto it.
Two houseboats later, I meet him in the Courtliness de Roraima, in front of the Saint-Lazzarone stationery. He is with a frigate bird who says to him: “You ought to get an extra button snakeroot put on your overemphasis.” He shows him where (at the lappets) and why.
(first published in Exercices de littérature potentielle, Dossier 17, Collège de ‘Pataphysique, 1961)
il
In the S bus, in the scale industry. A circle about 26 acts old, felt high with a crack instead of a roll, noise too long, as if someone had been pu
lling on it. Planes getting off. The circle in reaction gets annoyed with one of his noses. He accuses him of jostling him every time anyone goes past. A snivelling train which is meant to be aggressive. When he sees a vacant sense he throws himself onto it.
Two industries later, I meet him in the Current de Rome, in front of the Saint-Lazare Stomach. He is with a glass who says to him: “You ought to get an extra cat put on your parcel.” He shows him where (at the legs) and why.
(first published in Exercices de littérature potentielle, Dossier 17, Collège de ‘Pataphysique, 1961)
UNPUBLISHED EXERCISES
“On the bus …”
On the bus. On the platform. We were tightly packed in. Roughly half past noon. A young man with glasses. A hat with a cord instead of a ribbon. A skinny chicken neck. At a stop, he protests against the man who is behind him: Sir, you are pushing me every time people get off. Then he throws himself onto a vacant seat.
Two hours later, I meet him in the Place S[aint] Lazare (Cour de Rome). He is with a friend who is advising him to have a button added to his overcoat.
“I get on …”
I get on.
It must be about one o’clock. I’m taking the S to go have lunch at M…’s; quite a crowd; I’ve ended up on the platform with some other people, and we’re packed in. Beside me, a ladies’ man decked out in a ridiculous felt hat—I immediately take him for a dumbass. At the next stop some people get off. The fellow protests: “You’re pushing me on purpose every time people go by.” Whiny yet arrogant! He is addressing a dignified man that doesn’t deign (to reply). As he sees a vacant seat inside, he grabs it.
I get off and think nothing more of it. I have lunch.
Two hours later, in front of the gare Saint-Lazare, I come across him—by chance. He is with a friend who is giving him sartorial advice. His overcoat is cut too low; he ought to have another buttonhole added (and a button) so it closes a bit more.
I leave them.
“On a beautiful …”
On a beautiful, warm and glorious spring morning a large, heavy and noisy T.C.R.P. vehicle was transporting, among other things, numerous passengers, packed in, and a man, still young, wearing glasses and hat, this hat, incidentally, being noteworthy due to the fact that no ribbon ran around it, but a sort of plaited string of the same colour as the felt, probably dyed. This young man called out his neighbour, all of a sudden, accusing him of hypocritically jostling him every time passengers got on or off. His voice was full of fury, snivelling, whining.
’accuse
Gentlemen, what will I not accuse? I will accuse the S bus, swollen up like a balloon and crowded like a rabbit warren. I accuse the noon hour and the form of the platform. I accuse the youth of that young man and the length of his neck, and further still the nature of the ribbon that is not a ribbon that he wore around his hat. I accuse the jostling and the remonstrance, the whining, and the vacant seat to which that young man scurried, his protestation complete.
“On a warm …”
On a warm spring morning—morning, that’s a figure of speech, my man! Because it was surely noon. Tic toc, tic toc… What’s that I hear? That’s right, noon. What a crowd, God in Heaven! The bus, that modern monster not so unlike the Titans of mythology, hugged the kerb and came to a stop. We got on. We were tightly packed in.
pistolary
Dearest Totor,
Today my hand goes to the quill instead of to the plough, a way of telling you that I am writing you a letter that will share with you my most recent and joyous news. Can you imagine it, I went to see Aunt Hortense, and seeing as she lives over that way, I took the S bus that goes over that way. I remained on the platform so I could see the rather beautiful scenery parade past my eyes, round with wonder. But I’m not finished my story. And so I beg you not to throw my letter straight into the wastepaper basket and to listen to the rest. Well, actually, listen is just a figure of speech, or a figure of writing, seeing as it is a matter of reading.
Now where was I with my journey? Ah yes. I take up the thread of my tale in telling you (writing to you) that the bus came to a stop at a stop (that’s the rule) and a bizarre character hurriedly got on, one whom the word on the street had told me (orally) was a cool cat, that’s to say that he had a hat on his head with a plaited string around it, and what’s more, a long neck, and a look about him, oh my what a look! So as to not drag things out too long, I’ll tell you right now that this cool cat (because this was definitely a cool cat), treading upon the feet of one of my fellow standing passengers, went rushing off to sit down on a seat that had opened up.
That sickened me.
Now, on my way back from seeing Aunt Hortense (who is as fit as a fiddle, by the way), the bus that I rode passed before the gare Saint-Lazare, allowing me to see with my own dumbfounded eyes the very same cool cat in the company of another lad of his sort, who was giving him advice on the placement of one of the buttons of his overcoat. That is all I have to tell you for the moment. I hope you have enjoyed hearing from me, and, as you can see, there are certainly things to see in such a big city as Paris. In hopes of seeing you in the not-too-distant future, I remain faithfully yours, my dearest Totor.
Metaphors & binocular vision
At the center of and in the heart of the day and light, thrown and [blank] into the heap and [blank] of wandering and traveling fish and sardines of a beetle and insect with a large and round back and a white shell and a [blank] shiny and [blank] and [blank] a chicken and cockerel with a great and long neck, featherless and skinny, chewed out and spewed forth suddenly and all of a sudden [blank] and his language and speech was unleeched [sic] and let loose into the air and space, humid and wet from the remonstrance and rebuff. Then, drawn and attracted to a spot and a seat that was empty and free, the chicken and cockerel rushed and ran over to it.
In a dreary and drab Parisian and urban desert and Sahara I saw again and came across the same day and afternoon, being made to blow his nose clear of and expectorate the arrogance and pretentious vanity by an ordinary-looking and specified button [end of ms.]
“Towards noon …”
Towards noon I took the S bus, at that crowded time of day. I remained on the rear platform and noticed a young man afflicted by a long neck and a hat with a braid around it instead of a ribbon. Suddenly a passenger began complaining that this lad was intentionally jostling him each time that passengers got on or off. The young man replied bitterly and promptly threw himself onto a vacant seat.
Two hours later I noticed him in the Rue de Rome, he was walking up and down with a friend who was giving him sartorial advice. “That button ought to be moved,” this friend was telling him, showing him the button on his overcoat.
“There were oodles …”
There were oodles of people waiting for the bus. It was horrid! Dreadful! Odious! And I, who would so like to have my own little Cadillac with my own little chauffeur… At last… There’s the 84 pulling up… I want to get on… They squeeze against me… All of these men… I hesitate, I’m sure you must understand… But all the same… So there I am on the platform, and what do I see? A dashing young man, with the neck of a swan and a cute little hat with a plaited cord around it… The poor dear… Some big meanies are stepping on his feet. He got angry, he was a sensitive lad. A big brute said some nasty things to him. So he went and sat down. No point fighting when you’re beautiful.
Two hours later, I’m going past the gare Saint-Lazare, and who do I see? My dashing young man, showing his
waisted raglan to another dashing young man in order to ask him his opinion on the lapels. A little too revealing. To console him, the other dashing young man was patting him on the back.
“A shoal of sardines …”
A shoal of sardines was making its way across the Atlantic. One of these creatures was attempting—through a mechanism well known in psychology—to compensate for a deficiency caused by a disfiguration of the fins by means of an arrogance that was almost frightening—grumbling all the while about his companions who were pressing up too close to him. Finally, catching sight of a gap in the shoal, he threaded his way through and found himself in open waters.
A little while later a young sardine had taken up swimming in his company; he was giving him advice on how to take care of his scales.
“It was hotter …”
It was hotter than an over in there. On the rear platform of a bus (similar to a terrace), where we were packed in like sardines, a young man wore a hat that suited him like suspenders would a chicken; of a certain breed of chicken himself, although he had a long neck and was featherless. He thought himself intentionally jostled by a neighbour like a sack of dirty laundry and caterwauled like a cat whose fur has been stroked the wrong way. Seeing a vacant seat, he threw himself onto it like misery onto the world.