The Paris Review - Fall 2016

of kitsch), no dust; the thousands of books, VHS tapes, and CDs, the multiple
computers, monitors, keyboards, and other production technologies
all seem in their place. A sense of highly personal order prevails; Marker,
I feel, would have just the right texts and images and totems at hand, but
anyone else would be at a loss regarding how to navigate his systems. And
while Marker isn’t at home, from every corner something gazes at us: his cats
and owls, Kim Novak in a signed photograph (Vertigo was Marker’s favorite
film), the paused image of an actress on a monitor (in these images, Marker
will forever almost be right back), masks of various sorts, stuffed animals,
et cetera. Marker’s mind seems spatialized here, as though we were looking
into his memory palace, an elaborate, idiosyncratic mnemonic become a
memorial. But a joyous memorial: joyous first, because Marker’s signature
mix of seriousness and playfulness is palpable—we see a thousand grins
and winks—and second, because Marker, instead of becoming the fixed
object of elegy, has again given us the slip, allowing us an intimate glimpse,
but of privacy.
—Ben Lerner
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