created 2025-04-04, & modified, =this.modified
tags:y2025psychogeography
rel: Trapped Projects An Attempt At Exhausting a Place In Paris by Georges Perec
Why I’m reading
Mentioned in Psychogeography by Merlin Coverley and seems to be an early Trapped Projects
In the spring of 1790, Xavier de Maistre, confined to his room under house arrest, embarked upon a voyage around his bedroom, a trip every bit as arduous as that of Magellan and Cook but one that took place almost entirely within the boundaries of his own imagination. The result was A Journey Around My Room and it was followed by the equally adventurous A Nocturnal Investigation Around My Room.
The book received renewed interest when we were all locked-down from COVID.
How to gauge the difficulty of a journey in-place? A VR journey has the feel of remaining in place. Many people are confined to exploration of their own rooms, and homes by choice.
De Maistre thought it little more than a means of filling time but his brother, the philosopher Joseph de Maistre, read the work and insisted that it reach a wider audience and it was published in 1794.
In preface the translator states: I have felt at every paragraph how true it is that ‘le style se traduit pas’ – style is untranslatable.
I have undertaken and performed a forty-two days’ journey round my room.
Among the immense family of men, who throng the earth, there is not one, no, not one (I meant of those who inhabit rooms) who, after reading this book can refuse his approbation of the new mode of traveling I introduce into the world.
This trip costs him nothing.
Imagination, we will follow her withersoever it may be her good pleasure to lead us.
He marks the latitude and dimensions of his room (a parallelogram of thirty-six steps round), but his journey is much longer because he’ll traverse “my room up and down, without room or plan. I shall even zig-zag about, following, if needs be, every possible geometrical line.”
I am no admirer of people who are such masters of their every step and every idea that they can say: “To-morrow I shall make three calls, write four letters and finish this or that work.” So open is my soul to all sorts of ideas, tastes and feelings; so greedily does it absorb whatever comes first, that… why should it deny itself the delights that are scattered along life’s hard path?
How pleasant, again, to forget books and pens in order to stir the fire, while giving one’s self up to some agreeable meditation, or stringing together a few rhymes for the amusement of friends, as the hours glide by and fall into eternity, without making their sad passage felt.
The Bed
It is very pleasantly situated, and the earliest rays of the sun play upon my curtains. On fine summer days I see them come creeping, as the sun rises, all along the whitened wall. The elm-trees opposite my window divide them into a thousand patterns as they dance upon my bed and reflecting its rose-and-white color, shed a charming tint around.
A bed sees us born, and sees us die. It is a cradle decked with flowers. A throne of love. A sepulcher.
He is composed of soul and animal (other).
Rose and White:
There can be no doubt that colors far affects as make us cheerful or sad according to their hues. Now, rose and white are two colors that are consecrated to pleasure. Nature in bestowing them upon the rose has given her the crown of Flora’s realm. And when the sky would announce to the world a fine day, it paints the clouds at sunrise with this charming tint.
A portrait of a beautiful woman hangs on his wall, being cleaned by him and his servant, who claims “I wish sir, that you would explain how it is that in whatever part of the room one may be, this portrait always watches you.”
“Do you not see that as a picture is a plane surface, the rays of light proceeding from each point on that surface…”
On his companion, dog Rose:
Poor Rose, who has made me no promises, renders me the greatest service that can be bestowed upon humanity, for she has always loved her master and loves him still. And this is why I do not hesitate to say that she shares with my other friends the affection I feel towards them.
On Friends:
What sensitive man is there who has not such a one near him, who receives the overflowings of his soul, the gentle emotions of his heart, and the flights of his imagination just as the rock receives the waves of the sea } Happy is he who finds a friend whose heart and mind harmonize with his own ; a friend who adheres to him by likeness of tastes, feeling, and knowledge ; a friend who is not the prey of ambition or greediness, who prefers the shade of a tree to the pomp of a court ! Happy is he who has a friend !
He’s examining pictures in a gallery.
Thought
The clear analog here is to browsing social media, various snapshots of the world outside.
A mirror, being always impartial and true, brings before the eyes of the beholder the roses of youth and the wrinkles of age, without calumny and without flattery. It alone among the councilors of the great, invariably tells them the truth.
When I have had enough of tears and love, I turn to some poet, and set out again for a new world
Whilst I regret my imaginary joys, I feel myself consoled. I am borne along by an unseen power which tells me I need the pure air, and the light of heaven, and that solitude is like death.