I wish I'd read this five or ten years ago; unfortunately, a book about giving up television (and thus about television as a social phenomenon) doesn't really have the same instant impact now, when "the television" is basically defunct (or at least defunct for anyone likely to read Toussaint's novels). Reading this mostly made me realize how little TV I watch--half an hour over lunch, twenty minutes over dinner, and that's about it. But it's hard for me to say that I've thus escaped the negative effects of TV, because, well, I have a smart-phone.

The novel is perfectly fine--occasionally funny, if you're into that my uncle's monocle kind of thing; sometimes quite smart; far more attractive than either TV or smart-phone. But I'm just not capable of suspending disbelief to such an extreme that I can both imagine that TV has a hold over my life, and then imagine that my life might have changed if, having had a hold over my life, I broke that hold. Must be getting old. This probably deserves four stars. ( )

Sigh, I harbor such hopes. My focus is so soon to sparkle and then, bam, my attentions/intentions dip or are upheaved. There I go. August was quite good to me. I loved every line of Javier Marias. I knew the Premier League was upon me and I thought I would maintain this bliss with [b:Traveler of the Century|12510878|Traveler of the Century|Andrés Neuman|http://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1325310312s/12510878.jpg|6710647] and that didn't happen. Distractions piled. Football (soccer) was blooming and suddenly. I was lost. It didn't help that the heat normally associated with August finally arrived. Honestly I picked up Television because it had been resting behind me. It was of those ranks of tomes acquired but not yet shelved. They remain legion.

Television served as perfect mirror for my fortysomething floundering. Toussaint finds the painfully beautiful in the quotidian. This a poetics of the everyday. I loved it. I should give this five stars, what was I thinking? I'll likely correct that after I water our flowers. ( )

Humorous and philosophical contemporary (1997) French fiction from Les Editions de Minuit, a publishing house born out of the French Resistance during WWII and noted for its catalog of avant-garde and, more recently, postmodern novels. La Television tells the story of a French historian on sabbatical in Berlin, ostensibly to write a study on the artist Titian Vecellio. Late in the novel he realizes that Titian's initials are T.V., an amusing coincidence, since, while his pregnant wife and young son are away in Italy for the summer, he decides to stop watching television. The novel describes in detail his daily routine, which turns out to be one of complete procrastination or writer's block: his "work"-life consists in thinking about his subject while swimming at the local pool, staring for hours at paintings in the Dahlem museum, or sunbathing nude (the local custom) in the park. Tales of the protagonist's misbegotten and entirely negligent role as plant sitter for his upstairs neighbors, away on vacation like most Berliners during the months of July and August, and of a ride in a 3-passenger airplane piloted by a female student of his reading-obsessed friend John (a flight that takes off from a seedy airstrip formerly used by the Nazis and the Soviets), are particularly amusing. Throughout the novel, the central character's definition of "not watching television" slips and shifts as he wrestles with and examines this most pervasive of cultural wastelands and backgrounds, purveyor of what he ultimately classifies as "diverse parasitic information." Although I read La Television in French, it is available in translation as well. ( )

Je revois très bien le geste que j’ai accompli alors, un geste très simple, très souple, mille fois répété, mon bras qui s’allonge et qui appuie sur le bouton, l’image qui implose et disparaît de l’écran. C’était fini, je n’ai plus jamais regardé la télévision.

C’est lors d’un été passé à Berlin que le narrateur et personnage principal de ce roman a pris cette terrible et irrévocable décision — pour les plus jeunes, il devait probablement disposer d'un modèle de télévision à tube cathodique dépourvu de télécommande ce qui explique la nécessité d’allonger le bras et le phénomène d'implosion observé lors de l’arrêt de l'appareil. Elle occupait depuis quelques temps trop de place dans sa vie. Et du temps il en a besoin puisque cet été il est resté seul, sa famille partie en vacances, pour se consacrer à la rédaction d’un gros essai — il a déjà le tire, ce sera Le pinceau — consacré à Titien. Enfin à Titien ou Titien Vecellio ou Vecelli ou encore Le Titien comme le nommaient certains dont Alfred de Musset. Cette question du nom à employer peut vous sembler anecdotique pourtant elle ne l’est pas. Elle est même très irritante et il faut bien la trancher pour pouvoir s'atteler sereinement à la rédaction. Il ne s’agit pas de faire preuve de la même inconstance que Proust qui tantôt utilisait Titien tout court et tantôt [..] préférai[t] adjoindre un petit article défini devant son prénom et l’appeler le Titien, comme à la campagne — décidément on ne peut se fier à personne.

Ce livre est le récit de cette période de travail (un peu) et de flâneries (beaucoup) agrémenté de réflexions (un peu) et d’humour (beaucoup). L’humour est omniprésent et participe grandement à la légèreté de ce livre. Les séquences sur l’arrosage des plantes (nombreuses) de la famille Drescher m’ont fait éclater de rire à plusieurs reprises.

La touffe, également, paraissait bien pâlotte, toute éteinte et flapie, au regard de celle, fringante, épanouie, que j’avais connue quand Inge [Drescher] m’en avait fait les honneurs.

Je vois déjà les esprits mal tournés qui n’auront pas compris qu’il est question de l’une des plus belle pièce de la collection de plantes des Drescher — la préférée de Inge —, une très belle fougère qui est exposée dans leur chambre à coucher. S’ajoute à l’humour une bonne dose d’autodérision car le narrateur ressemble furieusement à l’auteur de La Salle de bain jusqu’à sa coupe de cheveux très très courte agrémentée d’un duvet de caneton.
Cette façon de ne pas se prendre au sérieux permet à l’auteur d’aborder humblement et de manière fort agréable certaines questions moins futiles comme celle de la place prépondérante de la télévision dans notre vie ou plus simplement celle de la production intellectuelle. Evidemment, le tout est écrit avec beaucoup de talent, c’est un véritable régal de lire ce petit bijou que je conseille vivement. http://www.aubonroman.com/2013/09/la-television-par-jean-philippe.html ( )

This is a short, comic novella about an author who can’t write and can’t maintain his vow to give up TV. The tone is serious as the narrator contemplates the meaning of television and gives deadpan descriptions of the ridiculous situations he creates – meeting the head of the agency funding him while in the nude, going to great lengths to get a fern out of a refrigerator. It’s also a book about nothing. The author spends a lot of time describing everyday events - swimming, going to the museum, walks and dinner out. I enjoyed the narrator’s analyses of television in general – but can’t agree with his assertion that TV can’t provoke any kind of emotional reaction. I also liked the bits where the narrator works himself up to work but only ends up writing two words – active procrastination. The book does on a bit, but nicely done – will read more by him. ( )