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| Translated by Agnieška Leščinska | |
Mykolas Sauka. Kambarys (The Room). Vilnius: Odilė, 2024, p. 272.
The DŠM Lineage. In the media, Mykolas Sauka is presented as a sculptor, his name presented alongside prominent figures of Lithuanian art and culture. His grandfather, Donatas Sauka, is a renowned writer, literary scholar, folklore researcher, and a long-time professor at Vilnius University. Mykolas’s father, Šarūnas Sauka, is one of the most prominent representatives of postmodern art in Lithuania. The three generations are known for their literary, artistic, and sculpture work. Mykolas has been working with sculpture since childhood, but after nearly a decade-long hiatus, he’s stepping back into the world of literature with his second book, an autofiction novel entitled Kambarys (“The Room”). His first book, a collection of short stories titled Grubiai (“Roughly”), was published in 2015. At his book launch event, he ironically remarked to the audience that a person becomes a writer after publishing their second book.
The Room’s DNA. Art critics note that the title of Sauka’s latest novel originates from his solo sculpture exhibition, The Children’s Room, which was first showcased at the Vilnius Academy of Arts in 2022. In 2024, a part of the exhibition was relocated to Paris at the Galerie Oliver Waltman. In interviews, Mykolas has revealed several thematic connections between his visual art and literature, how one room “gives birth” to another. One of those connections is immaturity because his sculptures depict children, and in the novel, adults behave like children. The other aspect that links his works is fear, ranging from anxiety about having children to the fear of missing important information. The third link is play because both his sculptures and the novel’s characters are the creator’s toys. In literature, the creator plays a bigger game. The metaphor of play should be analyzed thoroughly in order to understand how strong the novel is.
The Play Metaphor. When pondering over Sauka’s novel The Room, the reader might recall William Shakespeare’s Renaissance idea that the entire world plays its part: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” This quote describes both contemporary society and Sauka’s novel. A room is a space for a person to grow and develop. A child’s room is their first playground. Since the novel describes today’s infantile society, it’s possible that a crucial metaphor is encoded in the title. “The room” is a metaphor of a society that is eternally playing – it’s a concept the reader must grasp to avoid interpreting the novel as just another banal twenty-first-century story about finding love on Tinder. In the novel, Sauka raises such rhetorical questions as: “Where is that room? Where is that mythical room where the males come in and take over, or they don’t?” (p. 225). The novel also alludes to references to rooms in other cultures, for example, the movie The Room; Rainer Maria Rilke’s poem about a phallus and the sky of a room; and lectures for men on how to be “alpha” or “sigma” males and how to dominate a room. However, these allusions lead to a dead end because neither they nor the chapter in which they appear unlocks the essence of the novel. Sauka purposely plays a game: by creating intrigue, he creates an illusion that remains just that – an illusion. The reader should recall Immanuel Kant’s imperative theory and trust their own reasoning rather than blindly trusting the narrator. This is why I suggest one possible key for the reader – to view the room not only as dating space or an app, but as a new notion of society. Look at it from a sociological perspective – we all have our own room, and these days almost all of us have our own Tinder profile, yet we lack the theoretical framework to study this phenomenon. Sauka’s novel aims to expose the Tinder phenomenon and to shock the reader, who constantly uses the term “relationship” in their everyday life without reflecting on what it is. Is it that fascinating? Perhaps it’s just another form of addiction, but under a different, increasingly more appealing name? I’d like to bring your attention to the fact that Sauka’s exhibition and his novel are different only by one word – “children’s.” And yet, this word subtly affects the core of the novel. So, welcome to the grand children’s room!
The Sculptor’s Cell. “Autofiction is amoral but fair,” is a quote we find on the back of the book and one that Sauka frequently mentions in interviews. The novel’s protagonist inherits both Sauka’s profession as a sculptor as well as his experiences on Tinder. It’s important to note that the autobiographical element serves as a symbolic detail, and art itself stays behind the scenes, because we don’t see the creative process. This is unfortunate, yet at the same time, it adds mystery and hidden meanings to the room. After all, the theme of relationships is put on a pedestal. We can see “the room” as the young sculptor’s space, evoking the solitude of a cell in a way. The main character is a 31-year-old man, with an old-fashioned intellect. He’s a polyglot and an enthusiast of philosophical and classical literature. He engages in what he calls “creative research.” In the novel, he struggles to find topics to talk about because he’s interested in figures whom contemporary young people don’t really read. Those intellectual figures appear either subtly (such as Kafka’s character, referred to as “K”) or through the protagonist’s inner reflections, where he contemplates renowned writers (Rilke, Remarque, Flaubert) and philosophers (Rousseau, Husserl, Heidegger). The sculptor repeatedly references Goethe’s Faust because he aims to understand himself and the world, yearning to free himself from the threat of death. An atmosphere reminiscent of Freud’s concept of Thanatos lingers in the protagonist’s workshop because he sustains himself financially by sculpting tombstones for the deceased. The young man spends his days alone in his workspace and believes the illusion that Tinder will help him create a real bond and give him the Eros he craves.
The Orgasm Monologue. As I previously mentioned, miscommunication is a central theme in the novel. Even though the characters engage in conversation, it’s the woman’s monologue we hear often. One of the more authentic monologues is Amanda’s during the lovemaking scene with the protagonist. Her mind is filled with confusing thoughts: “The DMA has been detached from me. Detached. I saw a mirage on the ceiling. I saw an old cross. Orthodox. Wow. I don’t remember anything that just happened. I’m so sorry. What did I say? I have no idea where I am. You can’t fuck me like that. You fucked me like a twelve-year-old Kazakh girl.” (p. 256) Amanda’s speech is like an unfinished sculpture – rough, emotional, mysterious, metaphorical and yet imperfect. Sauka consciously aims for an unfinished effect both in the text and the wood that he works with in his artistic practice. Amanda brings out the illusion of dialogue the most. The woman keeps repeating that she wants to be alone with the “thing” and enjoy it. This works as an extreme form of loneliness, when during sex she both enjoys the other person and tries to distance herself from him as much as possible. Amanda avoids talking about herself even though she’s a writer. In her own novel, she calls Mykolas (the protagonist) “Filbert.” These are the only details about her that slip out. The rest are fantasies, illusions, and a stream of consciousness, while reality is thrown overboard. She uses Mykolas as both creative material and pleasure. Amanda comes, gets what she needs, and disappears. She, like all the other characters, is a consumer, and only she knows that and demonstrates it in a predatory way. Her delusional monologues are the most passionate, the most painful, and the most authentic passages in the book, and they convince and influence our imagination.
Naked Numbers. In my draft, I counted a total of 25 women who either chat with and/or meet the protagonist. All of them are relatively young, between the ages of 18 and 25. Studying their names is very interesting, though it’s difficult to remember them all as there are too many. From Amanda, Sandra, Meda, Rusnė, Frida, the “Director of Boobs,” Elfė, and Flower to the nameless women who like deep conversations but never reply. At first, I counted out of curiosity, wondering how many dates it takes to create a sense of constant change, like a carousel. First there is Amanda, who disappears in a flash because she is addressed as “You.” Later, it is no longer clear whether the relationships happen after the end of a previous one or whether they overlap. At times, there are no explanations, for example, they end abruptly, and new stories continue. Supposedly, there are three main women: Amanda, Frida, and Fausta. Sauka dedicates many pages to them, but none play a significant role. On the contrary, we should be aware that the aim is not to perpetuate the stories of these women, but to create a sense of chaos, meaninglessness and dependence on consumption. Neither the reader nor the protagonist himself keeps track of these Tinder relationships, nor would they even know how to. A constant dilemma arises: how do we evaluate these conversations and relationships? What counts, and what doesn’t? Technology has created new opportunities, but it has also stripped them of human connection. The novel shows Emmanuel Levinas’s concept of naked numbers, where they lead to a loss of identity and the destruction of humanity. One chapter of the novel even constructs a stereotypical image of a Tinder woman to illustrate the loss of individual identity and how the hell of Tinder works. The dates take place in supermarkets, where the time of year is measured by seasonal changes in consumer goods. The novel introduces a new language, with terms such as “making an appointment” and the use of altered names (Sandra renames herself “Sundrop”). We see seduction strategies being coded (SLUT, FORD), women highlighting their talents (Tamara draws with her boobs), and how the women reveal the rules of their world (Fausta shares the secrets of make-up and BB creams). Some of the women shave their heads to distance themselves from toxic relationships. According to Zygmunt Bauman, modern evil is invisible, people consume and, in turn, become commodities themselves. This consumer society, which Bauman so extensively analyzed, is artistically captured in this novel. The great “hell of pink” lures us in with a promise of love, but behind it lies the inevitable illusion of the consumption and loss of the other.
Death of the Muses. The quote “The love they sing about in songs ends in a marriage that becomes the butt of jokes” (p. 179) repeats throughout the novel like the chorus of a song, highlighting the paradox and absurdity of relationships. In the past, artists created myths about extraordinary women – muses who inspired them and brought them fame. While such women stand at the center of this novel, the legend of the muse inevitably collapses. The miracle of love doesn’t happen, even though Amanda comes back into Mykolas’s life and is described as his soulmate. Unfortunately, she comes back just to consume. A woman like this is no longer a muse. She holds the throne of the creator and refuses to share it. In an interview, Sauka talks about his interest in the theme of consumerism, stating, “I wasn’t interested in face-to-face communication, but rather [communication] through apps, chatting, using one another as products.” Though the novel initially appears to focus on relationships, communication, and connection, everything turns upside down. We realize that its central themes are loneliness, the fear of living and being yourself, and meaninglessness, because the infantile games played by adults don’t build the vision of the general room’s future but destroy it instead. The characters treat each other as playthings, and once they notice the smallest flaw, the cycle begins again. The wheel of happiness spins, and the stories of human consumption begin all over again.
