Levé has a unique way of inviting his readers into his melancholy; reading this, I was reminded of Suicide and what I can only term—and this is a project on which I'm currently working as well—Levé's performance of melancholy. While many people feel that depression, melancholy, and despair are highly individualized emotional states that the majority do not speak about, Levé channels some of the confessional school in his work (both photographic and literary) but suggests that he needs an interlocutor in order to fully feel his way through the anguish.

Which is not to say that Autoportrait is a depressing read; like Suicide, it is full of a macabre humor and a very dry wit. I think it was wise on the part of Lorin Stein to render the title in the original French rather than as "self-portrait": the quick, declarative sentences here are almost machine-like in their monotony at first. It is almost as if Levé is confessing mechanically and automatically rather than organically, but as the confessions continue we see some repetitions (we even see a few places where Levé contradicts himself while still insisting on speaking only the truth) and we acclimate ourselves to Levé's confession.

We get to know him inside and out through this short 120-page book, in fragments and at random. One comes away from Autoportrait feeling as though one has learned all there is to know about this man's life, his thoughts, his views on art and his work, his obsessive meanderings about his body, his childhood memories, his sex live, his hatred for the color green in interior design, and a host of other desires, worries, joys, and regrets that make Levé who he is. It also makes one wonder, as a reader, what this strange yet intimate relationship is between Levé and his reader, what is this insistent need for company in the midst of chaos. ( )

"Autoportrait" is a series of factual statements which, over the course of 117 pages, build to a portrait of the author which goes far beyond the superficial without ever crossing into subjectivity. It could be seen as a really strange way of writing an orderless autobiography that borders on abstraction though it is made entirely out of facts. We get the feeling that we know Léve better, perhaps, than those closest to him, as if he used this idea as a way to pour himself onto paper either for a great catharsis or so that he himself can exist without having to do so in a physical body. He did state that he finds that he reveals more about himself to stranger in the course of 2 hours than he ever has to his friends. Anyways, it's a strange little book, delving many times into controversial subject matter without the batting of an eye or sentimentality of any sort. Having said all that, the book leaves me somewhat indifferent. It's an interesting experience, but one that hasn't affected me much in any way apart from perhaps the exposure to the peculiar ideas that Léve tends to have. It's not mediocre by any means, but it isn't of greatness either. It could be a terrible book when all is said and done, but that just makes it all the more interesting, which is the best way to describe this work. ( )

this book is just "no homo, but in french" written six thousand times over and over. i'm nauseous. ( )

Initially, I suspected I would grow tired of this book's form: each page a wall of simple, declarative sentences wherein the author offers a little anecdote about himself, without any real pattern or structure. But, thankfully, this proved to be quite a treat! The book reads nicely, and I feel confident in Lorin Stein's (editor of The Paris Review) translations from the French. Most striking, though, are the similarities between the author and myself. Never has anther person's life so closely mirrored my own. After about 15 pages, I grabbed a highlighter and restarted the book. There are probably an average of 3-4 highlighted sentences per page. Were I to extract these sentences and compile them I would have a concise little autobiography of my own! ( )

Hey, I'm a huuuge fan of Suicide (the book, by Leve), and I loved the Paris Review excerpts from Autoportrait, but, I must be fair and honest, and say that a lot of this book was...you know - plain. Or dull, I suppose. There are moments of great clarity and insight and...things that really made me reflect and notice myself in a new (or fresh) way. But, ultimately, a lot of this book was boring or tedious. The Paris Review 'summary' (essentially), is actually better, because it distills the best parts from this.
Check out Suicide by Leve if you haven't already. Especially if you or someone you know has experienced it first-hand. ( )