The Magazine

The Fake’s Progress

Reconstructing the deconstructionist’s inventions.

Jul 14, 2014, Vol. 19, No. 41 • By MATTHEW WALTHER
Widget tooltip
Audio version Single Page Print Larger Text Smaller Text Alerts

Family life was a cold, secretive affair. The suicide of an aunt who had hanged herself after being told by a maid that her clothes were dirty had to be hushed up, as did the early death of an institutionalized uncle who probably had Down syndrome. De Man’s father’s best efforts could not stifle village gossip about his elder son, Rik, who raped several women, including a 12-year-old cousin, and was later run over by a train while riding his bicycle.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the antiseptic strangeness at home, de Man excelled at school, especially in mathematics. By age 18 he seemed poised to follow a maternal uncle into the architect’s profession. Like one of our own perpetual students, de Man changed his mind a lot during his stint at the Free University of Brussels: Engineering was a wash; chemistry a nonstarter; social sciences a bore. He left without a degree, and with the help of Uncle Henri, whose far-right politics served him well during the Nazi occupation of Belgium, de Man pursued a literary career. As a publisher’s assistant he failed spectacularly, misplacing manuscripts and losing money. He was much more successful writing Nazi propaganda. According to Barish, “De Man’s anti-Semitic expressions were more suave than the others’, but they had the special strength of giving an upper-class imprimatur to their crudity.” Unlike the work of some of his lowbrow contemporaries, “De Man’s remarks, more nuanced, signaled that there was a respectable way to be anti-Semitic.” 

After the war, he scrounged up enough capital to set up a publishing house. By conventional measures, de Man fared no better during his half-decade at the head of Hermès, his own firm, than he had working for others. But his goal was not to sign bestselling authors or to win coveted literary prizes, but to rake up as much of his investors’ cash as he possibly could: all told, more than one million Belgian francs. He was eventually convicted of multiple counts of embezzlement, fined, and sentenced to prison. But his case was decided in absentia, in 1951, for he had already fled to Argentina.

To Buenos Aires de Man brought his wife and their three children, one of whom had been born before their marriage. (Typically, he had bribed officials in order to have the first child declared legitimate.) Soon enough, he dumped his family and made his way to New York, where, as a bookstore clerk, he befriended Dwight Macdonald and Mary McCarthy, to whom he gave the impression that he had been a Resistance hero. His new friends helped him obtain a teaching job at Bard College. There, he met Patricia, an undergraduate by whom he had another child, and whom he married for the first time in 1950—albeit without divorcing his previous wife. (He married Patricia two more times: once after his divorce went through in 1960, and again later that year, presumably for the heck of it.) The long-suffering Patricia is, in some ways, the heroine of this book; she stood by him through everything. A translation of Madame Bovary, published by Norton and still available on Amazon, has her husband’s name on the cover but is entirely her work.

Before long, de Man was contributing to the New York Review of Books and finding success in a series of prestigious academic posts. For him, the latter was simply a matter of charming the pants off of everyone important and flying the coop when too many people got suspicious. One might be tempted to admire the sheer recklessness of a man who forged his transcripts, coolly failed graduate entrance exams (in German) that he was expected to ace, and massaged university administrators into remaining silent about his academic double-dipping—he accepted tenured posts at both Cornell and the University of Zurich—all while keeping critics and admirers guessing with his anagogic, jargon-ridden prose and lectures that were (as Barish says) “difficult, even impossible, to understand.” De Man ran from unpaid landlord to unpaid landlord, hoodwinked department head to hoodwinked department head, all the way to Yale, lucre, and what once looked like an admiring posterity.

Despite a few oddities of phrasing, and some awkward repetition of information, this is a model biography that can be enjoyed by those with little interest in the history of literary criticism but plenty of curiosity about human nature at its most dissolute. Barish has done for Paul de Man here what Hugh Trevor-Roper did for Edmund Backhouse, the English expatriate sinologist, antiquarian, and pervert, in The Hermit of Peking (1977)—which is to say, she has revealed him as one of the great academic charlatans of all time. The conclusion is irresistible: Narrative has finally taken its revenge on Paul de Man.

Matthew Walther is an assistant editor at the American Spectator