« Ce détail ne gâche en rien le charme de Raymond, le succès grandissant qu’il a auprès du public. Son numéro fait l’unanimité de tous ceux qui le regardent. Il y a longtemps que Lluga a quitté « La Nuit ». On raconte que c’est de lui qu’il a tout appris. Chaque effet de scène. On raconte aussi qu’il lui a laissé sa jarretière. Mais Raymond ne la porte jamais. »
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vendredi 6 mai 2011
jeudi 5 mai 2011
197
« The first language human had was gestures. There was nothing primitive about this language that flowed from people's hands, nothing we say now that couldn't be said in the endless array of movements possible with the fine bones of the fingers and wrists. The gestures were complexe and subtle, involving a delicacy of motion that has since been lost completely.
During the age of silence basic survival demanded that the hands were almost never still, and so it was only during sleep (and sometimes not even then) that people were not saying something or other. No distinction was made between the gestures of language and the gestures of life. The labor of building a house, say, or preparing a meal was no less an expression than making the sign for I love you or I feel serious. When a hand was used to shield one's face when frightened something was being said, and when fingers were used to pick up what someone else had dropped something was being said ; and even when the hands were at rest, that, too, was saying something. Naturally there were misunderstandings. There were times when a finger might have been lifted to scratch a nose, and if casual eye contac was made with one's lover just then, the lover might accidentally take it to be the gesture for Now I realize I was wrong to love you. These mistakes were heartbreaking. And yet, because people knew how easily they could happen, because they did'nt go around with the illusion that they understood perfectly the things other people said, they were used to interrupting each other to ask if they'd understood correctly. Sometimes these misunderstandings were even desirable, since they gave people a reason to say, Forgive me, I was only scratching my nose. Of course I know I've always been right to love you.
If at large gatherings or parties, or around people with whom you feel distant, your hands sometimes hang awkwardly at the ends of your arms – if you find yourself at a loss for what to do with them, overcome with sadness that comes when you recognize the foreignness of your own body – it's because your hands remember a time when the division between mind & body, brain & heart, what's inside and what's outside was so much less. Clapping, pointing, giving the thumbs-up : all artifacts of ancient gestures. Holding hands, for example, is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together. And at nights, when it's too dark to see, we find it necessary to gesture on each other's bodies to make ourselves understood. »
During the age of silence basic survival demanded that the hands were almost never still, and so it was only during sleep (and sometimes not even then) that people were not saying something or other. No distinction was made between the gestures of language and the gestures of life. The labor of building a house, say, or preparing a meal was no less an expression than making the sign for I love you or I feel serious. When a hand was used to shield one's face when frightened something was being said, and when fingers were used to pick up what someone else had dropped something was being said ; and even when the hands were at rest, that, too, was saying something. Naturally there were misunderstandings. There were times when a finger might have been lifted to scratch a nose, and if casual eye contac was made with one's lover just then, the lover might accidentally take it to be the gesture for Now I realize I was wrong to love you. These mistakes were heartbreaking. And yet, because people knew how easily they could happen, because they did'nt go around with the illusion that they understood perfectly the things other people said, they were used to interrupting each other to ask if they'd understood correctly. Sometimes these misunderstandings were even desirable, since they gave people a reason to say, Forgive me, I was only scratching my nose. Of course I know I've always been right to love you.
If at large gatherings or parties, or around people with whom you feel distant, your hands sometimes hang awkwardly at the ends of your arms – if you find yourself at a loss for what to do with them, overcome with sadness that comes when you recognize the foreignness of your own body – it's because your hands remember a time when the division between mind & body, brain & heart, what's inside and what's outside was so much less. Clapping, pointing, giving the thumbs-up : all artifacts of ancient gestures. Holding hands, for example, is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together. And at nights, when it's too dark to see, we find it necessary to gesture on each other's bodies to make ourselves understood. »
lundi 4 avril 2011
166
« The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster, but there -- there you could look at a thing monstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the men were -- No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it -- this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces ; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity -- like yours -- the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough ; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in your just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you -- you so remote from the night of the first ages -- could comprehend. »
« La terre paraissait un autre monde. Nous sommes accoutumés à regarder le corps entravé d'un monstre vaincu, mais là-bas - là-bas on avait sous les yeux une chose monstrueuse, et en liberté. C'était un autre monde, et les hommes étaient - non, ils n'étaient pas inhumains. Eh bien, voyez-vous, c'était ça le pire - se douter qu'ils n'étaient pas inhumains. Ça vous venait tout doucement. Ils hurlaient et bondissaient, et tournoyaient et faisaient d'horribles grimaces ; mais ce qui vous faisait frémir, c'était précisément l'idée de leur humanité - semblable à la vôtre - la pensée de votre lointaine parenté avec ce tumulte effréné et passionné. Affreux. Oui, c'était assez affreux ; mais si vous étiez assez viril, vous reconnaissiez en votre for intérieur qu'il y avait en vous rien qu'un soupçon de corde sensible à la terrible franchise de ce bruit, une vague notion qu'il recelait une signification que vous - vous si éloigné de la nuit des premiers âges - pouviez saisir. »
mardi 8 mars 2011
139
« Et quand j’aurai raconté l’apparition de cette reine Maritorne qui pesa sur toute mon enfance, à la façon d’un obscur cauchemar, j’aurai clos la série de mes contes d’enfance, terminé la suite de ces histoires falotes, au parfum suranné et vieillot, dont Nanon enchanta mes premières années et qui, à l’heure qu’il est, évoquent encore à mes yeux tout un coin de province aujourd’hui disparu, de société tout à fait oubliée, et cela avec le charme indéfinissable qu’exhalent, à la fin d’octobre, certaines charmilles et allées de tilleuls : odeur fade et piquante de terreau de cimetière, parfum d’éther et de feuilles mortes. »
lundi 7 mars 2011
138
« Elle sourit et ne répondit pas. Elle ne disait jamais rien.
Mon bonheur était aussi vert qu’un jus de pomme anglais. » vendredi 4 février 2011
107
"I was so young my first memory
is of a tent spread to feed lobsters
to Rexall conventioneers, and my father,
a man for kicks, came out of the tent roaring
with a bread-knife in his teeth to take care of
the druggist they’d told him had made a pass at
my mother, she laughing, so sure, as round
as her face, Hines pink and apple,
under one of those frame hats women then."
mercredi 5 janvier 2011
77
« Dans une antériorité sublime : le grand écrivain à l’instant éternel où il n’a pas encore écrit aucun texte. »
dimanche 5 décembre 2010
samedi 4 décembre 2010
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