Brigetoun decaying a little,
disgusted a little more,
Noiseux shameful
in desire to be evanescent
or vaporous.
Retreat, firming,
denial, numbness,
time.
Getting solid, full, strong,
before welcoming, face
the world
his country.
And in the meantime, leave behind a veil.
Sunday morning, bright blue so violently that the rest is black, dense buds with a few clouds that float so slowly is imperceptible displacement, indifferent to the light wind that feels that turnbacks awnings and my reflex mount the large turtleneck sweater for my on my chin.
The ladies of Maya, in Ducastel (I wonder what happens to the coach and when I have new frames that should be ready for over a week), exhibit blessed and their extreme roundness and persuade me to accept the kilo-won and save.
Small floral arrangements scattered throughout the city are not yet at their best,
but the branches of the trees vaguely sketch the birth of new wood, or at least I think so.
I'll get potatoes and other impedimenta to my overweight and not at Carrefour Halles (too bad it will be frozen shells and not real fish) to be able to join cologne for cooking and candy industry infamous for my taste regressive.
flowers instead of the clock are a little more wiry, and my mood improves.
but I break my nose at the Vaucluse area, where I wanted to go because I realized that Friday night was the time of the winter dance, and that If my slight lack of pesetas and true desire makes me draw a line on shows at Thor, and even Mauriere Benoit XII (seen two out of three) and drama of winter, there may be one in Dom and three to the White Penitents certainly would like to see (and too bad for internships too expensive, too late, out of my physical abilities now, although an introduction to Butoh would have sorely tempted)
When I vowed to spend Monday afternoon, I tumbled into the cave.
lunch, nap, wake up dazed and ground, not much more than a little guilty laziness. France-Musique with fluctuating attention, beginning of a thriller and abandonment because her writing makes me despair, shared between the beginning of another that catches my attention skillfully on stories that, a priori, should not have me interest, but that stick well to my total vacancy and are loosely written, with a little tenderness, irony of beautiful outfit ... and over the events in Libya to the world. I drag myself out a paragraph for the convoy glossolalists http://leconvoidesglossolales.blogspot.com/ and I draw upon two former
When they advanced in the side street, past the facades noble or dramatic, the row of ordinary houses, or really small or sufficiently detailed to show a significant affluence, the estate proved too long for my taste, whenever I walked up , was never dull, and against the white house Paul clung to a façade, same proportions, a pink slightly incongruous, reminder of pretentious "villas" of the coastal suburbs, but a little past stunned, not cut in too shocking, and his door also buried in the old wall thicker than that of previous facades, stretching height which gave him the look of touching a young lanky, she was painted a soft gray blue candid under a vaguely decorative fanlights .
February 17
Faced with three simple houses that I assumed of the late 18th century, after the mansion, the only shop in the small street occupied the ground floor of a house reborn, almost Gothic, half-restored, blackened by age, keeping track of destruction of sculptures, showing off its decrepitude, and its actual strength and solidity, playing like an unshaven chin always, and the entourage of the small door that gave access to the staircase and floors, had farms discrete and moldings.
February 19
In a corner behind a chair, half hidden as it is only because too bulky for the kitchen because of its shape, a round basket - round basket idea, which actually is not , was not exactly when it was braided, and bears traces of deformities caused by the entry into force of plates a little too big - braided colors to make you think of an imaginary Africa, trenches and dull, an elegant restraint, with the illusion that it differs by the interplay of colors, the thickness given to each of those I meet on the street. A round basket with a rustic claimed, and so popular that it is a cliche. Sedge quite thick, and a loop - the wires that go on bridle on each side of a diameter strands stiff, cylindrical, united, tight, twisted by a flat connection - for wide keep under control, reinforced by a strip of leather, a little brown roux, together, almost, not quite, it would not be good, and the link to festoon bordering wicker basket. Anse urban, bourgeois, comfortable.
A basket that brought you imagine (but without those colors) by Perrette, the pot-au-lait. A basket which I meet the brothers at the market, home with a certain grace the first vegetables, which I do not understand why other women continue to use, because it is extremely inconvenient for walking.
And in the kitchen are the ones I use, a good caning white rectangular basket, taking the form of coated canvas bags of waste from the beginning of the next century, mine and one of those little baskets of the same shape in fine weaving orange (mine, but it could be plum or burgundy or beige), which we have been invaded Italy, I believe, and who are both charming and practical.
Especially a good cushion, shaped: Cradle, triangle cut to give a base miraculously stable, flexible form imprecise, buffeted by the contents, intertwining white-blond wound up sewing the edge , the heir of all the baskets of my childhood Algiers, of all my bags vacant young girl, young woman, etc. ... thanks to the strip that serves as a ramp, and saw the cruel bare shoulder companion who lets himself forget extension.
My contribution to the night of last Thursday BU Angers http://www.tierslivre.net/spip/spip.php?article2434 . After reading with pleasure and attention to the text of François Bon, extracts of Ponge and Detambel, I tried something other than my old pot scraped orange background which was binding on me and I refused, I found this picture and came away too quickly, before releasing the others (except Christine Jeanney bowls and my memory of bowls with handles and cock Quimper), forgetting too started to take advantage of the basket, putting a Brigetoun bit much (to console me, other texts, some of which make me very humble, fell slightly in the same defect, driven by the desire to do the archeology of the present as required François Bon)
quiet day, small household incursions into the yard, vague desires to leave the earth to torment, but it is still too cool, or rather am too Noiseuse. Contemplation tense and talkative rugby match (30 years without seeing and unfortunately for France Scotland found that I could watch them, delighted regression). And in the evening, more elegant than my pants corduroy black brogue boots up Rufian ragged, and departure
everlasting pleasure of this fluidity
second part "it you could'nt see me" 1994: Music planing Raushensberg - a black stage, a dancer with long kilt bathed in red light - dance gymnastics harmony - contradictions between arm and leg - endless chains - a silent vibrating - back memories of music with bells, drafts of jumps, stops frozen, a embryo discontinuity - beautiful
and then, later (2009), Love in the theater - on excerpts from Rameau's Hippolyte et Aricie boys in white pants and t-shirt light gray, white girls in tank tops pan floating and flexible wing fishing pants - duets and ensembles - looking more athletic than the "gracious", a mischievous side, very charming, beautiful geometry of moving bodies, groups and movements on the plateau and a perfect harmony with the music. It ends on a joyful ride, graceful and improbable.
back, leaving popping cough restraint and telling me "not bad at all."
Noises from a party at the hotel EROPA on the night of my street.
Too long, much too long, which follows, preparing for listing on Babelio, trying to be concise (I know ...) after potting a random windy in the sweetness of the court, instead of attacking me in the pile of ironing .
Florence Trocmé Poezibao and are growing resistant to the crime which I fortunately most time, I merely breathe the words she speaks. But stayed off to http://poezibao.typepad.com/poezibao/2011/02/inter-de-pascal-quignard-par-florence-trocmé.html and, after resisting a, I just ordered "Inter," the book by Benedict Gorrillot built around "Inter aeris fagos" Pascal Quignard.
three parts, and a short appendix:
1 to 1 long and beautiful letter to Pascal Quignard Gorrillot Benedict, in response to a question he could not respond verbally quickly: the history of Latin poem - its state by writing it - and the first translation by Emmanuel Hocquard in agreement with him, and then a commentary, at once meditative and precise, which I reviewed at the end as an eighth version.
2 - the Latin poem of 1976 (which I read first, trying to grasp with my scraps of Latin supernatant of forty years of neglect, to smell, to approach with small incursions into the Gaffiot online and it was both frustrating - but for sure that I shall soon interpretations - and actually not that far from the earthquake, a word that most easily floated, text - with this question about the fact that saltus if not moved) and the Seven translations collected, solicited for certain, Bénédicte Gorrillot (his version), translations should be interpreted, passage through the poetic voice of each
3 to 1 beautiful (yet)-reflection theory Bénédicte Gorrillot on translation, preceded by the story of the birth of this book
Annex: Short biographies of the authors: Peter Alfieri, Eric Clemens, Deguy Michel, Bénédicte Gorrillot, Emmanuel Hocquard, Christian Prigent, and of course Jude Stefan Pascal Quignard.
Cite as Catherine Flohr, editor attentive, and the beauty of the book as object.
Reading not so demanding it, spellbound.
And little regret, just the pleasure of regret, not seeing, not likely ever see "those little books separate deus ( Inter aeria fagos finally appears with the translation of Emmanuel Hocquard, In the air between the branches of beech, spring 1979), covers pale and distinct .. juxtaposed in a white cardboard box. They are really beautiful. "And more, six boards Adami.
"It's so rare in the West, large calligraphy. "A callifrafia writes Adami went ricerca nella memoria del Latin Rimasto occhi del Ostri, scrivere del moderno, del tratto inciso" A calligraphy, he writes, looking for the Latin which our eyes, which our modern language, even in features of the letters we write on paper, keeps the memory without knowing " Quignard and then gives an example of what can be translated.
Under the text, confusion, and Ovid, and the translator Jerome and his lion, and tear that who gave milk and language.
"That was the purpose of my" cut up ". It was torn. The song finally hailed something. Of course, fashions were different, overlapping rhythms, expectations had their depths but suddenly it parted. That write. It is ecstatic. "
" Go back to step forward. We must return to the stage before "life" means we must return to the savage, the bare, the rudiment at rudis, to aparlance, silence in the shade. We must return to Step before "in the language" means we must return to Latin. Because we can not help in distress than retrace his steps .. "
This, in the text of Benedict Gorrillot, which is abstract (a bit dry, it lacks the unfolding) of the intention of the book:
" INTER privileges the human subject on the results - in other words consciousness and translating the utterance of the statement translated. Indeed, men mark the Latin language Pascal Quignard and language translating (French inherited from their fathers) with their inimitable counterpoint accents (dots, breathing, syntax, vocabulary). As Henry points out Meschonnic "the great transformer of translation is not the meaning ... It's the rhythm ... organization as a speech by a subject and movement of speech in writing, prosody personal "
And I know I'm too long, so just the beginning, in its different versions, because, after read one evening, the poem and letter, and have remained there to enjoy and let it do its work, the next day after reading the poems respecting their entirety, and the text in translation, I came to this comparison by blocks, between Latin and each of the interpretations. With regret, then, betrayal Blogger imposed upon me by refusing to respect the arrangement of words on the page taken by each.
TERROR. Dico lacrimas and irascens "Saltus! "
(In Saltibus NON-SILENS
consortium, not mounds.) - Pascal Quignard
Terror - I cry
tears of rage
wasteland!
- in silence or idle
or crash - Pierre Alféri
Terror. Tell
tears and anger:
"dance! "
( by leaps. Neither silence
or tumult.) - Eric Clemens
terror. And I said
in tears and anger amount
'projections! "
(through the cracks. No silence
no heckling) - Michel Deguy
TERROR PLATE EARTH.
tears I cried on edge:
"The hello in the woods in the wild gorge! "
In the wild gorges, this is NOT
SILENCE, nor the tumult. - Bénédicte Gorrillot
Being about fear. (I spoke in tears. With
Wrath. " Out! Without the language! ")
Farther than the end of the field.
(In the forest. No silence.
No uproar.) - Emmanuel Hocquard
Terror. I say
(tears, rage)
"the open! "
(in the open. Silence: no
tumult: no) - Christian Prigent
Terror. I say
crying & encoléré
"Forest"!
(not in Forest Silence
not the Uproar)
terror - Stefan Jude
" In Saltibus, in what is still trodden by man, in what is neither forest nor field nor jungle, the silence is no indéfriché prehuman yet .... Also it takes a city to a jungle appears as its other, so must a language for that silence appears as its other. No silence in the pre-human and no more tumult. Fear pure desert light, light distress the first day. "Pascal Quignard in the letter
