To read after the rain
Photo: Nick Scheerbart.
Back, after a ride in the rain, you are soaked to the bone and you tremble with cold. You're shivering. There is still in your head the sound of the storm, your skin has kept in mind this wind both dry and violent. You took the rain, and you had nothing to protect you. It was your little carapace, delicious and fragile, to the greed of the gods. Your shoes are wet, there is mud on your jeans, this feeling of cold is unpleasant and invasive. Under these waterspouts, abandoned to nature, and in the obligation to advance because of the path that closed behind you, your mind was lost, leading you to primitive, visceral and often liberating reflections. A walk in the rain as a manifestation of resistance and hope. - Elisa Palmer
Still alive, by Pierre Souchon, Editions La Brun au Rouergue, 250 pages, (back to school)
"- Now, what I believe is that without treatment, I'm sick. I'm dysfunctional So it's about as stupid to say that I'm not natural with my pills that a cancerous who would say to you: "Ah, but with my chemo, you demolish my deep being, I do not recognize me anymore, this n is more me ... "Except that it would never come to the idea of a cancerous to release such bullshit. This is the prerogative of psychiatry ... All my struggle was to consider that I was sick just like a diabetic, or a guy who has HIV. A long-term illness, which must be treated in the long run - and above all that there is no difference between a mental illness and an organic disease ... The concern with psys diseases, and it's a huge problem you are stigmatized. "
Souchon has 35 years, he writes noble papers for Le Monde diplomatique and L'Huma. Still Alive is his first book. It is a cry that comes from guts, neither black nor white, rather very realistic with all the color palette, very confusing. Self-mocking, Souchon takes all risks, nothing to fuck, he tells his illness: bipolar disorder, manic-depressive. What does it matter, in fact? Head upside down, invasive thoughts, freedom from the disease. Kind of Pierrot le fou who exposes himself and does not miss. At the heart of the book are the Ardèche landscape, in the distance the alpine mountains, the family tree that is being dissected more than ever, the hunting experience and this regular and saving confrontation with Mother Nature. . Not alone in his head, and that is saying little, he explains his fight against this disease, and the multiple renunciations to which we must agree when the mind does not bend. He tells how his drug treatment allows him to maintain a form of balance. He bangs his fist on the table, and reminds - whoever will listen - that bipolar disorder is a disease just like an organic disease. Then, as a crowd entertainer, he plays with him and throws us into bursts of laughter. From this porous and restive affection, he makes it a propensity for revolt against injustice and stupidity. He demands a big dose of love and kindness towards his neighbor. Souchon proves here that writing is a major act, a horse of hope and a strong humanistic project.
Raise the deluges, by David Bosc, Verdier Publishing, 90 pages
"Only, I had enough after a few days. I did not want to be alone anymore. I had committed myself for my friends, for the morning of the world, for equality. I presented myself at the town hall of a Corbières village. I waited on a bench, in a corridor. I was flanked by two gendarmes and I walked captive through the countryside. My escort was that of a chicken thief, but I was not ashamed. Nobody gave me back my smile, no one up to the crossroads where a group of farm workers greeted me loudly, with cheers, cheers, and raised fists. Half for the poor devil and half, I understood, to show the gendarmes that the world is not made all in one piece.
There are the images imprisoned in the title. Raise shipwrecks. Give value to defeats. To hoist the invisible genius. Bosc recounts, in this collection of short stories, four very distinct stories, at first sight completely disconnected from each other. They are four men, in the flow of four temporalities, springing within four landscapes. Their minds move and test the eternal clichés and a very fixed vision of normality. The author says of his heroes that they experience the soundness of walls, asking about existence first man's eyes. Emperor Frederick II, Emperor of the Romans between 1220 and 1250, a Valet farm Honoré Mirabel of the Sarturan country house of the eighteenth century, a Spanish mason in 1936 by the name of Miguel Samper, and Denis, a young Marseillan in the 2000 years, bewitched by a group of anarchists. The news allows one to pronounce a voice, in the kaleidoscopic din of these multiple stories, around fragmentary entries and missing parts. Gifted with an abrupt and physical writing, Bosc explores the French republican motto Liberty, Equality, Fraternity with the timeless modernity of a great writer. You have to read between the lines to understand how to stand up from the Middle Ages to today.
The courage it takes for the rivers, of Emmanuelle Favier, Editions Albin Michel, 220 pages, (back to school)
"It was an entire pleasure turned towards her own person that she was looking for during these morning misbehavior, it was her body that was to wake up from a sleep of several decades, to exalt at break of day before returning to the secret of his chaste man's clothes. Rejected voluptuous evocations, still feeling the dreamy traces in the inside of her thighs and hips, she got up and dressed slowly before proceeding to the ritual of coffee and cigarette.
Favier draws his story from a reality, the sworn virgins of Albania. These women who live under oath, those who have decided to give up, to say "never again" to their femininity, their bodies, their forms, to live as perfect men. As rules, never get married and stay virgin. It seems that having balls sometimes makes life easier. The young author is well documented, met passionate researchers, and went to see more closely ... But this book retains a part of fiction, and she claims it. Indeed, thanks to something instinctive and spontaneous, she knew how to invent missing sequences and summon her imagination in this book. Today, Favier says he is looking for the brilliance of reality in the exercise of writing. This book also takes questions about the quest for identity, the path to self, and desire. Thus, the rhythm of the story is organized around two characters: Adrian and Manusche, who are lost in gender identities, to find themselves elsewhere, in a superior human relationship, organic, almost mineral. Sex, in an approach of otherness, of opposition, has no more place. It is the soul that is liberated, the nature - in what is most elementary - that takes back its rights. This work is the echo of a vast poetic, political and, no doubt, philosophical conversation around the obstinacy of being oneself. Magnetic and intelligent.
My queen, of Jean-Baptiste Andrea, Editions l'Iconoclaste, 240 pages, (back to school)
” I wanted the rain. I wanted her so much that when she came, I did not know how to stop her. It was a big rain pink, green, blue, it took the color of a nothing. She stunned the birds. It rained like that for I do not know how long. The old men said they had never seen that. They talked about their ancestors and God and the sky and everything except the reason of the rain: me. "
It starts with a fall. Screenwriter and director, Andrea leaves momentarily the fifth art to write her first novel. One more. It is an initiatory tale, dealing with the theme of childhood and dreams. In the valley of Asse, in Provence, during the summer 65, Shell speaks and tells. It is different from the rest (of people), next, in the margin. He lives in a gas station with both parents. Life flows slowly, the context is very calm. He does not have school. One day, Shell fails to fire the maquis with a simple cigarette. His parents, angry and defeatist, think about the eventuality of placing him. In search of dignity and freedom, to take the honors, Shell decides to go to war, with the thread of hope to become a man. He goes up the road behind the station, and when he arrives on the plateau, he notices that the war is not there. Around him, a silhouette emerges from nowhere. Daughter of the wind, girl of never seen, who orders her to call her "my queen". With Viviane, life becomes a story. The plateau, a playground. Shell then hesitates between engaging in childhood or considering that adult voice that comes back to him from time to time. He will be trapped in feelings. A story of a world in crisis, a crossing without desert, where the borders of the real and dream engage and clash, through a text sensitive and imaged.
We were young and broad-shouldered, Mano Gentil, Editions The Wind Pass, 120 pages
"Today, I am fifty-three, and I tell myself that times have changed; that no one would let children play on a garbage dump, even snow-covered. And yet, I know, to be a parent in my turn, that children continue to indulge themselves without thinking badly. They slide on the canvas, not necessarily plastic, and participate in their games other children in other countries. Finally, in our own way, we were precursors because basically free. I do not know if my playmates today have the same vision of things as me. Facebook may allow me one day to ask them. "
After various senior posts in communication, at 40 years, Gentil chose to live only writing. She describes this collection of UFO autobiographical news in her literary production. That turns out well. The title evokes the song of Bernard Lavilliers On the road again released in 1988. Cradled by this air of youth, the author tells us about his past lives and their revelations several years later. It focuses on his stories and lived experiences, an air look marked by kindness and tenderness. Amused, she returns to her adventures without glory, with humor and humility. Nice is good, and we smile with her. She emphasizes this condition all human which belongs to everyone and is shared by everyone. This possibility of being only human. At the same time irresistible and new, this right not to always present itself in its best light.