Canicicle of the Word Amar | Culture | EUROtoday

We do what we are able to, with what we are able to. Some find yourself clicking hours in an insurer, and from there they get scary books, which depart you mendacity to you, like Kafka’s. Faulkner additionally managed as he might, being a postman, a painter of a fats brush, library dependent, brothel goalkeeper, a bunch of little mounting trades, all of them watered with sufficient bottles, to cross the dangerous drink.

Others develop into nice reporters, they wield the digital camera, they go from one conflict to a different, and from there they take novels, such because the American Hemingway. The Irish Beckett, who rubbed shoulders with Joyce, as secretary, mentioned that life is chaos between two silences. That there are solely two certainties: one is to know that you’ve been born and, the second, to know that you must die. And so we go aimlessly, caught between two silences, so we go from one vacuum to a different.

Sometimes a vagabon crosses by means of, as occurred to Beckett, there on Montparnasse Avenue, and nails, with out motive, an absurd knife that goes to some centimeters from the center, additionally with out motive, to finish the lifetime of a surname or a family tree. Destiny has enjoyable, taking out the knife, taking part in with the metallic and a sopeton leaves you, within the midst of a kiss, or a phrase, or a avenue.

There isn’t any method, there are not any guidelines. The king, as Michon writes, comes when he needs. And then, sooner or later, hopefully, the outdated age falls on you. You rework right into a being of remoteness, away from everybody, from all, whereas fright rises like water in a nicely. You are sunk in that solitude of the bull when it bursts into the ring. The huge distinction with the animal is that you already know what awaits you there. But you’re the identical as him. When you cease and look into the eyes of the chamber, the strains, and what shines there’s gold. Because, till the top, you need to burst the cape, nail the blades within the stars, that is why the tail, smoke.

And so, already bordering the abyss, you write one thing unattainable, a pleasure, a javelin, that crops within the coronary heart of oblivion. From a blow to loss of life. This is what Pierre Michon has simply accomplished with I write the iliad (I write the Iliad). He does it with the enjoyment of the one who is aware of that there is no such thing as a going again, which you could, you must burn all of the ships, that that is the final assault, with the helmet on, with the defend made, the raised sword. You realize it, there is no such thing as a apart from throwing towards the wall, there is no such thing as a apart from to provide the whole lot, dance, write to the blood.

And there you will have it by giving a final brush to his legend, in a cheerful, erotic farewell, with out faucet. He has no mercy on something or anybody. Even that commemorated creator who’s himself. It is dotted with that determine of the creator, of the work. Each web page is the type, overwhelming, a bustle of verbs, of phrases that depart you mendacity, and carry you to the following stumble. The jubilation reaches its cusp when, already within the final chapters, all of the books he has cherished, who’ve accomplished what he has develop into. Without a doubt, one of many strongest writers who’ve given the final many years.

Scripture shouldn’t be an train of stuffed animals, nor a enjoyable for caniches. It is one thing wild, that it ought to, when it’s literature, put the hair of finish, that crushes you, leaves you purple. We ought to all the time do it erect, such because the one that offers the assault, such because the one that’s tied, towards the trunk, the bagpipe, the javelin, the defend, no matter in order that life doesn’t keep nonetheless, what it kills, what saves. This is what the Lebanese playwright Wajdi Mouawad has simply accomplished within the Collège de France, in Paris, with a handful of classes that depart you speechless. This is what Caravaggio has simply accomplished within the 12 months of Jubileo, in a retrospective in Rome that brings collectively virtually all his works.

To mislead loss of life you don’t want an armed or an entire fleet of ships. You want a e-book, a novel, a tragedy, or a canvas, only a handful of pages, only a nook, some material. And there you will have it bleeding by means of the mountain, with the tail between the legs. True, she’s going to return, she would not quit that straightforward. But not as we speak. Not so long as we’re alive. No, whereas we paint, we write. And artwork is what it does. He retains us alive. It hugs our neck, we get in our eyes, by mouth, like a kiss, like a sky, we get into us in every single place just like the Canicle of the Word Amar.