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{Friday, June 04, 2004}
Franck André Jamme
Fragments of the life of scarabs

So the opening of doors.

At dawn.

If necessary, capable of insistence.

Even if they were already open. No matter.

And saying that everything was soluble in the air of days. That everything dissolved in it.

All ears, he perceived more and more clearly that some things in nature, let's call it delightful, were present, in the end, only to spare us.

It was merely another chance.

Asked oneself whether all insurrection was forbidden.

He hummed his lists: "Trembling rings, animal presentiments, thought curiosities, the ineffable power of fog, tumultuous hair -- and when cut, it bleeds."

For he could have retraced everything, paint everything over thousands of times.

Or what, in the end, a river might have thought of its own end.

That certain things in nature, let's call it favorable, were present, in the end, only to cover up the abyss of chaotic forces that followed on our heels as steadily as our shadow.

Never in the same way.

That everything was soluble in the water of words.

Everything was getting lost there.

Wondered whether this meant that all revolt was in vain.

Walked. More and more frightened. Began to make out in the distance a little hut that couldn't have been bigger than a dog's lair and that nevertheless everyone around called "the palace of possession," never really knowing why, even if he heard those who had entered it say sometimes that there was nothing inside. At all. Save possession.

From this place where the river drowned in the sea, clearly.

Also knew that the forgotten well of light, that slept at the bottom of language, might have well entered into consideration as a lure. And, saying "lure," he was really seeing an urge.

Or this prolonged shiver that ran so close to the boat, doubling it, then taking a sudden turn in order to aim in our direction, slowly, against the current, and all at once we said there had to be down there something like a foreboding. But of what?

Does the fog, in one's mind, rather sharpen the eye of the monster?

Or the favor?

He could have remembered, for example, that man would happen sometimes to cross the threshold of any given room with the present throbbing in his hands, red, always slowly, naked or almost.

Wondered whether this meant that the tragic turned little by little into an imperceptible fog, almost completely invisible.

While the other's eyes, she too nearly naked, suddenly reflected only a very certain variety of the real.

He hummed his lists: "The art of unflinchingly confronting ecstasy, the vacillation of the world, the mélange of nonchalance with the spirit of perfection, the renewed expansion of so-called lost energies, uncommon stories that failed sometimes in certain minds."

Of this place where he finally neared of something larger than him.

The air was now so transparent, behind the fog, one so little occupied with the other, so little taken by the hiding, by the make-up, that any passerby might have well seen there nothing but air itself, finally alone, just at the moment of passing.

Of erring.

And the possession, obviously.

For the monster always ended up vomiting horrible rings chained one to another, bands of refuse that no one could ever identify and that hence bore no name.

To pass or to slide or to slip in silence towards the rain of light that slept on the tip of the tongue, it too forgotten, why not?

Or else they no longer reflected, the other's eyes, but that variety of the real in the end the least garrulous, the clearest. While one was drowning, but out of joy. While one was finally becoming the thing greater than oneself.

So sharp was his attention, go figure, and the world's surface so alike, so uniform. Often the same splash, the same, or nearly, swell of the sea, the same color.

So the opening of doors, of course.

Mainly at dawn.

trans. Ela K.
from: Yves di Manno, ed. 49 Poètes. Paris: Flammarion, 2004.

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