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Faded fables

Modifié le : 2016/09/10

If hap­py peo­ple have no his­to­ry, it is because every day they are amazed by the hap­pi­ness they expe­ri­ence. To my com­pan­ion, Peter, for this aston­ish­ment and mir­a­cle so sweet.
A ten­der wink to Olivi­er, the friend, and broth­er I’ve always dreamed of…

I wrote this ded­i­ca­tion for La Vie dure pub­lished in 1997. These sen­tences lie like fad­ed flow­ers in their water­less vase, pos­sess­ing a kind beau­ty close to a lie.

I reread them again, sur­prised by the dis­tance trav­eled, the dis­tance that will have ini­tial­ly widened this friend­ship with Olivi­er. I have, in fact, very lit­tle news of him. Our rela­tion­ship will have last­ed as long as we taste it. Oh, to see him again, I’d be pleased too, he brought me a lot. We met in the ear­ly days of the Inter­net, in Com­puserve’s time. He lived in France, at the time I had even typed his the­sis or I don’t know what school text he had and sent it to him by post. It was not yet time for tweets and instant pas­sions. Olivi­er came to set­tle in Que­bec for a while, then went back to live again in France.

As for Pierre, I lived with him for six­teen years. Our com­pan­ion­ship will remain a beau­ti­ful fur­row in my heart, and I do not deny the ben­e­fits that its pres­ence will have brought me. Now that our steps are no longer fol­low­ing the same paths, I have still kept its coor­di­nates in my sen­ti­men­tal GPS. He knows that, if he gets lost, I will be there to pro­pose new routes, just as I know that he can cor­rect the mag­net­ism of my fail­ing compass.

Nev­er­the­less, this ded­i­ca­tion has aged, and no longer rep­re­sents me. As I am about to reread the text to pub­lish it in elec­tron­ic for­mat, I already know that I can­not put this inscrip­tion at the begin­ning of the book, because I am no longer there, it is no longer me.

I won­der if this is the case for all these ear­ly work soars that we reg­u­lar­ly read. These are marks, fea­tures that tes­ti­fy to our pas­sage that will remain on the paper, that will age books. How­ev­er, since my books are reborn dif­fer­ent­ly, by my own will, with­out any con­se­cra­tion, in a new library that is more evanes­cent, undoubt­ed­ly more appro­pri­ate to my exis­tence, I no longer have the desire to ded­i­cate what I write to anyone.

Fables, like feel­ings, fade. They leave behind them autum­nal scents. Life is hard, as sug­gest­ed in this book. I hope my sto­ries will take longer to fade.

I have reread some pages of this text. Strange impres­sion. Soft warmth. Prob­a­bly the book of all my hopes and all my fables.

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