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Feverish truths

Modifié le : 2019/08/05

I don’t walk around any­more. I’m sor­ry about that, still over­whelmed by small and large tasks. Nev­er­the­less, spring con­tin­ued its ear­ly advance over Mon­tre­al. We have not had, so to speak, a win­ter here. I just used the shov­el to clear the stairs. For­tu­nate­ly, we also did not expe­ri­ence end­less rains even though the sky was, it seems to me, grey­er than usu­al dur­ing this season.

Some­one asked me yes­ter­day how things were going. Well, it’s going well. Anoth­er invit­ed me the oth­er day to go for cof­fee, bare­ly hid­ing his shy­ness and inten­tions. “How are the loves?” he said. I smiled. Love is fine, but unfor­tu­nate­ly, you won’t know. I don’t talk about these things, because few peo­ple would under­stand them and it’s not real­ly said.

Read­ing some remarks from my for­mer edi­tor on the anno­tat­ed man­u­script of the Les Mailles san­guines, rethink­ing what Mr. L. of Edi­tions B. also wrote in his curi­ous­ly vague but encour­ag­ing let­ter, then reread­ing what annoys or shocks in what I may have writ­ten in my text, I real­ize that the truth is not the best winged of lit­er­a­ture, nor is it the friend of these pub­lic walks. We are vul­gar peo­ple. Just yes­ter­day, on this wom­an’s day, a friend made a mock­ery of anoth­er woman by sug­gest­ing that she should have her peri­od. Friends can make these kinds of jokes, it does­n’t come out of the cir­cle. Among lovers, we can stuff our­selves with pas­sion, pro­vid­ed that, once the meal in bed is over, we wash and get dressed again.

This seems to be the case for both small and large real­i­ties. It always hap­pens else­where and dif­fer­ent­ly from what is told.

The truth is whis­pered as the sleep­ing vol­ca­noes chirp. And the human head gets drunk with these invis­i­ble suf­fer­ings. Dressed like ancient Romans, wear­ing wigs, pris­on­er of our jack­et-tie, our per­fume-deodor­ant, we try to live nobly. But when guests are too drunk to hide the fat that chokes their vis­cera, our tables show off their naked and tel­luric clothes.

I smile when, on TV, we warn that the images that fol­low could shock the frag­ile souls. Frag­ile, real­ly ? Come on. We know too well what is going on in our veins to take offense at human stu­pid­i­ty. We regret the abus­es, the injus­tices, but we also under­stand all the mech­a­nisms, and we do not want them to hap­pen in our court­room. We fool­ish­ly act as if.

Lit­er­a­ture, as always, like a placid Mer­cury, is enjoy­ing this game. It will nev­er lose its com­po­sure and who mas­ters it will be able to take pride in hav­ing reached the top of illu­sions and lies. The mask is beau­ti­ful and king, as it is splen­did in all its gram­mars, lex­i­cons, and psy­cho­rig­i­nals syntaxes.

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