altPicture2010227927

The fragility of the end

Modifié le : 2019/08/08

I accom­plished what I imposed on myself two months ago, which was to reread and recom­pose the entire nov­el… before mov­ing on to the last chap­ter. The end has long been thought and rethought. I still had to go around the gar­den again to keep in mind all the uni­fy­ing ele­ments. I know that by writ­ing this end­ing, it could still sur­prise me even if it has been in my head for so long. It was already there, almost at the begin­ning, was born at the time of the nec­es­sary anchor­ing of his­to­ry. With­out an end, there is no pos­si­ble direc­tion, the no more or less chaot­ic gath­er­ing of the scenes.

I attach as much impor­tance to the end as to the begin­ning and imme­di­ate­ly crit­i­cize the authors who seem to put the whole effort into the begin­ning and do not have much inter­est or ener­gy to bring their sto­ry to the end.

I don’t claim to have suc­ceed­ed all the time. Crev­er mon fils is prob­a­bly my most clum­sy text at this lev­el. I don’t know if I suc­ceed­ed in the oth­ers. I try not to reread myself, per­haps for fear of find­ing that I always repeat the same thing !

Les Mailles san­guines has 80 small ends, after each scene. The text does not make a scene, it is in this sense as qui­et as L’Ef­fet Casimir, it also bor­rows sev­er­al tech­niques, even char­ac­ter ideas. We can make the con­nec­tion, for exam­ple, between the char­ac­ter of Rose and Luci­enne, that of Diane who lost her artist hus­band and Martha whom the artist com­pan­ion left. We will also be able to dis­cov­er the sim­i­lar­i­ties in the con­cept of trav­el as an out­let (which, in itself, is real­ly not original).

This end, now, I have to com­pose it for Les Mailles san­guines. It is a frag­ile moment, the last look the read­er will have at the text, the one with which he or she will judge the rest. I do not want to dis­ap­point them, I want to leave them with a warm breath in their heads, because, to para­phrase the end of Les Années-rebours, if we do not under­stand every­thing, there remains for us the lux­u­ry and delight of want­i­ng to start over.

#1a3958
#1a3958