Farewell

A passionate fan of alphabets, calligraphy & books just passed away.

She was an author, a reader, an eccentric lady in a funny house. She liked roses and red hearts, her favourite colour was blue.

She also was a great friend who made me discover Mark Haddon, Siri Hustvedt, Alice Munro, Ann Patchett, Marisha Pessl, among others.


Farewell, dear Teapot.

Have fun in your next life.

Kafka on the Shore - Kafka sur le rivage

Ajouter une légende

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions.  You change direction but the sandstorm chases you.  You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why?  Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside you.  So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

 And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. 

 You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.  And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over.  But one thing is certain.  When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in.  That's what this storm's all about."
 

Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

"Parfois, le destin ressemble à une tempête de sable qui se déplace sans cesse. Tu modifies ton allure pour lui échapper. Mais la tempête modifie aussi la sienne. Tu changes à nouveau le rythme de ta marche, et la tempête change son rythme elle aussi. C'est sans fin, cela se répète un nombre incalculable de fois, comme une danse macabre avec le dieu de la Mort, juste avant l'aube. Pourquoi ? Parce que la tempête n'est pas un phénomène venu d'ailleurs sans aucun lien avec toi. Elle est toi même et rien d'autre. Elle vient de l'intérieur de toi. Alors la seule chose que tu puisses faire, c'est pénétrer délibérément dedans, fermer les yeux et te boucher les oreilles afin d'empêcher le sable d'y entrer, et la traverser pas à pas. Au coeur de cette tempête, il n'y a pas de soleil, il n'y a pas de lune, pas de repère dans l'espace ; par moments, même, le temps n'existe plus. Il n'y a que du sable blanc et fin comme des os broyés qui tourbillonne haut dans le ciel. Voilà la tempête de sable que tu dois imaginer.

C'est un fait, tu vas réellement devoir traverser cette violente tempête. Cette tempête métaphysique et symbolique. Mais, si symbolique, si métaphysique qu'elle soit, ne te méprends pas : elle tranchera dans ta chair comme mille lames de rasoir affûtées. Des gens saigneront, et toi aussi tu saigneras. Un sang chaud et rouge coulera. Tu recueilleras ce sang dans tes mains : ce sera ton sang, et le sang des autres.

Une fois la tempête passée, tu te demanderas comment tu as fait pour la traverser, comment tu as fait pour survivre. Tu ne seras pas très sûr, en fait, qu'elle soit vraiment achevée. Mais sois certain d'une chose : une fois que tu auras essuyé cette tempête, tu ne seras plus le même. Tel est le sens de cette tempête."

Haruki Murakami, Kafka sur le rivage

Never Let me Go

"I keep thinking about this river somewhere, with the water moving really fast. And these two people in the water, trying to hold onto each other, holding on as hard as they can, but in the end it's just too much. The current's too strong...They've got to let go, drift apart. That's how it is with us. It's a shame, Kath, because we've loved each other all our lives. But in the end, we can't stay together forever."

Kazuo Ishihuro, Never Let me Go

Did I ever love you... by Leonard Cohen

 

Great words.  Great old artist who sings how I feel.

Was it ever settled
Was it ever over
And is it still raining
Back in November

The lemon trees blossom
The almond trees whither
Was I ever someone
Who could love you forever

Did I ever love you
Does it really matter
Did I ever fight you
You don't need to answer

Chagall

There's nothing like a Chagall painting to make me feel peaceful.








This is "Above the city" (in which city,  Moscow ?)


















This is "The dream', in Washington D.C.

The ghost is back (again)

The ghost is back. I just read him in my mail box. I am a reader, used to read, I should be stronger than him. But I'm not. I'm weak, always tempted to reply when he opens his big mouth and whispers my name with his large tongue and his big white teeth.

He's not a ghost, he's a snake charmer. And I'm the fucking snake. The big ugly snake with its eyes wide opened and its glasses and its demanding body. I can't bite him, there's always some kind of charm going on, something that alienates me.

Fucking snake charmer. He has nothing to do with me, for sure. The rest is only in my brain.

Only silence is stronger than him.

Moving

Last week, I opened my secret drawer. The drawer where I have locked in most of what is related to you. Presents, postcards, non-sent letters that I have written over the years. Inside, there is the little puppet, the silk scarf and the Little Prince you gave me. There's also my heart, broken into 1000 pieces. My memories. My tears,  your smile; your tears and my smile. In the old days, you were saying each girl has a secret drawer, full of love letters.

I usually avoid to open my secret drawer and to look at your cards. I don't wear your presents, even though I always wear scarves. I don't read you either, even though I'm a compulsive reader. But this time it was different. I was moving office, had to tidy everything up. I saw the card you sent on our first anniversary: "together forever". I re-read your words of love. They reminded me of mines. It was both moving and ironic.

I remembered the first time we met, at this boring reception. I hadn't understood your name, people were so noisy around and you were speaking too fast. You were funny and shy, both serious and not taking anything seriously. A nice guy with a malicious glance. I thought I would never see you again after this strange evening. How could I have imagined you would be the man I would most love, hate and regret in my whole life...  the guy who would patiently get me back to life and who would kill me afterwards. I was desiring you to get me back to life, for sure ; and maybe to kill me afterwards, who knows.

I saw you again, the day after the reception. It was the beginning of a beautiful and sad story. A story of lips and cream. A story of Circe and objet a.  A story of two lost children carrying their love and their lack.

You still are so much in my heart.

 

I can feel in peace with you, finally.

10 years to get in peace with you.

But I still can't throw anything away . And I don't feel able to open the secret drawer again.

Ireland

Sentir l'excitation du voyage avant même le départ, quand le travail est bouclé, les valises prêtes, les guides dans le sac. Quand les paysages sont encore dans la tête et que rien, aucun détail pratique, n'a abîmé le rêve. Quand mon imagination me fait sentir l'air marin, le fish and chips, le vent et la pluie sur le visage, la tourbe et la gadoue aux pieds.

When I sing Star of the county down, Dirty old town or Whiskey in the Jar because it's all what I have in my head at the moment. Soon I'll have a beer in a pub, listening to the music I was singing earlier.

Can't wait to be in Ireland.

The ghost

The ghost is back. Each time I have a look at my page, he is there. As always with the ghost, I have to force myself not to give meaning to his presence. He is there because he wants to be there, or hasn't realized he was there. It has nothing to do with me.

It has nothing to do with me. The rest is only in my brain.

When the ghost was alive, a long time ago, any little thing in my daily life would become a sign of his presence. Thinking of him when opening my eyes in the morning. Thinking of him when brushing my teeth. When listening to a song on the radio. When smoking or drinking some red wine. He was like a piece of my brain, like a continuous TV channel switched on, like a big cloud invading any small part of my sky. I was constantly reminded of him.

When he disappeared from my life, it was a long grieving process to get out from him. The most difficult thing to kill is your own thoughts, to switch off the channel. To see the toothbrush or the clouds, when there's nothing else to see. To remember constantly that the ghost has gone and has nothing to do with me now. It took me years.

I don't like to get to the same webspace or page as him, because it gets me back to the grieving process and to him, to some extent. I have to make efforts, I have to resist. Exhausting.

Sacré-Coeur (reader's memory)

I have climbed the steps to the Sacré-Coeur and I'm waiting for you. There are hundreds of tourists around, Japenese with their cameras, groups of Italians talking and laughing, couples of lovers. I wonder if you would be here, in a few minutes. I'm waiting for you, hearing my heart beating. I've missed you so much.

Suddenly, I see you, your big smile and your malicious glance. You wear a pair of jeans and a nice shirt, a pale pink shirt. You look good, sporty and happy. I run to you, hold you, smell you. You say: "let me look at you, darling", but I can't move, only think of staying there, held tight in your arms, touching your pale pink shirt, with my eyes closed and the sound of my heart beating. You touch me, kiss me, sweetheart, is it you here ? Look at me, baby. It has been such a long time.

                 It's not the fantasy that becomes reality, it's reality that becomes the fantasy.

In a few hours' time, once we have kissed and kissed and made love, you'll read something to me.  One of your chapters or a short piece of a book that you like. I'll try to translate a little bit of what I'm reading, I find it a bit painful not to be able to share my readings with you. Maybe, we'll watch TV afterwards, or have dinner somewhere.

This is happiness.

Fuck off

C'est la fin de la journée et j'en ai marre de tout. Ras le bol du genre humain.

Des machines aussi.


You can fuck off, you, robots from Russia, Indonesia, the US and Germany that link to my blog.

FUCK OFF YOU ALL.