Building Lobster Boat

Dora Bruder

The hands of the clock of the Tuileries Gardens are still for forever. .. We think Dora Bruder ... the young unknown Modiano, 1.55 m, oval face, brown-gray eyes , not swallowed up in stinking guts of Dora but burned at Auschwitz. Dora Anne and the whole humanity struck from all destiny. And we in the night with fangs that irrepresentable word Holocaust to illuminate mud these beings, our scary similar. Our shadows commonplace.
And we, with what remains of speech, at the foot of a mountain of shoes? To approach the unspeakable. To confuse the animal in the same skin as our skin. To think the same flesh, the torturer might have called our brother on earth, with the same human form. And we, with the same bag of guts before history that goes back to Cambodia bodies in Bosnia or Rwanda. Before this time rusty. There are
facing me, eyes round, and I find myself suddenly in that glance of fear: fear their ... We are faced Jorge Semprun. Before this faceless, returning from the trip at the end of absolute evil. It is with some chalk to line the boards of the barracks, these car freight trains that ran as slow to gray on the dead face of Europe ? With a few words out to make this time indelible .

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Rather this photo

Rather than this picture of a landscape, our eyes quickly drugged by their plumage album, still too melodic for our false notes at the bottom too overexposed by their paint swatches. Often too good for our linen box.

magnetic Rather this corner of a cafe, this small theater seasons humanities. This little piece of Eden thunes two cons a small train to hell. Bifurcation aperitif in the smoking compartment of a percolator.

was once one remembers a stroll in the sizzling colors, the clarity of a knee loving us round to an earthquake lights. It was a time in the odor of an avenue of grass still wet.

We have entered leaving a backwash of chairs in polished wood voice red card players, the thud of young fists on the table, the phosphorescence of copper abouchées lips now a merry band.

Rather paint this picture for a trip than a landscape, still pulling the tablecloth, the place of sponge bruises to the soul, this association with the clay men, a place that really helped from the portrait. Earlier this photo-stained black grapes.

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The red table

L a red table was empty. This portfolio remained abandoned on the bench. This issue 90-60-90 scribbled page. The impression now less an oversight than pasting a piece of the puzzle. The feeling of having moved the black part of a huge chessboard. The red table was empty. Suddenly the place seemed to lean dangerously.

The red table was empty. Remained in this thriller carafe into the background. The slurry of a chill in the bones, an air free détimbrant the beautiful harmony. Printing a hitch détissant the quiet walk haphazardly. The feeling of being trapped in a strange spinning frame. The red table was empty. Suddenly the place seemed slyly close.

The red table was empty. Remained that book by John Le Carré. The underlined phrase a lip gloss: "Writing is like being in an empty house and watch for the appearance of ghosts. "

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Londoner

Hay for beer was more than seventeen years along the docks. Although shaken the hourglass, crushed box of Campbell's soup. It is believed that an eternity, all these days have rolled their bones as stones. Pop-art pop-rock, you go back and legs eph sheepskin in the last seventies vintage in green and orange flashy. It réendimanche flowers skeletal our ready-made. What foam has amassed at the edge of our beers? What velvety amber on the edge of the glass? London
smoke and screams. O what city bible saw Verlaine in other seventies machine to unwind the underground when he cribs with Rimba 34/35 Howland street, redoing the Commune in pubs in Leicester Square. The same révolvérisé later 178 Stamford Street with New Germain and his taste for strolling , his love for the streets, advertisements walls rouged color floods. The heart
crazy Robins onne through novels. That night ... you go to the dazzling cafes . O bible paper that wets in the vapors of malt, these imaginary lines of a constellation in the mist of time. O shock in our nights around London these new specters rolling through the thick coal smoke and eternal.

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November 11 Mougin Mougin still

Incestos Italianos Gtatis

Factor




"We do not lose his time listening to his heart "A 98-year Mougin Julius died. This great figure of Art Brut, Dubuffet or Chaissac close friend of Giono Calaferte or just died. A painter, handyman, this proletarian rebel, anti -militarist visceral Chemellier had lived long in a house on troglodyte caves which he had adorned the walls before retiring in Rognes. Former factor he has published thirty books, including The Great Halourde, The heartache , quantity of poems and letters.

"He did it with the words of the French language that the Cheval made with stones," said one of his friends Claude Billon.


" Today, I think, is the anniversary
the death of my father. In 1922, May 22
In that time, all TB patients died.
They "went" to the end.
To the last crumb of their lungs.
I saw.
I can still hear the deep cough.
my father's eyes were huge. The
death, what then?
Each of us walking on the road, always accompanied
.
Because there will always be right
life and left his shadow
so-called "death".
We must love one another and understand

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To greet the black sheep Houellebecq The enjoyment


In 1995, the book festival de Montaigu, we had with Michael, who came to "Extending the field of battle" , spoken poetry and Aubrac. Every year he left for the festival of transhumance ... In the bleating flock of microphones, after goncourt I see him in his black sheepskin.

poem taken from "The Skin" on collages Sarah Wiame

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time

We are in the skin of the eye, the colors scraped into the night blast. It is after a painting trip. In a place worn with pleasure. We do not know where to take the view that great leap into the void now depreciated by the wings of the brush. We put her head against the cool tile.

We do not always know what is expected of a wharf, a jump anthrax, a sky that washes down the shades. We know we are moving from melancholy. We will move chills unearthed in the flesh of a room. The songs are mornings that give ants the heart. We

not always know what is expected of a breach, a fabulous drift, a new heaven to walk on our legs. Sometimes they take us to a table. In a polychrome molt. Simply enjoy the time before the fall of a naked light as to the origin of the world.