I—
Poets

Michel Deguy

Michel Deguy was born in Paris in 1930. He is professeur des universités with a chair in aesthetics and literature and a past president of the Collège International de Philosophie. His publications include books of poetry: Fragment du cadastre (Paris: Gallimard, 1960), Tombeau de du Bellay (Gallimard, 1973), Donnant Donnant (Gallimard, 1981), Poèmes, 1970–1980 (Gallimard, 1986); and books of criticism: Figurations (Gallimard, 1969), La Poésie n'est pas seule (Paris: Seuil, 1987), Le Comité (Seyssel: Champ Vallon, 1988), L'Hexaméron (Seuil, 1990), Au sujet de Shoah (Paris: Belin, 1990). He has translated Heidegger and Paul Celan as well as, with Jacques Roubaud, edited and translated 21 poètes américains (Gallimard, 1980). Editor in chief of Po&Sie, he also directs the collection "L'Extrême contemporain" at Editions Belin and is on the editorial boards of Les Temps modernes, Critique , and Temps de la réflexion .

Selected Publications in English:

Given Giving: Selected Poems of Michel Deguy . Translated by Clayton Eshleman, with an Introduction by Kenneth Koch. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984.

"O Great Apposition," "The Eyes," "Alluvium," "When the Wind," and "The Wall," translated by Clayton Eshleman; "You" and "It's Between Ourselves," translated by Anthony Rudolf. In The Random House Book of Twentieth-Century French Poetry , edited by Paul Auster, 506–13. New York: Random House, 1982.

"Sibyllaries," from Recumbent Figures . Translated by Jacques Servin and Wilson Baldridge, in collaboration with Deguy. In Violence of the White Page: Contemporary French Poetry , edited by Stacy Doris, Phillip Foss, and Emmanuel Hocquard. Special issue of Tyuonyi , no. 9/10 (1991): 56–58.

Serge Gavronsky: I often think of you as perhaps one of the greatest travelers in the world of letters! You have carried off something quite unique in maintaining that energy which is yours, whether you're writing poetry, literary criticism, or philosophic essays. As the founder and director of Po&Sie, you have also been committed to the translation of poetry from, let us say, all languages that have given rise to poetry. Could you talk about this continuing interest in translation, and perhaps in so doing connect it to your other activities?

Michel Deguy: First of all, it corresponds to a personal history and so requires a bit of autobiography—but only as relevant to the matter at hand! In my background, in my Bildung , philosophy, poetry, and translation clearly coexist as a triad without any order. What I mean is that there wasn't philosophy and poetry and, in parentheses, translation. This may appear slightly disconcerting, but for me, translation was not a more-or-less transparent middle position, a "go-between" [said in English], but was itself on a par with poetry and philosophy. In my past experience, philosophy consisted in a translational reading of German philosophy; poetry itself moved in translation toward philosophy while held within a linguistic relationship, that is to say, within literary works, making it simultaneously simple and difficult. Translation was there, on the same level, equally important. It was never in an ancillary position. Thus it assumed the strange status of an intermediary or a middle ground that is as much one of the terms of the relation as the relation itself. Perhaps, to take this notion further, it would be interesting to find out to what extent each of those terms is also the name of the relation between the two others—with philosophy playing the middle role between translation and poetry, and poetry between philosophy and translation. I think that's where my interest comes from!

Of course for us, when we were young, Latin and Greek were the languages that projected us into other languages; so translation was the experience of Greek and Latin, languages we call dead—and we should perhaps reconsider this label: after all, what is a "dead" language? That is where my experiences began, and then came Ger-

man and English. Thus, I'd have to point to some sort of archaeological relationship with "dead" languages. Could translation be another way of naming Greek and Latin? In my triad I call it translation, but I might as easily call it Greco-Latin before it became English/German. And here, unfortunately, I cannot add an et cetera , though I should note that in earlier years it might have been easier than I thought to enter into another language, especially a related language. I was seventeen when I first went to Spain. At that time I said I couldn't understand a thing, yet ten or twenty years later I read a Spanishlanguage newspaper without, obviously, having learned the language. At bottom there is a sort of familiarity with foreign languages, as long as they belong to the same family. That knowledge can function without any academic preparation.

So much for my own story! Now, as for the magazine, I can only say that at its source lies a relation between language and literature. Languages exist for writers only insofar as there are literary works in them—a literature within literary languages, let's say—and that can only come about when a language is able to welcome great literary works from other languages. Let us take an easy example (and I know some would not agree with me, but they're not here!): one could say that Breton is not a language or, rather, not a great language—but then again, perhaps here I'm only talking about so-called great languages. Breton? To the great despair of many, why is there no language here that might have allowed one to say, in the same breath, French, Breton, Provençal, etc.? Because, by my criterion, Breton is not a language. Well, it's a fact: Breton never welcomed a translation of Goethe, for instance, or Dante. A language-literature that has the capacity of receiving masterpieces of other languages is of one texture. It all goes together. It was in this light that the project for the magazine was sketched out.

Translation, therefore, is not an accident. It is, as you have said, the energy that emanates from the continued relation among languages, among great languages, through this obligation of receiving one another's literary works, past and present. That's the situation.

And what does it mean? It implies, especially at this moment, that is, at the decline of the twentieth century . . . I think a lot of writers feel this way, that all great languages are in a state of dangerous simplification. A certain menace is weighing on languages: a relation to English—not just to any English, but to a form of international English. What has happened to the sentence? What happens to the sentence when it becomes the little politicians' sentence or the screen sentence on computer terminals? What has happened to the sentence in all languages? Thus, something one might call conservation and defense has arisen. Of course, that's not the only concern, either of the magazine or of concerned writers. We are not merely conservationists in a conservatory, but I believe there is that aspect of a very deep commitment to conservation, or, if you will, of memorization, of rememorization. To confront a menace that is an attitude. This commitment is not, I should emphasize, reactionary, or even reactive; it is meant to protect—in a word, to shelter, as Heidegger would say. To maintain the language in its literary works: this is important because it leads us to the past of many languages. But I should be a bit more modest: the magazine's scope is limited to a few Indo-European languages belonging to the same family, although we have published some Chinese translations. It is not a closed magazine; for example, my friend Adonis, an Arab poet, has contributed a text to Po&Sie. We're open, but in fact in most cases, our texts are the roses of the languages of Paris, whose stems are those of our neighbors.

SG: Your choice of words, conservation and defense, alludes to Joachim du Bellay's Défense et illustration de la langue française (1549). You yourself have authored a work entitled Tombeau de du Bellay . Correct me if I'm wrong, but in your desire to emphasize the place of translation, both in your own thought and in the identity of the magazine, is there an ambition, similar to du Bellay's, of ornamenting the French language through the practice of translation? That is, of not only making French readers discover or rediscover texts of the Renaissance but also, through translation, proposing poems that, because of their difficulty, are examples of the densification of language and contrib-

ute to the reemergence of language, assuring its vitality. Translation there by becomes a means of perfecting the tools of language.

MD: In listening to you, it occurred to me that the defense we're talking about has nothing to do with the sixteenth century, as we shall see, since in that day the concept of defense was really a question of transforming the vernacular into a great language through the practice of imitation—paraphrasing du Bellay's "double bind" [said in English], he might have said: In order to imitate, I do not imitate; I do as the great authors of the past have done, and thus I stop imitating the greatest authors. Defense, today, has become more complicated! But what might be the most troubling and important topic is the "perfecting" that you have just mentioned. In fact, do we want to say that a language such as French, one of the ten languages that has produced masterpieces, has not achieved its perfection? Surely it has, since so many great works have been written in it and so many great works from other languages translated into it. One might then ask what the meaning of perfection is. Let me try to find an example. What strikes me is this: it's an equivocal situation. Some literary critics complain of the lexical or terminological wealth of a given writer. It is quite simple to accuse a literary person, for in France, literary is a pejorative term: "It's too literary!"

SG: Too rhetorical?

MD: Yes, it's too rhetorical to use rare and erudite words, but at the same time they fail to consider that nothing is as neologistic as socalled common journalistic language. What we're supposed to do today, with the greatest of ease, is invent signs, not words. Journalistic language is in ferment. It picks up capital letters and makes signs out of them; it gathers words from foreign-language newspapers—the director of a TV channel recently said, "L'avion a crashé." And what about people who say they're going to "tannize" themselves? We are in a state of fermented, corrupted lexicalization. But at the same time critics call attention to the fact that a writer uses such and such an old word, or uses a neologism in his poem in a rather erudite fashion, and this they condemn. In the end, everything is a struggle! Is that

perfection? I don't know, but there should be an attitude of vigilance against signmaking, the dangerous semiotization of language, as well as against language inventions founded on old forms—neologisms as they have always been practiced.

SG: In the final analysis, if a language is "great," if it is a living language (and thus does not merely duplicate the image of a dead language), isn't it always characterized by this particular dialectic—by the efforts of some to assimilate new terms or ideas and make of them new expressions and, simultaneously, the efforts of others to criticize such practices, bent on continuing their task of refining the language? If what you say is true, this condition might be seen as a very good sign, not as a moment of crisis! People are conscious: they react; they do not exclude foreign expressions; they do not seek to "Etiemblize" the language without, at some point, seeing they might thereby weaken it. Even if the writer-critic Etiemble has gone on the warpath against the Americanization of the French language, the language has always been enriched by this process of assimilation!

MD: That's true, but it's a question of reterritorialization, of reappropriating a foreign element that enters into the language. Here is an example: one of the actual menaces weighing on all languages is a form of desyntaxation. Conservation and literary invention would then imply an effort to reaffirm syntax, to play in its favor, to encourage syntactical complexity and obstacles. This is hardly a form of purism, of academic interest, because spoken speech, in the past—I think we must add that—was heavily syntaxed. Thus it's not a question of "correct" versus "incorrect" syntax, but of the use of certain locutions, such as "des fois que . . ." which used to be current and which are, as they're called, syncatégorèmes : subordinating words, syntactical pivots that go very well with the specificity of the language. What I mean is that one must fight for syntax within the spirit of the language in its popular state, and against a way of speaking that may be taking the upper hand and which, though some might call it "popular," is in fact not within the spirit of the popular medium. Thus the conservation of language would be joined with another motive, that of re-

maining within the order of the popular nature of language, in all its particularities, all the while noticing that it too tends to die out.

SG: Could you talk about the writing of poetry in France today? With everything you've just said, could one now characterize the way French poets react to language, without necessarily going into names or schools? How does this concept of reterritorialization affect contemporary writing?

MD: A current direction that is much bruited about goes something like this. "There's a return to . . ."That is to say, there is in the wind a return to the lyrical, even the elegiac.

SG: And the narrative?

MD: The narrative, too, yes; but then again that's a very complicated question since, quite simply, in the word narration there are two strands, one going in a certain American direction and the other going back to older modes, to a period, not that far gone, when the poem wrote itself as it told its story—let's say, Victor Hugo's "Légende des siècles," or autobiographies. I don't know whether there is a return to narrative; if there is, I don't know whether it has a future, because I don't believe that poetry can continue through a narrative direction. That doesn't mean theme—a thematic, a something about which one writes and thinks—is excluded, but I don't believe that narration—the telling of a story—on the poetic level, with names of people, or in the lyrical mode or the elegiac I mode, can be done today. To quote Mallarmé, "Nature takes place, and we cannot add to it."^[*] Narrative poetry has been worked over; we can't really add to it. But in any case, it's in the wind.

I believe something has occurred: the various successive experimental movements have, to some extent, worn out poetry—that is, made the relation between reader and poetic text difficult, made the relation impossible. There was a movement that consisted in exterminating, in systematically excluding the thematic, the narrative, even

[*] "La Nature a lieu, on n'y ajoutera pas" (" La Musique et les lettres," in OEuvres^[*] complètes , Pléiade ed. [Paris: Gallimard, 1945], 647).

the syntactical, the lyrical, even the rhythmical, since, after all, repetition, iteration—that which allowed us to recognize what was a poem, essentially a principle of rhythmical repetitions—had been eliminated. In the end, how does one recognize a poetic text? What kind of pleasure will there be in reading a poetic work? What will one find under the rubric of poetry that cannot be found elsewhere, whether this "elsewhere" is fiction or the literary pages of anthropology when, all of a sudden, an anthropologist speaks to us about death and desire? We must be very cautious here. The poem, as a form of linguistic acrobatics, must take shelter, even if by ruse, under something recognizable—a story, or something to do with action in time, something that has a narrative element to it. But I take that to be a pretext and an alibi. The poem might present itself as something "hanging," like a shirt on a clothesline; the narrative thread would then be this clothesline on which, attached by clothespins, lots of things would be hanging. I follow the line and find the poem, the surface, and then I go back to the line and pass to the next poem. Perhaps in that sense there must be a line, a return to rhetoric. After all, that is one of the ruses, a savoir faire , to make the poem readable again, to allow readers to listen once again to the French language. I don't know if that is indeed happening, but if it is, it's useful. As for a panorama of contemporary poetry, that's a more difficult question.

SG: Let me break in for a minute. Do you see, as a poet and as a professor of French literature, a particular mode of French poetic writing? A constant? When you talk or write about it, do you see something that has eliminated other possible poetic forms—as happened, for instance, with those historical poems of Alfred de Vigny's, after they gave way to Baudelaire? Do you think that French poetry today, and as it has been practiced through the mid-eighties, has somehow sealed its identity in relation to fiction?

MD: But the seal is complicated since, at the heart of it, the distinction between prose and verse was explicitly refused—or if not refused, at least forced to vanish. As Mallarmé noted, as soon as there is rhythm, there's verse. In that sense, listening to the dance of language, its

forward movement in prose, one already sees a poem passing by. That, too, Mallarmé taught us. But the same Mallarmé was still writing sonnets and regular verse and, at the same time, the so-called poèmes de circonstances that were also part of his oeuvre. Thus it's very difficult to isolate one as against the other. That said, there is something very simple concerning the situation today: not only are there no more genres in poetry—there are no more tragic poems, no more epic poems—perhaps there are also no more lyrical poems!

SG: No light verse? Satirical verse? Political poetry?

MD: No more satirical poems, no more political ones. The last grouping of poets as a school went under the label of surrealism, and that poetry, written by us, written by all of us (as Ducasse wrote), has also disappeared. In lieu of genres we have poetical works: we have Ponge's works, works by Michaux. There is Char, Saint-John Perse . . . there are also great individual texts that we call poetry. I've mentioned only the complete works of a poet and, in some cases, poems written by poets now dead. Would we say the same today? Yes; to skip a whole generation, we can say that there is poetry by Bonnefoy, by André du Bouchet. I don't know if we'll be able to continue this particular series. That's what troubles me.

SG: But this series has a subseries. There are generations, and while I don't want to compile an impossible anthology of poetry, there are poems by Char, du Bouchet, Dupin; and following them there will be, not to say imitators, but poets whose sensitivity will express itself in similar registers, compatible with previous ones.

MD: But then there will only be poetry if there is a great work written by a poet, by one of them, by someone. In the second half of this century, that is how poetry occurs. There are a few rare oeuvres of the French language that have wanted to be poetic works, that decided to be so, and for very complicated reasons—Ponge's motive is extremely complicated, but then again so is René Char's . . . and so on. This is rather worrisome. Should there no longer be a will on the part of the poet to write a great poetic oeuvre, there might no longer be any poetry in the language—I'm not saying forever, but for a long

time to come. In other words, what would be the conditions for a great poetic oeuvre? As far as I'm concerned, there's one that seems important: I would readily say that the poet is someone who, in some sense, must explain himself. I've always found it significant that when the works of a great poet are collected in a single edition—whether Leopardi's or Hölderlin's, to mention the classics—next to the poems, together with the poems, is the correspondence. Take the most recent example: the Pléiade edition of Saint-John Perse. Whatever was written down during the poet's lifetime in forms other than poetry is there: conferences, papers . . . There's a poetic oeuvre insofar as there is an "accompanying explanation," a multiple discourse to go along with it. Take the way Rimbaud has been presented in the Pléiade edition: two thirds is made up of what he didn't "write," that is, his letters from Ethiopia, etc. That is unquestionably a powerful reason to include nonpoetic works in a complete edition.

I might also formulate it in another way, using another theorem:Poetry is not alone. What counts are the relations it has with itself, and as a result of which it is. In relation to these confrontations, rivalries, jealousies, and comparisons that it has, for instance, with music, with philosophy, with painting. That is, everything that was once called ut pictura poesis, ut musica poesis  . . . everything of that nature comes to mind when I say, "Poetry is not alone." That statement was also perfectly evident to the surrealists, with their intense relations with paintings, for example. Thus, the arts form a circle, a dance of the arts, which, fundamentally, one could see as the dance of the muses. One shouldn't lose sight of that. One should hold out one's hand to music and say: "What are you doing, you musicians who claim to be more musical than we? What does philosophy do in its own way? Perhaps here I shall try to elaborate. If there is a proximity between philosophy and poetry, each vast and enigmatic, each a realm of experience and work, it is perhaps because in its tissue, in its texture, in its linguistic material, philosophy is poetic. The rigor of its thought is such that it is in fact none other than a rhetorical rigor, a tropological or figured one. The question of figures or tropes; the

philosopher's language . . . Many have asserted this, including Jacques Derrida: the words, the sentences of the philosopher are tropical, tropological, figurative, deeply in their element, in that imaginative schema that Laurent Jenny, in his essay in Po&Sie , called the Figural.^[*] Thus there is no distinctive conceptual logic of the Other, no words that would be in harmony with the mise-en-scène of Being, the figurants of Being. But indeed there is—and let's call it language!—and as a result we can read a philosophic work as we would a poetic one.

SG: You've just answered my question when you spoke of the constituent parts of an oeuvre. Clearly your parapoetic works figure in that definition, as well as your poetic works. But in listening to you, I was also made aware of the importance you attribute to pleasure, the pleasure we find as readers, going from shirt to shirt on that clothesline! The autonomy of language, brilliantly suggestive, fulfills numerous functions, one of which, for me at least, is pleasure. We are not engaged in the fabrication of a purely hermetic text, but one also influenced, from beginning to end, by that trinity you defined; and yet translation may be the code that allows an uninterrupted reading of your work. There we find translations, that is, movements in space, as well as on a metaphorical level. This leads to my next question. On the one hand, there were, in the fifteenth century, the grands rhétoriqueurs , Jean Lemaire de Belges and others; on the other, if I might simplify, there is the so-called oral American school, though it's not the only school to practice vocality within the rediscovery of narration. The oral quality, the spoken, plays a central role in American poetics. Unquestionably, that is not the only tendency—there is also a language influence at play among certain American poets—but from Walt Whitman to Allen Ginsberg, the factor of enunciation has been one of the bridges permitting the reader to accede to an undeniable pleasure. Is there, in France, a reinterpretation not only of the lyrical, of that narrative you have described, but also of an oral inscription?

[*] "L'Evénement figural", chap. I of his La Parole singulière (Paris: Belin, 1990), 13–41.

Or, put another way, is Heidegger's influence still predominant in contemporary French poetry?

MD: There I can't agree, for in a certain sense, there's nothing more vocal than a page taken from Heidegger! One might even imagine a public reading of many of his pages. This runs in the direction of orality, this vocality of language. But wait a moment . . . here things get complicated again! I believe there is a radical, inseparable vocalization of poetry, since it is a linguistic manifestation (I'll explain that in a minute), but on the other hand, when this vocalization or oralization becomes a performance, a certain staging of the gestural—I find that more questionable. The poem is deeply bound with a decision of quantity, space, time, accents—that is, a decision founded on diction. The poem's diction constitutes the poem's poetics. I'm convinced of that, and I once tried to show it in the case of Baudelaire,^[*] where diction is effectively realized through prolongation. That is a constitutive part of the poem's poetics. That's one thing. But the oral, the vocal—that's in the poem of language; there's no doubt in my mind. I never shared the caricatural view that poetry was not made to be said, to be read out loud, to be heard. I don't believe that. And I have never believed it, but on the other hand, I'm not so sure that the festival moment, the regulated, preconceived moment of a vociferal act, itself operating within the field of a whole complex of technological apparatus—for isn't it a question, essentially, of a series of relays: the microphone, the recording session, the sound conditions for the audience on a given evening—should be considered part of the poem. I do believe that my own poems are meant to be heard . . .

SG: How then would you define the relation between poetic diction, performance, and sound conditions in your own work?

MD: What bothers me when I give readings are the technical conditions involved, the possible staging of an "act." I don't feel at ease going in that direction. But that doesn't stop me for one minute from believing that the diction of a poem makes up the poem. If there is a considerable

[*] See Deguy, "Esthétique de Baudelaire," in his Figurations , 203–30.

influence nowadays from that particular direction, it is undoubtedly an American influence, together with the despair that poetry, confronted with songs, should no longer find an audience. But the song is the place where we are trying to find poetry, and I have nothing against popular music. Language is also meant to be composed like a song, and it's by that route that the young will rediscover poetry, and in particular, assonance and rhyme, paronomasia, humor, story line, and satire. Popular songs have taken that up for themselves. And it's said there are many good songwriters and singers! Music is there too, as an accompaniment, as it was in the time of the troubadours and also in the time of the ancient Greeks. It has always been there. Such a tradition might also be a way of finding out where poetry might end up if it allows everything that belongs to it to be taken away, including a large public.

SG: You have been translated in the U.S.; you have given readings there—in fact, you and I read together over fifteen years ago at the Maison française, at New York University—how do you react when you hear yourself in English? What are the connections to that Other, in a way, whose name also happens to be Michel Deguy?

MD: It's quite simple! Sometimes, on certain pages, in certain stanzas, I say to myself, "That's very good; I'm sure it makes a poem in English." And sometimes, perhaps owing to the translator or perhaps too to the original poem, I say to myself, "That doesn't mean anything! It really doesn't make one think or sing in English." That's what it comes down to!

The Metronome

Which beats there
A phrase of the tongue
Playing in the wind

The meter's neume
The pendulum confides
Time to diction

Rhythm threshold a door
Of words must be
Open and closed

Long short and pause
Time passes
Will pass again

There is a like in being
A familial air a delicate air

The drafts of air
turn the pages
no folds here
but six

Hold a moment longer
Kind reader

Time for a naked word
Between two turns

What enchants me
    folds
To the calibers of colors

We Remember Having Lived . . .

We remember having lived and like

Lesser mortals we laugh at the food that's left

The moon as a perfect round crowns prehistory

The ocean rises higher than the horizon

In a three-master the phantom of Golgotha goes by

Paris, Frimaire

              To B.D.

The moon of the Lumière brothers
In black and white
    passes over Beaubourg
Its silent version

Analphabeto subtitles
Translate in desperanto
    Burger Burger King Macdo
Night's orchestra the Retro

Tell me Guillaume where are we now
The horrible chronometric sentence
Counts backwards the Millennium
    3 5 0 0 5 7 2 7 5 7

But she, without horses, dogs, Eumenides
    No ship no Pierrot guides her
    But how can one be
    So brilliant and so drunk

She so virginal and so full swells
Irresistibly uproots the antenna of antennae
Nothing can stop her from ditching
The Sound and Light commemo

    And on her mirror pedestal
    Above the great ancestor

Reverberates this time before those times when A-
Frica hadn't drifted away from Brazil
The Atlantic slowly widened

The Fountain once called the Innocents
    The Fate of arrivals
And changing knickers amidst the tourists
    Suddenly "closes" like the Cultural Center

Hanging Garden

You by my care trilobed I
    Delicate stem in your hands
Breath requesting a word invaginating you
I is another I loving this one
By this one another I simulating semblance

To be a being qualified as a child
    Edged with your mouth's attributes
Loving the supplication of moving tongues
    Shutter of faces linked to a shuddering pain
    Or grafted delights when your back looks at me

The left wrist emptying the groin
The pond naked of sweat freshened
    Have I left you
    I the axis of the core
    You the hanging garden

To the Gulliver Society

Nothing is lost, all is created

Poetry, allowed to make her claims cultural , prefers to sneak away, vanish into nature—But nature has disappeared . . .

Who is she? Péguy would have called her a "parallel supplicant."

What does she do? She disjoins articulations.

Where is she going? You can hear her in language when her door is left swinging; a door must open and close. What door? The tongue itself as porter of language: swinging portal, thus she stamps the threshold; she allows it to be a threshold of immensity .

Where does she come from? By divagations she storms her way, sketches out her licentious regime, hollows out her bed so as not to sleep in it.

An Abbreviated Version of One's Complete Works

I. Section on Poetry and Criticism

The Racinian origins of the Narrator

or

Phèdre changed into Marcel:

"'/Marcel/' in the labyrinth with you descended

will have been lost and recaptured with you."

II. Section on Translation

A suggested translation for the incipit of the Tao Te Ching:

The issue is and is not the issue.

III. Section on Moral Maxims

That no person should be taken for life.

IV. Section on Political Science

The West has placed infinite value on the person?

Were it only that! We'll be able to take infinity as a hostage.

V. Section on Pragmatics and Sociology

There isn't any "and so forth" to the I-saw-myself-seeing-myself of Monsieur Teste. The regime of intersubjectivity is open and spaciously circumscribed by Socrates; the exchange is completed when, and if, I know that you know that I know-I-don't-know-anything. You will know when you know that I know that you know that I know that I know nothing.

VI. Section on Poetics

Philosophy can prepare one for poetry—

Still missing: The Critique of Poetical Reason.

At best the best is tropic.

Nature does not speak mathematics.

(to be continued)

Le Métronome

Qui bat là
Une phrase de langue
Au vent du jeu

Neume du mètre
Le balancier confie
Le temps à la diction

Rythme seuil il faut
Qu'une porte en mots
soit ouverte et fermée

Longue brève et pause
Le temps passe
Il repassera

Il y a du comme dans l'être
Un air de famille un air de rien

Le courant d'airs
tourne les pages
ça ne fait pas un pli
mais six

Encore un instant
Monsieur le lecteur

Le temps d'un mot nu
Entre deux tournes

Ce qui me chante
    se plie
Aux calibres des couleurs

Nous Nous Souvenons D'avoir Vécu . . .

Nous nous souvenons d'avoir vécu et comme

De moins mortels nous rions sur la réserve des vivres

La lune en rond parfait comble la préhistoire

L'océan se soulève plus haut que l'horizon

En trois-mâts repasse le fantôme du Golgotha

Paris, Frimaire

              à B.D.

La lune des Lumière
En noir et blanc repasse
    sur Beaubourg
Sa version en muet

Les sous-titres analphabeto
Font de la traduction en désesperanto
    Burger Burgerking et Macdo
C'est le bastringue de la nuit Rétro

Dis-moi Guillaume où donc en sommes-nous
L'horrible sentence chronométrique
Compte à rebours le Millénaire
    3 5 0 0 5 7 2 7 5 7

Mais elle sans chevaux sans chiens sans Euménides
    Aucun navire aucun pierrot ne guide
    Mais comment peut-on être
    Aussi brillante et aussi grise

Elle aussi vierge et aussi pleine gonfle
Irrésistiblement défonce l'antenne des antennes
Rien ne peut l'empêcher de plaquer
la commémo son & lumiére

    Et sur sa tronche de miroir
    En haut l'archiaïeule

Réverbère ce temps d'avant les temps quand l'A-
Frique n'avait pas dérivé du Brésil
L'Atlantique lentement s'élargit

La Fontaine qui fut des Innocents
    Parque des arrivages
Et changeant ses culottes d'eau milieu des touristes
   Elle «ferme» soudain comme le Centre Culturel

Le Jardin Suspendu

Etant donnée toi par mes soins trilobée Moi
     tige soignée de tes mains
L'haleine requérant un mot qui t'invagine
Je est un autre je aimant celle-ci
Par celle-ci un autre je simulant le semblable

Etre un être qualifié comme un enfant
     Bordé d'attributs de ta bouche
Aimant la supplication des langues remuantes
     Le contrevent des faces liées à contresupplice
     Ou la greffe de délices quand ton dos me regarde

Le poignet gauche évidait l'aine
L'étang nu de la sueur fraîchissait
     T'ai-je abandonnée
     Moi l'axe de l'assise
     Toi le jardin suspendu

A La Société Gulliver

Rien ne se perd, tout se crée

La poésie, admise à faire valoir ses droits au culturel , préfère fausser compagnie, s'évanouir dans la nature—Mais la nature est évanouie . . .

Qui est-elle? Péguy l'aurait appelée une «suppliante parallèle».

Que fait-elle? Elle démet des articulations.

Où va-t-elle? On l'entend dans la langue quand sa porte bat; il faut qu'une porte s'ouvre et se ferme. Quelle porte? La langue elle-même en tant que porte langage: porte battante, elle marque donc un seuil; elle fait être un seuil de l'immensité .

D'où vient-elle? Par divagations elle force son cours, fraye son régime licencieux, se creuse un lit pour n'y pas dormir.

Abrégé Des oeuvres^[*] Complètes

I. Section poésie et critique

Les origines raciniennes du Narrateur

ou

Phèdre changée en Marcel:

«'/Marcel/' au labyrinthe avec vous descendu Se sera avec vous perdu et retrouvé ».

II. Section Traduction

La proposition de traduction pour l'incipit du Tao Tö king:

L'issue est et n'est pas l'issue.

III. Section des maximes morales

Qu'il ne faut prendre personne en viager.

IV. Section Science politique

L'occident a mis la valeur infinie sur la personne?

Qu'à cela ne tienne! on va pouvoir prendre l'infini en otage.

V. Section pragmatique et sociologique

Il n'y a pas de «ainsi de suite» au je-me-voyais-me-voir de Mr. Teste. Le régime de l'intersubjectivité est ouvert et spacieusement circonscrit par Socrate; l'échange est accompli quand, et si, je sais que tu sais que je sais-que-je-ne-sais-rien. Tu sauras, quand tu sauras que je sais que tu sais que je sais que je ne sais rien.

VI. Section de la poétique

La philosophie peut disposer à la poésie—

Manque encore La Critique de la Raison Poétique.

A la rigueur il n'y a de rigueur que tropique.

La Nature ne parle pas mathématique.

(à suivre)

Joseph Guglielmi

Joseph Guglielmi was born in 1929 in Marseille. Among his many books of poetry are Aube (Paris: Seuil, 1968), Pour commencer (Paris: Action poétique, 1975), Le Jour pas le rêve (Paris: Orange Export, Ltd., 1977), Du blanc le jour son espace (Nîmes: Editions Terriers, 1979), La Préparation des titres (Paris: Flammarion, 1980), Fins de vers (Paris: P.O.L., 1986), Das, la mort (Marseille: Parenthèses, 1986), Le Mouvement de la mort (P.O.L., 1988), Poésie, poésie (Paris: Jean-Luc Poivret, 1990), Joe's Bunker, suivi de L'Eté (P.O.L., 1991), and K ou Le Dit du passage (P.O.L., 1992). He has written two works of criticism: Le Dégagement multiple (Paris: Le Collet de buffle, 1977) and La Ressemblance impossible: Edmond Jabès (Paris: Editeurs français réunis, 1978).

Selected Publications in English:

Ends of Lines , extract. Translated by Michael Palmer and Norma Cole. o·blek^[*] 5 (Spring 1989): 131–36.

Le Mouvement de la mort , extracts. Translated by Norma Cole. In Violence of the White Page: Contemporary French Poetry , edited by Stacy Doris, Phillip Foss, and Emmanuel Hocquard. Special issue of Tyuonyi , no. 9/10 (1991): 103–6.

"Passing." Translated by Serge Gavronsky. Shearsman , n.s., 6 (1992): 7–9.

"Passing" and extract from "Joe's Bunker." Translated by Serge Gavronsky. Hot Bird MFG 2, no. 6 (1993).

Serge Gavronsky: I've always been struck by the energy that arises from your work, which is rather rare in contemporary French poetry. Were I to generalize, I might even say that you are a unique phenomenon in French poetry since, judging from the texts of yours that I've read and the opportunities I've had to hear you read in public, the nature of your voice sustains the decision in your poetry to exist as an electrifying experience.

Joseph Guglielmi: That compliment, my friend, goes right to my heart! I don't think energy is the result of a particular decision; it's rather like an electric current that either passes through or doesn't. But I would still have to say that language itself, in its natural state, already contains an energy charge. Between words, in order for them to make sense, in order for meaning to occur, there must be some sort of energy; without it, there's no poetry, there's no language.

SG: As you know, since you're a reader of American poetry, at least in a certain kind of American poetry the oral aspect is preponderant. There is a "performance" factor, an insistence on the polish of the delivery, a concern for public reception of works read out loud to an audience. I believe this sort of practice carries over into the content of the work itself since, consciously or unconsciously, the poet begins to "hear" his or her poetry, an experience which then, at least in part, dictates the nature of his or her poetry and constitutes a sort of updated Whitmanesque poetics, as opposed to both a Wallace Stevens strand and what is referred to as "academic" poetry in the U.S. This emphasis on the projected voice, on orality, as typified by the Beats, seems to me to have pushed écriture into the background. Would you talk about the place of that vocal quality in your work?

JG: At least two stages have got to be taken into account in answering your question. The first one is the writing, and perhaps in that first stage there is already a foreshadowing of orality. For example, in my Fins de vers , I tried to write using an eight-foot line, a rhythmic eightfooter, not rhymed, of course! And when I read it out loud I try to discover this rhythm in the writing, and I find it and at the same time transform it, increasing its tension so as to underline the scansion.

When I scan the lines, I try to give them maximum energy (as you've noted), an expressive energy. I'm not adding meaning but expression, to make the reading more "brawny"! That way, the line communicates to the listener through a tension, a scansion.

SG: In La Préparation des titres , it's clear you like to insert lines from foreign languages, especially English, into your French poem. What does their presence correspond to? Even readers who do not understand a foreign language must, I imagine, be struck by this insertion, and for those who do understand, it is an added semantic and phonic attraction. Could you talk about the way these insertions function in your writing?

JG: If I might answer in two ways, the first would simply be that I like doing it, that it's fun! But in a more serious vein, let me add that, as you know, I've been translating American poets such as Larry Eigner, Rosmarie Waldrop, Clark Coolidge, and at this moment, an American poet living in Paris, Joseph Simas. This linguistic activity, that is, translation, gives me a great deal of pleasure, even if at times it makes me sweat! To answer your question then, sometimes I simply use these languages—I was about to say that I stuff them, but I'll say I place them in my work, I use them to articulate my texts. Sometimes when I put an American line in my poem it adds an even greater element of energy, because English, for me, is a very musical language. All you have to do is listen to a blues singer, or even a Shakespearean actor . . . There's a special musical quality that really touches me, and I try to pepper my own verse with it a bit, for a little more energy, power.

SG: When you translate American poets, to say nothing of your translations from the Italian, do you feel a difference, one that's only noticeable to the translator, a difference between the nature of the English language and the presence of the French—that is, when you go from English to French, do you feel a loss, an enrichment, a displacement?

JG: When I go from English to French I often feel a loss. First of all, as I've just said, there's a loss of musicality and also a loss on the level

of expression. There's a relief in English writing, a force, an energy (to use the word again) that is often lost in French, although something else may be gained. But that musicality is lost, and I would say the same thing for Italian. I once attended a meeting of poets at the Pompidou Center—there was a Russian poet, an American, and many French poets. But let me tell you, I was really struck by how flat French sounded beside the Russian and American readings! I'm certainly not asking for a bel canto , but there wasn't that song, that sort of folly that those other languages convey. Unfortunately, French has a rather flat musical line. It's a flat language. You know, in the south of France, when you talk like a northerner, like a Parisian, they say you're talking "sharply," "pointedly." And I certainly don't have that accent! [Guglielmi has a strong southern accent.]

SG: I agree with what you're saying, though I know poets in Paris who are quite happy with this restriction that the French language imposes on their work and who, as a consequence, concern themselves with problems of écriture rather than the breath line in poetry. The type of reading you mentioned, at times a bit flamboyant, is rarely found among Paris poets, although a certain fellow by the name of Artaud clearly wanted to break with that tradition!

JG: Not to be unjust, I should point out that work on language is also very important for me. Like you, I too have been very interested in both Francis Ponge and Edmond Jabès. This questioning of language by language itself (if I might simplify a bit) is really the essence of poetry. Alongside that, I do raise the problem of public diction, which is a specific problem and one that characterizes my own work, but for all that, I certainly don't neglect the work on language, which is the poet's work as found in Jacques Roubaud, Claude Royet-Journoud, Anne-Marie Albiach, Jean Daive, and others. These are people who are interested in all the problems of diction, including public readings. Perhaps they don't ask the same questions I do, but they do, quite insistently, ask similar ones.

SG: You've just alluded to Jabès, and I know that you've written about him . . .

JG: A whole book, even!

SG: Right, sorry! With Jabès, who is a poet—that is, he wrote poems during his early years in Cairo—there is something that has always struck me as an apparent paradox; namely, he seems to be a materialist metaphysician, someone who asks questions about Judaism, about Being, Exile, and the Desert, all the while insisting, with equal conviction, on the lives lived by ordinary human beings in their own milieus. As a consequence, his language is at once "philosophic" and current, a spoken language that one might easily associate with prose. He's marvelously able to synchronize these levels of language, which indicate to the reader separate and apparently distinct preoccupations. But when I think of some of the poets we know, I do not see a similar complexity of intention, and when the question of Being is raised, it seems to be too psychoanalytically motivated, that is, too autobiographical—even, and perhaps especially, when it is defined in a post-Mallarméan enterprise. Are you yourself touched by some of these themes, by some of these translations of themes into a working poetic language?

JG: All these questions are of special interest to me, and at this moment I'm preparing a paper on Jabès that I'll be giving at the Cerisy "Décade" in his honor this summer (1987).^[*] But I think what touches me most in Jabès is his subversiveness. He speaks about Judaism, but—and isn't that one of the traits of Judaism, that is, to be subversive?—he exercises an option in interpreting important Jewish texts, interpreting them rather freely, and . . . isn't it always the same thing—if you're an asshole, you'll come away with an asshole interpretation! If not, then not. I find that Jabès has given the question of Judaism an absolutely subversive interpretation, and I'm certainly not the only one to have said this. Didn't he title one of his recent books Subver -

[*] The "Colloque de Cerisy-La-Salle" in 1987 honored at its traditional ten-day conference the Egyptian-born French poet and writer Edmond Jabès (1912–91). See Joseph Guglielmi, "Le Journal de lecture d'Edmond Jabès," in Ecrire le livre: Autour d'Edmond Jabès (Seyssel: Champ Vallon, 1989). Guglielmi had previously written the afterword to the second edition of Edmond Jabès, Je bâtis ma demeure (Paris: Gallimard, 1975), 325–33.

sion above Suspicion ?^[*] And so, with Judaism as his starting point, Jabès questions écriture, politics, ethics, aesthetics. I think he confronts nearly all the great questions that exist and, though they will never be resolved, remain fundamental.

[*] Edmond Jabès, Le Petit Livre de la subversion hors de soupçon (Paris: Gallimard, 1982).

Joe's Bunker

My own bunker is you
because poetry isn't
a bunker, but for some
poetry is a bunker,
For me  a godsent spring^[*
] and joyous omens, sic
of musical  translations
oblivions for legs and feet.
Or private public recourse
suborning the music so
music private public
Almond paste shaped like moons
of tradition the muddy flow,
dreamy dreamer, running grey
is deathless or immortal
reading black space motions of ghosts

[*] Italics indicate words written in a language other than French in the original poem.

the moon over the bunker
like a hat over a heart

And dialogue with monsters,
sirens who hide
in the black black of the sea sea.
In the incessant myth-ocean
its level graft of moon
versified in French for his
pains; catalog cut out
an adieu, mental punctuation
like, like YOGADRISHTI
Yoga power of vision.
The earth beauteous belle, clear
Beauty clear and fair the air
Bunker makeup of your mouth
Hand playing with spare scorpions,
impaled by a million lives.
And the white lollipop stick,
of the rotting, stupid moon
Fish rotting head to tail,
shit-debris of the mind,
A nice day in the universe
scrutinized naked in the mirror ,
mirror of angels' dust
The cavalcade, fragment of a word
or metaphysical moon
On that thing of an airport
between thighs and a bud
its vernacular clarity
Moon like cream in my coffee,
moon bunker of space
Abandoned full moon
post the worthless line
on the facade of old summer
Scheming
         the company

Bunker,  Seven Songs of Hell
bloated belly and naily hands,
Screaming rain with mutts,
thrown into mealy mouths,
Iron river under trees,
hands, vein music
press the blood upward
Blush at moments of love
or pick up an old poem
With breasts in the shape of a
cross, cut the lines
shorter
to attract
        attention!

Pilot the flesh further
Injustice for Eliot
Quis hic locus, quae regio ,
what tongue tonguing the
prey
    and what image returns ?
Those who exhaust the line,
their pigsty comfort
in the style of contentment!
Establishment  of death,
the heart, the body, the eye.
What a picture, the punster,
awake, half-open lips.
To live for the inexpressible!
The bodies you can touch
in the bunker of the flesh
Real words in your body
already asleep, you are alone
near the sea of Albisola
or any sea!
So recently churned over.
The island
    Pentacle trembling
Its body, an enormous octopus
with its humid breasts . . .
Breasts, milkwood,
The sign Mahamudra,
bunker lips
            in the center
flatter their color circle
After a smoked rose
or a belly liquor drunk
The frog leaping out of void .

How
         to hold the poem,
typecase where the mind
and sleep join till black?
Bright night. A strip
of flesh, the city reflected,
and forms erected in fear
Everything holds on the flat sky
in a Reverdy figure
that flames made bleed
the bunker of the hollow moon,
grating metal on the horizon.
An enamel cascade
and cold through its handsome body
Continue to seek out
karma isn't a bunker
Or energy  escapes us,
universal difficult !
Too body, body, body !
Our will the instru
ment of a struggle against the
book-bunker or mother's milk!
Take the one Under Milk Wood
drinking all the earth's alcohol
yelling out his kisses in verse
some of them long  but are so
rhythmical leaping and dancing
between the stars and the chimneys
Spawn of the living art and mind
Sharp moments of the language
unlocking the secret, piercing
the night
          black torch in sunrise ,

When poets are in bed
soft and white in their skins
enjoying the sun in bed
rhythms leaping and dancing
between star and chimney
Tulips also
        moments
sharpened moments of language
to free the secret,
Black torches at the dawn
of verse horizon of meaning,
displacement of the map
a couple of letters with sla
shes of anterior lives,
A lightness next to writing
a tongue loosened,
Tongue in pidgin italian
or the autopsy of chance
Gusto della tua saliva
con il fuoco sulla bocca
Scan those plaintive sounds
il lamento fra i cocci .
And that maritime town
so long ago out of you
man of invisible nights
colors having passed
All his wrongs and his reasons:
Solo nella stanza vuota ,
hollow and which spoke to the dead.
There would be a final book,
metonymic light
its
   prosaic reservoir
brilliant with a muted luna ,

tiny lux  and the ball
with an encaustic sky
and
    train noise  in firmament

Joe's Bunker

Mon bunker à moi c'est toi
car la poésie n'est pas
un bunker, mais pour certains
poésie est un bunker,
For me un printemps d'aubaines
et joyeux augures, sic
de traductions musical
oblivions for legs and feet.
Or private public recourse
suborning the music so
musique privée publique
Amandes en pâte de lune
de tradition le flot boueux,
rêveur, rêvasseur, running grey
is deathless or immortal
reading black space motions of ghosts

la lune sur le bunker
comme un chapeau sur un coeur^[*]

Et dialogue avec les monstres,
les sirènes qui se cachent
au noir noir de la mer mer.
Dans l'incessant mythe-océan
son niveau enté de lune
mis en vers français pour sa
peine; catalogue creusa
l'adieu, mental ponctuation
comme, comme YOGADRISHTI
Pouvoir yoga de la vision.
La terre belle beauté, clear
Beauty clear and fair the air
Bunker de ton fard de bouche
Main joueuse de scorpions secs,
empalés d'un million de vies.
Et le bâton blanc de sucette
de lune stupide, pourrie
Le poisson de la tête-bêche,
le débris-merde de l'esprit,
A nice day in the universe
à nu scruté dans le mirror,
miroir poussière des anges
La cavale, un fragment de mot
ou lune métaphysique
Sur le truc aéroport
entre les cuisses et le bud
sa clarté vernaculaire
Lune comme un café crème,
lune bunker de l'espace
Abandon de lune pleine
afficher le vers indigne
au fronton du vieil été
Machiner
         la compagnie

Bunker,  Sept Chants de l'Enfer
ventre large et mains onglées,
Pluie hurlant avec les clebs,
jetés dans les bouches bouchues,
Un fleuve de fer sous les arbres,
les mains, musique des veines
presser le sang vers le haut
Rougir aux moments d'amour
ou reprendre un ancien poème
Vec les seins en forme de
croix, couper les vers
plus courts
pour attirer
        l'attention!

Piloter la chair plus loin
Injustice for Eliot
Quis hic locus, quae regio,
quelle langue léchant la
proie
    and what image returns?
Ceux qui épuisent le vers,
leur porcherie de bien-être
in the style of contentment!
Establishment de la mort,
le coeur^[*]  le corps, le regard.
Quelle image, le faiseur,
l'éveil, lèvres entrouvertes.
Vivre pour l'inexprimé!
Les corps que tu peux toucher
dans le bunker de la chair
Les mots réels dans ton corps
dorment déjà, tu es seul
près de la mer l'Albisola
ou n'importe quelle mer!
Tout fraîchement retournée.
L'île
    Pentacle tremblant
Son corps, une énorme pieuvre
avec ses gorges humides . . .
Une gorge, bois de lait,
Le signe Mahamudra,
bunker des lèvres
            au centre
flatter leur cercle couleur
Après une rose fumée
soit liqueur du ventre bu
The frog leaping out of void.

Comment
         tenir le poème,
casseau où joindre l'esprit
et le sommeil jusqu'au noir?
La nuit qui brille. Une lame
de chair, la ville reflet,
et formes dressées dans la peur
Tout se tient sur le ciel plat
à figure Reverdy
que la flamme faisait saigner
le bunker de la lune vide,
métal qui grince à l'horizon.
Une cascade d'enamel
and cold through its handsome body
Continuer à chercher
le karma c'est pas a bunker
Ou l'energy nous échappe,
universelle difficult!
Trop body, body, body!
Notre volonté instru
ment de lutte contre le
livre-bunker ou loloche!
Prenez celui Under Milk Wood
buvant tout l'alcool de la terre
criant ses baisers en vers
plus ou moins longs but are so
rhythmical leaping and dancing
between the stars and the chimneys
Spawn of the living art and mind
Sharp moments of the language
unlocking the secret, piercing
the night
        black torch in sunrise,

Quand les poètes sont au lit
douillets et blancs dans leur peau
jouir du soleil au lit
rythmes sautés et dansés
entre étoile et cheminée
Tulipes aussi
        moments
moments aiguisés du langage
pour débloquer le secret,
Noires torches à l'aurore
du vers horizon du sens,
déplacement de la carte
quelques lettres avec jam
bages de vies antérieures,
Légers à côté d'écrire
d'une langue déliée,
Tongue in pidgin italian
or l'autopsie du hasard
Gusto della tua saliva
con il fuoco sulla bocca
Scander ces sons à la plainte
il lamento fra i cocci.
Et la ville maritime
si longtemps sortie de toi
homme des nuits invisibles
des couleurs ainsi passées
Tous ses torts et ses raisons:
Solo nella stanza vuota,
vide et qui parlait aux morts.
Il y aurait un dernier livre,
lumière métonymique
son
    réservoir prosaïque
brillant de muette luna ,

petite lux  et la boule
avec le ciel encaustique
et
    bruit de train  in firmament

Claude Royet-Journoud

Claude Royet-Journoud was born in Lyon in 1941. He was a cofounder and coeditor (with Anne-Marie Albiach and Michel Couturier) of the magazine Siècle à mains , published from 1963 to 1970. Among his publications are Le Renversement (Paris: Gallimard, 1972), La Notion d'obstacle (Gallimard, 1978), Les Objets contiennent l'infini (Gallimard, 1983), Une Méthode descriptive (Paris: Le Collet de buffle, 1986), Milieu de dispersion (Crest: La Sétérée, 1986), and Port de voix (Marseille: Avec/Spectres familiers, 1990). With Emmanuel Hocquard he has coedited two major anthologies of contemporary American poetry in French and English: 21 + 1 poètes américains d'aujourd'hui (Montpellier: Delta, 1986) and 49 + 1 nouveaux poètes américains (Royaumont: Un Bureau sur l'Atlantique/Action poétique, 1992).

Selected Publications in English:

Até. Translated by Gary G. Gach. San Francisco: Minerva's Typorium, 1984.

Até. Translated by Keith Waldrop. Hong Kong: Blue Guitar Books, 1981.

The Crowded Circle . Translated by Keith Waldrop. Edinburgh: Le Collet de buffle, 1973.

"The Maternal Drape" or The Restitution . Translated by Charles Bernstein. Windsor, Vt.: Awede, 1985.

The Notion of Obstacle . Translated by Keith Waldrop. Windsor, Vt.: Awede, 1985.

Objects Contain the Infinite . Translated by Keith Waldrop. Windsor, Vt.: Awede, forthcoming.

Reversal . Translated by Keith Waldrop. Providence, R.I.: Hellcoat Press, 1973.

"The Crowded Circle" and "Até." Translated by Keith Waldrop. In The Random House Book of

Twentieth-Century French Poetry , edited by Paul Auster, 576–85. New York: Random House, 1982.

"A Descriptive Method." Excerpt translated by Michael Davidson. Temblor 7 (1988): 61–71.

"A Descriptive Method." Excerpt translated by Joseph Simas. Avec 3 (1990): 43–55.

"Error in Localisation of Events in Time." Translated by Keith Waldrop. o·blek^[*] 6 (Fall 1989): 73–84.

"I.e." Excerpt translated by Keith Waldrop. o·blek2 8 (Fall 1990): 7–13. Another excerpt appears in Avec 6 (1993): 93–97.

"Lover and Image." Translated by Keith Waldrop. o·blek 5 (Spring 1989): 205–12.

"Mourning: Period of Invasion." Translated by Keith Waldrop. o.blek 1 (n.d.): 29–37.

"The Narrative of Lars Fredrikson." Translated by Joseph Simas. In Violence of the White Page: Contemporary French Poetry , edited by Stacy Doris, Phillip Foss, and Emmanuel Hocquard. Special issue of Tyuonyi , no. 9/10 (1991): 188–89.

"Portamento." Translated by Keith Waldrop. o·blek 7 (Spring 1990): 107–13. (My own translation of this poem follows the interview in the present volume.)

Serge Gavronsky: As a close reader of contemporary American poetry, would you agree that there is a tenacious desire to transcribe common speech into the writing of poetry? From William Carlos Williams through Allen Ginsberg, at least one interpretation of one American poetics has emphasized the possibility of speaking through the pen.

Claude Royet-Journoud: I'm not particularly interested in that problem, that is, of placing the oral within the written text. On the other hand, I am very interested in people who really improvise with speech— for instance, David Antin, in whose work it is no longer a question of placing the oral in writing but rather of coming closer to an oral improvisation that approaches a philosophical enterprise. The body speaking, rather than mere chatter. Antin pays extreme attention to listening, to the place; he will not say the same thing at the Village Voice bookstore in Paris as he would in Royaumont or in Texas. His work questions writing through speech itself. But otherwise, to answer your question, there are young American poets like Steve Benson who alternate from one to the other. When I heard him read at the Village Voice in Paris, he had a tape recorder with which he'd record an improvised section in between the texts he read. I asked him why he was doing that, and since then I've read his texts with greater care and have discovered that he works over the sections that had been improvised, and it's all a profoundly intelligent, intellectual work. As for the other American poets whom I like a great deal, they all fall into the category of écriture—people who are quite different one from the other, such as Michael Palmer, Keith Waldrop, or the Language poets. I don't know if that answers your question . . .

SG: Of course it does! And in your own case?

CRJ: I am concerned with the problems of the page, of the book, of the lines, of the story in the poem . . .

SG: You spend a long time, in a sort of scriptural meditation, writing out long passages in prose in your notebooks. Could you elaborate on that function? What are the connections between your notebooks and your stripped-down poems?

CRJ: Well, what I write is founded on prose. First I compose a piece of prose, but a type of prose that is sadly without any literary interest. Something composed of notes jotted down, completely unusable on a literary level. The function of this prose is to generate, to provoke a moment of thought or rather a vision, in terms of a literary understanding of the work—a moment when, all of a sudden, we lose the blindness with which we live, so that suddenly words and things have a true contour; for one can say that, whatever kind of work we do, most of the time we're rather like blind men. Thus, this prose serves to clean out the body. I used to be able to work out the poem as I was writing the prose, but now I no longer can do that, so I wait for the notebook to be filled. When that happens, it marks a sort of end to the work, and then I type everything out in order to let it cool down a bit. Then I try to sketch out what may eventually become a poem, but a poem is in no way lifted out of material found in the prose. It's just a question of waiting for the moment, and when it arrives, there is a certain space filled by the writing. Moving on from that space, if you will, I'll try to think against the grain about the poem. And then, if I've succeeded in writing a poem, sometimes I'll try to multiply the thing, to keep up a sort of conversation between the poem and what it has left behind, what I was unable to include in the poem.

SG: How do you differentiate between what has been "left behind" and what makes up the poem?

CRJ: I don't know if I follow your question. First you have the prose, then the poem, and between the two there's a mystery. Sometimes, out of curiosity, I'll try to rediscover the source of the poem in the prose—it can be over 16 pages long; but let's call it 20 pages, out of more than 220 pages of typewritten material. That does seem to be a slightly disproportionate relationship, unfortunately! But that's the best I can do. I cannot trace a path from the initial prose to the published poem. In fact the poem has no origin. However much I would wish there to be one, there is none. Hence the very complex procedure. The prose is a foundation, something I can lean on. Something that allows me to be . . . more professional. And as you know,

after the foundation is laid, there are things you'd like to put down in a poem, but you can't do it. The poem throws them out.

Once I begin to feel that I haven't worked for naught—since all that prose takes up a lot of time, and the poem does, too—and I have in front of me a text of a couple of pages that is acceptable, then I try to shape it according to the form I have undertaken, a short circuit. One of the ways of short-circuiting is to reread this prose as an independent piece and find out if there aren't elements that might be usable as a counterpoint to the poem. I can also see, in what the poem has discarded, if there isn't something else that can take shape. All that in the hopes of perhaps introducing a sort of dialectic between the two, but that's a recent practice for me and is not always possible. Sometimes I attempt it in order to give a different tempo to the writing. For example, in Une Méthode descriptive , you have the poem at the beginning, followed by the story. In fact both were written from the same material, but there's a considerable difference between them, since the poem is particularly attentive to the line, to the passage from line to line.

SG: Do you define the white spaces at that moment? The italics? Or does that happen at a later stage?

CRJ: At a later stage, except in the case of quotations. I have nothing against not marking quoted passages, but when I use something that's not my own, then italics are required, if they don't disturb the text. But when I use italics in my own text, then it's part of the story, and that always brings on a smile! For me, the italic character is phallic. By the fact that it is an acute remonstration, that it represents a desire to underscore, whether what others do in a university-type discourse or another's thoughts, its presence effects a rupture in the ambient discourse; thus I see it as a phallic character and would use it at very precise moments of the poem, because it intervenes in the story. The same applies to quotation marks and anything else that lends a degree of minimal theatricalization to the text.

SG: What you're saying reminds me of Mallarmé's own fascination with typographic characters, but if I understand you correctly, your in-

terest does not extend to the set of letters available but only to one of their functions.

CRJ: Let me intervene here with a little parenthesis. My own work is a very platitude, a simple thing, the most banal sentence. That's why I have boundless admiration for Anne-Marie Albiach's work, because she knows how to make a page move forward, like Mallarmé, though her text is much more Shakespearean than Mallarméan. Her page is extraordinarily mobile, and so every time I read one of her pages—and she uses everything: capitals, small capitals, lowercase, everything, quotes, italics—I immediately find myself before something simultaneously musical and corporeal. And I remain openmouthed before it, in a state of amazement, because it is never gratuitous; it is always precise. I get the sense that things are coming from every angle of the page, the sense of a real theatricalization. In my case it's almost the reverse, because my space is extremely reduced, whereas Anne-Marie's pages are very full. On her pages you have thirty-five lines of poetry, while on my own there are only a few lines. I could see how, reading me, one might say that there's nothing there!

My work points to the imperceptible, as I think I said in an interview with Hocquard.^[*] I play on minimal units of meaning. In my own case, I work more in these minimal units of meaning than in larger elements, and that's banal, since it's been done for many years. I never use capital letters along the left since that's too easy a way to make something pass for a "poem." Caps along the left! And since I would like to propose something like a clean slate, the line has a number of constraints, the first and most obvious being the absence of capital letters. The other constraint, perhaps more delicate in nature, is the avoidance of assonance, alliteration, metaphor: everything that usually represents struggle within a poem. At the same time I can appreciate that quality in others. I was extremely happy to have been translated by Charles Bernstein, who believes that a poem is a

[*] "Conversation du 8 février 1982: Claude Royet-Journoud-Emmanuel Hocquard," Action poétique 87 (special issue on Claude Royet-Journoud) (1982): 13–21.

meeting of mutually conflictual words; I could say that my poetry is the complete opposite of that, and thus opposites can also meet. But as I told Mathieu Bénézet in an interview,^[*] Eluard's poem "The world is blue like an orange . . ." is much more likely to be exhausted than, say, Marcelin Pleynet's "The rear wall . . . is whitewashed," which, in its context, as far as I can see, defies fixity in its meaning. For me what is interesting is the literal and not the metaphoric.

SG: When you speak about the literal, what part does rhetoric play in that concept? Do you consciously or, at a later moment, unconsciously reduce the place of rhetoric? How far are you willing to go with this reduction of poetic appearances?

CRJ: You use the word reduction . When Merleau-Ponty worked on perception, he said that "the only fundamental lesson of reduction is the impossibility of a complete reduction." To answer your question on rhetoric, you can work at the reduction of a poem more and more, but there comes a moment when it is no longer reducible, when there is resistance. The same holds true for rhetoric. You can eliminate reversals, but there comes a moment when all is rhetoric. When you say, "The table is made of wood" instead of using some handsome metaphorical expression, things don't get better.

SG: Might it not also be said that your poetics of white spaces, of blanks on the page, constitutes a rhetoric? After all, yours is a very ornamental page, offering a sort of representation. It's a question not only of the line, of the black print that can be read, but also of the relationship between the white and the black.

CRJ: This might sound coquettish, but I don't see any blanks in my work! I see them in thought, I see them, for example, in the relationship between books, between titles—for instance, Le Renversement and La Notion d'obstacle , titles that play simultaneously on the idea of notion and concept, one having the most conceptual title and the other the least, and vice versa. I see blanks as a tentative stop in thought, but not so in my texts, really; or to give a different answer, blanks for me

[*] "Faire un livre (entretien avec Mathieu Bénézet)," Digraphe , no.25 (Spring 1981): 151–55.

are time, space. It's a practical matter. If there are two blank lines and further on, four, it means I'll stop ten seconds here and twenty seconds there. For example, when I read my texts out loud, every time I turn a page, I wait fifteen seconds. Each single space constitutes five seconds of silence; if there's a double space, that means ten seconds. It's just a way of integrating space when I read out loud, and I read as infrequently as possible! Which is all to say that blanks for me are really indications of time. They don't correspond to what I was saying about Anne-Marie's work—theatrical, musical. I'm unable, I'm too paralyzed, to succeed at that type of work.

SG: Wouldn't the blanks or the spacings be a time of gestation for thought? Wouldn't that temporal spacing have the function of partially engendering the text?

CRJ: No. It's a perfectly banal time; for example, when I read out loud and count my fifteen seconds as I turn the page, if somebody gets up, it doesn't bother me at all. There is nothing metaphysical about my blanks. They just allow me the time to read a sentence, time to listen to the silence. They're also a way of dialoguing. They show that you're conscious of the time of the reading, the place of the reading, the noise of cars going by . . . things that belong to the banality of time passing. In Une Méthode descriptive , there's a line that says, "silence is a form." I take that seriously. Silence is a form: it has a shape, it can be understood in many ways; for instance, fear is silence. When you think we are without news of the hostages in Lebanon, and when you say silence is a form, you think about the hostages and you know that it is an extreme form of oppression. So that however you consider it, it appears as a block, a form that is extremely sharp, and at the same time, as in the case of the hostages in Lebanon, it is flagrant—all that power put forward in the idea of the dialogue! There is no dialogue without silence, and in a totally oppressive situation, like that in Lebanon, it's a sort of perverted dialogue, a manipulation. It's criminal . . .

SG: It can also be, on a totally other level, a musical element . . .

CRJ: Silence? Yes, letting the other side listen to its own breath, since I

cannot move from one line to another without stopping. What I'm most interested in is the idea that in the book, there's a story to be told through the intermediary of the poem. This story has characters, plots. I'd like my book to be read the way one reads a detective story. There are clues, there's a crime, there's a body no one can find, and so on.

SG: Speaking about detective stories, many poets these days—for example, Marcelin Pleynet—have written their own detective novels. This is a rather unexpected turn for those who were in the habit of reading Pleynet as a poet, even though a certain evolution has been evident in his work in the recent past. In your case, when you look back, do you see a progression, something that specifically defines your work today?

CRJ: I don't know if it's evident in my case, but I'm trying to put together a tetralogy, and so everything matters. Of course, I can talk about specific aspects of a book; for example, in the third book, Les Objets contiennent l'infini , I realized, albeit a little after the fact, that there were many connections with my first book, Le Renversement . In each chapter, for instance, the writing has a different tempo. If you take the middle passage of both books, you'll see something quite bizarre. In the first there's a very brief text, one or two words per page; in the third there's a piece of prose. It all functions dialectically, because I firmly believe that the story is much more in the poem than in the prose. So there are many connections (and if I succeed in completing the fourth book, whose first chapter is Une Méthode descriptive , then it will be of one piece, but with different movements). After Le Renversement and La Notion d'obstacle , I knew that I had already been given the elements for my third title. I knew that after the masculine singular and the feminine singular I needed a plural. I also knew that, if possible, I had to find something that could reconnect with obstacle . I found objets , as in the plural title Les Objets contiennent l'infini . That's a phrase I borrowed from Wittgenstein, but objet has almost the same etymology as obstacle: ob in both instances, to be in the way of, etc. So I went from Obstacle to Objets with the plural article (les ). Between

the first two books there was thus a sort of trembling effect and also a mirroring effect, and then the plural. I could go on about that until the end of time! But I must say that I'm not completely naive: many of these observations are after the fact; that's how I noticed, for example, that in La Notion d'obstacle , the first-person singular never appears. You must admit it's a funny thing to write a book over a six-year period without ever using I , whereas in both the first and the third books (to answer your question about today's Claude!), there is a proliferation of persons. Does that answer your question?

SG: Very much so! Curiously enough, when you play on obstacle and objet , you introduce the alliteration that you were in fact trying to eliminate! Even the articles le, la , and les have that effect. After the fact—to use your own expression—there may be an audible factor at play, produced by assonance and alliteration . . .

CRJ: That's not to say that in my work there aren't precise moments in which alliteration figures, sometimes very calculated, other times less so. Mine is not an obstinate refusal, but in order to distinguish my poetry from what is usually done, on a global scale, that may be the first thing—that is, to refuse to work the way one usually does, on puns, which has been going on for the last fifteen years, on all-out metaphors, and all that jazz that makes you feel you're in great form, like the three musketeers of language . . . That's not to say I'm not interested in that. Some poets succeed in doing it. It's just a question of how it's done.

SG: As a final question, have I forgotten to ask one that you think should find its way into this interview?

CRJ: Well, since this interview is meant for American readers, I might simply say that I've been, for the past twenty-five years, enormously interested in American poetry. It has accompanied me all these years; my readings include much of the work of George Oppen, Louis Zukofsky, and other Objectivists, as well as the most recent poets, who fall within the generation of twenty-five- to thirty-year-olds, like Joseph Simas, who now lives in Paris. It's also been a long adventure with the Waldrops, which has lasted for the last seventeen years! And

Michael Palmer, you see, is a special type of person. You yourself appeared in Siècle à mains , so you know that. Exactly twenty years ago I published John Ashbery's poetry translated by Michel Couturier. Thus, I can say that I'm an extremely attentive reader of American poetry, attentive and happy in its recent developments, whereby at last much greater importance is attributed to Zukofsky, Gertrude Stein, and Oppen, who were far less widely known by Americans a while back. I recently put together, with Emmanuel Hocquard, an anthology of American poets, which, though meant for a French audience, could (to my mind!) just as well be read in the United States, without any pretension on my part of imposing my tastes.

Portamento

1

you could define the image

fragments change places
an architecture in lieu of a title

2

he draws the point

at the end of the volume
a group has something of the accidental

3

does that help you?

4

black slips away from black

colors are enclosed

5

the childhood of a syllable
like the heart and the brain

6

the pain of an illicit sleep
no point in writing to you

7

a circle around memory

8

pain lingers
there isn't a sentence left
the day
    tracks the word

        opens without our having
to understand

"the proposition is a measure of the world"

9

it's been a number of days
what would she know of the exact place
of the loss

has no more existence than the imperfect
of the verb to close

10

she rips herself apart in each letter of her name

11

"the eyes have given me loins"

it is there
I do not know the story

I am beside myself
I am beside myself

Portamento, II

cordage
barely fixed by a breath
even standing
the stifling of a noise
a grouping of lines

            •

I belong to sleep
no

            •

the postures    those which determine feeling
there's not much to it
you know nothing of this phrase
the day is alone

ignorance of the outside
not a muscle it is no

            •

I force her hand
'a respiratory distress'
a shape        a shape of fear

            •

dorsal crayon
a childhood box
color is a measure
it pursues what we are unaware of

            •

effusion
I'm not there

Port De Voix

1

tu pourrais définir l'image

des fragments se déplacent
une architecture tient lieu de titre

2

il fait le point

à la fin du volume
un groupe a quelque chose d'accidentel

3

cela vous aide-t-il?

4

le noir se détache du noir

les couleurs sont enfermées

5

l'enfance d'une syllabe
comme le coeur^[*]  et le cerveau

6

la douleur d'un sommeil illicite
il ne sert à rien de t'écrire

7

un cercle autour de la mémoire

8

la douleur reste
il n'y a plus aucune phrase
la journée
    court sur un mot

        s'ouvre sans que nous ayons besoin
de comprendre

«la proposition est une mesure du monde»

9

cela fait plusieurs jours
que saurait-elle de l'endroit exact
de la perte

n'a pas plus d'existence que l'imparfait
du verbe clore

10

elle se déchire dans chaque lettre de son nom

11

«ce sont les yeux qui m'ont donné les rein»

c'est là
je ne connais pas l'histoire

je suis hors de moi
je suis hors de moi

Port De Voix, II

cordage
à peine désigné d'un souffle
même debout
l'étouffement d'un bruit
un ensemble de lignes

                 •

j'appartiens au sommeil
non

                 •

les postures   celles qui déterminent le sentiment
il s'agit de peu
tu ne sais rien de cette phrase
la journée est seule

l'ignorance du dehors
aucun muscle c'est non

                 •

je lui force la main
'une détresse respiratoire'
une forme         une forme de la peur

                 •

crayon dorsal
carton d'enfance
la couleur est une mesure
elle poursuit ce que nous ignorons

                 •

effusion
je n'y suis pas

Jacqueline Risset

Jacqueline Risset was born in Besançon in 1933. A professor of French literature at the Sapienza campus of the University of Rome, she had previously been a member of the Tel Quel editorial board (1966–83). She has written several books of poetry: Jeu (Paris: Seuil, 1971), Mors (Paris: Orange Export, Ltd., 1976), La Traduction commence (Paris: Christian Bourgois, 1978), Sept passages de la vie d'une femme (Paris: Flammarion, 1985), L'Amour de loin (Flammarion, 1988), and Petits Eléments de physique amoureuse (Paris: Gallimard, 1991); as well as literary studies, including L'Anagramme du désir (Rome: Bulzoni, 1971) and Marcelin Pleynet (Paris: Seghers, 1988). She has also published an Italian translation of Francis Ponge's Le Parti pris des choses (Turin: Einaudi, 1968) and a French translation of Dante's Inferno, Purgatorio , and Paradiso (Flammarion, 1985, 1988, 1990; these received the Académie française award for translation).

Selected Publications in English:

"Burned Letter," "Night 10-11-1619," "As If They Were Only Two," "College 1938," "When We Read This Word 'I.'" Translated by Rosmarie Wald-rop. Série d'écriture , no. 3 (1989): 20–24.

"Equivalent to: Love." Translated by Rosmarie Waldrop. In Violence of the White Page: Contemporary French Poetry , edited by Stacy Doris, Phillip Foss, and Emmanuel Hocquard. Special issue of Tyuonyi , no. 9/10 (1991): 175–78.

"Nine Poems of Mnemosyne." Translated by Rosmarie Waldrop. o·blek^[*] 6 (Fall 1989): 43–53.

Serge Gavronsky: When I read your poems, I see a proliferation of modes of expression, together with numerous references—intellectual as well as linguistic—that form the book. Would you describe both how you conceived Sept passages de la vie d'une femme and how you understand the concept of écriture?

Jacqueline Risset: Since we happen to be in your seminar on French poetry at Barnard College, I would just like to tell you how pleased I am, once again, to participate in it with your students. I would also venture to say that, at this moment, it may well be that poetry is better understood here than in France. I'm certainly not trying to flatter you by saying this, but it seems to me that there's a curiosity in America, a competence and a naturalness in asking this question of écriture, which for the time being, at least, is slightly weaker in France. I think there are differences, different types of relations between countries at a given moment, and that there was a moment in France, during the sixties, of extraordinary conceptual and scriptural production, when the term écriture itself was defined. Since then there has been a withdrawal, a period of expectation, as if one had been overly active and now it was time to interrupt the battle. This results in a sort of expectation, a methodological prudence, even at the pedagogical level in France. There is a distrust of the literary, of what is humanistic, and a desire for efficacy, for modernity, which in part plays against an indirect deepening that constitutes poetic writing. In the U.S., on the contrary, there's both a great ability and a vast curiosity in that field.

As for the question of écriture, how I pose it, how I practice it, or how I feel it . . . in fact, you're perfectly correct to place the accent on what you've called a proliferation, which in my case is a heterogeneous approach to écriture that I have inscribed in the very title, Sept passages de la vie d'une femme (Seven passages in the life of a woman). What does passage mean? Practically nothing. It's a word that is practically empty. Passage meaning moment, textual element, or paths between houses, leading from one street to another, as you find in Lyon, for instance, or in those mysterious passages in Istanbul,

passages that are like corridors, where houses are present inasmuch as they are interrelated, slightly underground, secret, slightly mysterious, too. For me, passage borrows from both: a passage from a text—a piece taken as a sample in an almost artificial manner—and, as well, a piece of a city. Cities are absolutely fascinating places, but I find that there are very few fascinating cities left. New York is one, Paris is another, and so is Istanbul. Rome is not. For me Rome is more like a village. Naples might be considered a city in the sense the surrealists gave the word. As a result there is that double meaning in the word passage —as a textual referent but also as an enigmatic, mythological tissue that is the city.

And then there is still another aspect, which is obviously the life of a woman. To put the word woman in the title highlights a feminine écriture in our time, a subject that has been the focus of an extremely well developed analysis. This clearly has a particular meaning. I must point out that I borrowed this title, changing it a bit, from Stefan Zweig's novel Twenty-four Hours in the Life of a Woman . As a consequence, right from the title, a citational element is in place. His is a story that tells of an old woman who has a passion for gambling and goes to Monte Carlo to watch others play. This affords a sampling, if you will, of certain passages in the life of that woman. For me this borrowed title has a degree of irony, since écriture, as I understand it, is solicited; by that I mean that it begins biographically, autobiographically. In one's early childhood, let's say during those moments when I first felt called by the desire to write, those moments were always like odd instances slightly removed from the web of time, always linked to something one calls mystical instances, when the barriers of identity are lifted and there is a break, during which time such instances present themselves, completely, mysteriously, enigmatically interconnected but all the while disconnected from the web, this characteristic requiring them, at the same time, to be elucidated.

In order to characterize these instances the two aspects are necessary—that is, a separate, liberated instant and its elucidation that allow one to think one is outside of time, rather like those moments

Proust describes in Remembrance of Things Past . I don't really believe in religious mysticism, but these are forms of twentieth-century literature. One can say as much for Proust as for Georges Bataille; both conceived of literature as a possibility of exploring those strange moments. Musil calls them "the other state," that is, something that truly belongs to another logic, another time. That's also what Musil calls those moments situated outside of the "ratioid sphere." The word signals an ironic stance. For me the suffix -oid indicates what is rational, indicates that he considered the rational sphere from afar, from an exterior point of view. Just as when one says someone is schizoid, it indicates that one is looking at the person from a rational point of view and that a judgment is implicit in that suffix. When Musil spoke of the "ratioid sphere," he wanted to indicate that what we live as rational beings is in reality but a small part of experience, that experience is vaster. There is in rationalism a pretension at being whole; this Musil puts back in its rightful perspective through his use of the suffix in "ratioid."

I too believe that, insofar as écriture is connected to this type of experience, it is a mystical experience in the sense of a radical break— in its etymological sense as well, mystical means silent, one who does not speak. It's always been considered a paradox that mystics write, given that the mystical experience is by definition something silent, something that is, precisely, outside of the "ratioid" sphere, of that language that we experience. How can an experience characterized as silent be put into words? That is the paradox and the interest of écriture in the twentieth century, especially as I live it.

The first effect of this experience, its initial condition, is to call identity into question. In the same way that this type of experience interrupts the normal flow of time, so it also opens, releases, discloses that which is so close to an identity and even—to come back to the notion of irony—even to the idea of a feminine identity, because perhaps there's a strong connection between feminine identity and disidentity, a phenomenon that Julia Kristeva called, at one point in her work, women as the irony of the community. I'm very sensitive to

that, but at the same time I see a trap in that argument, given that it has feminine identity enclosed, in a necessary fashion, a direct and privileged one, in an ironic stance vis-à-vis all identities. There is, to my way of thinking, an error in this vocation of dis-identity that is wholly enclosed within a feminine identity. To speak about feminine identity would be for me a betrayal of something I feel close to in a very strange but very precise way, a certain form of feminine identity that is non-identity. I see this as something whose nature excludes the "normal" world, the world of activity, the world of men, if you will. But at the same time, it's a privileged knowledge of non-knowledge. Though difficult, it is also extremely interesting to explore that particular aspect, for to perceive oneself as a woman writing implies that one stop seeing oneself as a woman. This explosion of identity that accompanies feminine identity is highly significant.

You were asking how this book functions, how it's organized as a whole—because I don't believe it's a collection in the traditional sense of a collection of poems, that is, poems written from time to time and then later given to a publisher, so that the book contains, generally speaking, all that one has written in the past five or six years. I cannot conceive of a book of poetry like that. For me, a book must truly constitute a whole, even if it is a heterogeneous whole. It must function in such a manner that the space within the book plays between the texts, that the texts call out to one another, that they refer to one another.

The first thing to note in this book is that all the poems are almost entirely taken from what I would call "passage" experiences, that is, passages "out of . . . ," exits—the experience of the instant. They are instances, and consequently they can take different forms—for example, the form of a trip, to mention only the second poem, which I've called "Sound of Shape," in English, and which is about my first visit to the U.S. It was a trip full of surprises, since I wasn't prepared for either such a mythological shock or such an oneiric one, touching the instant. To my surprise it turned out to be a powerful experience, leading me to rediscover within myself ancient layers, especially when

I was in New York. Other passages occurred as I experienced different things in the U.S.

But the trip can also be totally imaginary, as in the poem "En voyage," which concerns the angel and its voyage, a relation to the angel that is also a trip across Italy; or it can be a perception of a wholly other reality, for example, India [in the poem "Indostan"]. That was not an actual trip—I didn't go there—but a perception of India; it was based on Indira Gandhi's trip with a group of Indians to Rome and Paris a few years ago. There's also the poem "Krakow," from when I traveled to Poland. There, too, I was taken by a profound and mysterious alterity.

Although it's a book of poems, I open it with a prose text entitled "Sept passages de la vie d'une femme." There are thus series in the book, like this first one for which the book is named, with "Screen-Memory" as the title of its first section, all related to instances. As you know, according to Freud, a screen memory is a memory in our conscience, usually a childhood memory, that veils a deeper memory, one that's inscribed in our unconscious and, as a consequence, is not accessible to our memory but is the memory of the unconscious. In order for that memory to find its way to us, it must be translated through strategies that are more accessible, hence the term screen memory . I much prefer the English version because the French, souvenirs écran , is flat, closed, whereas screen memory is also memory, something active. It's simultaneously a memory that is present in the place of another and a memory activated by the screen, by the image, if you wish. It can also be the symbol for poetry. Screen memory is a memory that begins to act up, to turn around, to decipher from the point of a particular image. Thus, the first line of the poem is "assise dans la masse du jardin" (she sitting in the mass of the garden), and the last line, "Assis par terre dans le sable avec le jardin qui presse tout autour" (Sitting on the ground in the sand with the garden pressing all around). That's what happened in the interval through the experience described, that is, the disappearance of the "she." But that doesn't mean it has become masculine; it means the disappearance

of the -e ending of the present participle in assis , of the feminine marker as a supplement to the verb. The marker is removed as a sign of identity as well as dis-identity. Through the disappearance of that mute -e , I express a gripping experience. The end of the poem is exactly the same as the beginning except for a slight variation that has come to signal itself in its anonymity. Identity has somehow been displaced through experience.

SG: To follow through on your reading of screen memory, it seems to me to be more sophisticated in English than in French, because the term écran is unisemic, whereas in English, screen introduces the principle of triage, a process of selectivity, while enhancing the image of the screen in that it can be both opaque and transparent, so that one can "see" beyond the screen. The concept of the image in English is both open and closed—it veils and reveals; whereas the French equivalent is solely a surface on which memories are projected in an indeterminate form, because the signs of that memory are not yet visible, present. The English, if you will, corresponds more closely to a Proustian verticality.

JR: I wasn't aware of all those possibilities! It had simply been impossible for me to use the French souvenirs écran . It had no resonance, whereas screen memory corresponded precisely to what interested me, to what I wanted to do, since I could no longer perceive the past. I did not perceive that microscopic story of childhood, the first one, which occurs roughly at the age of four and is both much deeper and much more active than the French term would lead one to believe.

SG: Since we're talking about the multiple meanings of words, and the particular charge they carry, let's not forget that there's also a homophonic evocation—is it paradigmatic as well?—between scream and screen . In view of how you play on the mixing of linguistic codes in your texts, that is, on bilingualism and biculturalism, such a hypothesis can be entertained. It's evident that when you, as a French poet, call on the English language, you're playing on readers' perceptions of all kinds of resonances in a title like the English "Sound of Shape."

JR: "Sound of Shape" is about the U.S., and I adapted the title from

Roman Jakobson's work The Sound Shape of Language , in which he studied, from a linguistic point of view, the shape of sound. Furthermore, the poem is dedicated to two persons who were very important to me in my relation to the U.S.—Roman Jakobson and Gertrude Stein. The whole poem is played out on the basis of a series of quotations from Gertrude Stein's poems. Jakobson himself has a role in the poem as a sort of initiator to what would become the birth of the U.S. I will never forget Jakobson saying that he had been a Russian immigrant in the U.S., and I also remembered the impression he'd had in an elevator in a hotel in Rome, when, upon seeing a large group of American tourists who were also in that same elevator, he said in French, in a melancholic tone, "My compatriots!" His relation to the poem, precisely through his immigration to the U.S., seemed to me very deep, just as was Gertrude Stein's in her play on logic, the game on the logic of sentences.

SG: When you speak about passages, you urbanize their architecture, a context in which James Joyce clearly figures, because his Dublin is both mysterious and yet defined within twenty-four hours. In evoking Jakobson, however, wouldn't this idea of the passage contain fragments—screens, as you put it—since, traversing the text, one encounters numerous discontinuities, interruptions, breaks? From the very enunciation of passage , its meaning is immediately modified, refused, rejected. The passage is blocked not only at the referential level but equally so at the level of écriture. You organize it in such a fashion as to deny its prose character. I wonder, then, if this reading of the word passage doesn't emphasize écriture over geography?

JR: In fact there are breaks, blocks of minimal cells, syntactic cells—that is, pieces made up of a few words that play like blocks and are indeed isolated one from the other. They do not form complete sentences, but for me they are a very important aspect of language, of my relation to it, these mysterious cells, somehow reminiscent of those sentences glimpsed in dreams. And for me a poem is frequently built around these enigmatic cells, in the way that someone might appear from out of the depths, a presence against a background that is totally

alien to it. That person is not part of the family but rather is seen against a backdrop of the ocean, just as Proust caught sight of Albertine with the sea as a backdrop. And as of that instant, the possibility arises, liberating these fragments of sentences from their natural contexts, so to speak, that they might re-form themselves into a passage, that they might link themselves to other cells which are foreign to them. This linkage between different cells might be considered a sort of contamination, as if there existed different people, different beings in language who all of a sudden found each other and communicated. Then they can be taken from different horizontal levels, for example, these fragments of sentences that come to me without my knowing where they come from. Others may be quotes—a piece by Joyce, for instance; there are also some from Proust, from Gertrude Stein or Dante. And all of a sudden they can be married to other pieces that come from nowhere or from other writers, without necessarily needing to belong and without any hierarchical system, either.

SG: You use the metaphor of marriage . . . Breton once said that "words make love." You haven't mentioned Breton, but in speaking about Freud and Jakobson, it's evident that around these ideas of cells—the idea of accessible/inaccessible depths, of the transcription of a white, mystical text—one must, I think, evoke automatic writing.

JR: Let's say that automatic writing belongs to another sphere of research, entertaining another relation to écriture, because for me, what appears in an involuntary manner is the first cell. The others are consciously worked in a way that allows me to discover the first. In fact there's a proliferation of cells that are brought up and then dismissed; then still others are brought up. At the heart of all that, I hope the poem appears by itself. Let's say there's a different level of work, when a cell made up of a few words wishes to be deciphered, wishes to be written down. "I would like to be written down," one of those sentences tells me. Then I write it, and as of that moment I begin calling forth things . . . So there is an apparent connection to automatic writing, but there's also a persistent process of refusal, of selection,

which accounts for the fact that some things are kept while others are excluded. While going through this process I also try to make sure that what happens is legible, readable on the page, where associations can appear on different levels, even where there are no white spaces or clear typographic arrangements. I see that as more in line with Mallarmé than with automatic writing, where there's a magnetic game—that is, a little sentence is evoked; it attracts some cells and repulses others, so it's as if these different cells that appear on the page situated themselves at a greater or lesser distance from the initial one.

My process entails certain rejections, as well as certain necessities you never find in automatic writing, at least not that of a scheme of repetition. However, there must be forms of repetition, refrains that constitute themselves within a poem and throughout the text. They sometimes revolve around Easter, for example, where they play in a privileged temporal situation. Easter for me is a privileged space. Obviously this is not by chance, because it recalls Dante; it's also the idea of birth, and for me the poem is always something coming to be born. Thus, the idea of Easter is essential—not simply the day of Easter but that general period. It's an idea connected to the arrival of Easter, the arrival of birth, if you will.

SG: Your book is an extremely rich one, in which, in the course of a reading or a number of readings, echoes begin to resonate, as if we were listening to a musical composition. The word passage would therefore not be restricted to its linguistic or geographic meaning but would also denote a kind of architectonic order in which themes and reflections recur. Within the phrasing are sonorities that, while retaining their mysterious point of origin, become ordered in their successive appearances. This may not have been calculated on your part, but together they add up to mutually enriched sequences.

I don't know if you are equally sensitive to the visual aspect of your text, but that impact is far from negligible. In fact, your text also takes on a particular weight or value through the options in typography, through the way you have arranged your texts on the page.

JR: There are various ways to isolate words, ranging from their placement within a white space to the use of dashes, which emphasize both what precedes and what follows, as well as quotation marks, italics, or slashes. Each corresponds to a different aspect. For me the slash truly belongs to the order of interrupted discourse, as if one were giving a sampling of a discourse that was meant to be interrupted. But at the same time the slash places elements in relation to those that follow, as in what's called a versus in transcription, that is, when a word is isolated by white, when it stands alone. A dash underlines its distinctiveness (lightly, of course) from what precedes or follows, even if what follows is false, for everything can be false, like false quotations, since quotation marks are often used to identify them. In general, when I quote something, it's in italics; quotation marks usually indicate a spoken text, a fragment of speech. That's important in what I was saying about language cells. I place great value on such units, which are audible, as if they belonged to a conversation that occurs to you in a dream or while traveling. It isn't a question of perception—you immediately enter into a stream of conversation; you hear a piece of something someone says, and this mysterious sentence lingers, though it passes over like a cloud. Well, for me quotation marks work that way. The French use of the short dash suggests a dialogue, a reply, which means that it's a fragment of language addressed to someone, as in a theatrical text. The short dash says, "Here's my answer," in the structure of dialogue.

Driving in the Summer on European Highways

           evening sun fullface
           star of day
           going toward you

                         marvel! garden amidst the flames
                        my heart is now capable
                        of all forms

driving your chariot
he's frightened he falls
veil of darkness/   falls over his eyes

through unknown regions of air
clouds smoke
the highest points of air

begin to catch fire
the ground loses its humors
the pastures     whiten

    he falls/   I pass
    through this fearful
    lunar landscape

    wounded moon
    where all grace is in the highway
    : dominated constructed

and continuing
with its thread going farther
spreading at times a sum of gentleness

driving toward the you  of a love from afar
that speed obstinately
brings closer

As if in this absence
keeping us apart
only these two terms remained

carried animated
by the voyage
revealed one after the other following the curves of the road

: death  and  the house
—bringing me closer at great speed
through the heat of the accident

to you
sudden overheating
wheel spinning aimlessly

beyond time/
above the bodies
united forever thereafter

—and also the house—I
running toward you
child in the house —and a house yourself
                                     Waiting

during this time landscapes pass
a fatigue when muscles exercise
in the continuity of the thread to follow

shadow of day rhythmic tunnel
sweet night of organs
interrupting the effort of this move

—But you'll not be in the house
at the end of this road
and perhaps

today I shall not die in a terrible accident
in the smell of gas and hay
excessive silence                after excessive noise

wheel spinning aimlessly
in the air          still
            wanting to see you

wanting you through the body's atoms
held motionless and pulled by the road
perhaps I am already mad

I see those horses rising from water blue
and green
running full speed as if trained on a pond

and behind them the rider coils his whip
as if forgetting to continue his gesture
as if detained        dreaming

         the mares that carry me off
        as fast as the heart's momentum can bear
                         move forward

Great Wind

this year the wind turns
kicks up air around the thinking body
soft sea breeze
             or of the ocean

even in Paris at night
great warm gusts
here too on the festive square

all of a sudden crossed by a touch of anguish
of absence

french freesia where
where are you?

this year the wind reaches the soul
the soul
finally
ready to go already gone
ready to fall on the ground
out of vivid emotions
to die being alive

and he still a child
flies off on a plane too spacious for him
speaks

                sees

in the café where they see each other
his gaze set softly
on the face facing him

I feel on my face
and on my body his gaze
like a soft night breeze
                 come from afar

           french freesia

he laughs on the phone
I laughed with him

where are you in this empty summer
bygone fragance    of plane trees

fragance of the present in this emptiness
where each sound
subsides—

            pain—

            and in this emptiness
            pain is pathetic

            —even stronger now
            at this idea of pathos

            name written and thought
            without weight
            without proof

              absence—
                                takes you

              sighs on you in the seizure

voiceless voice invented
useless memory

—but it doesn't come back at will
it comes forward so lightly

and when great love carries it
great always with the same manias

new object—new everything
renewing the sounds of the music

and the lilac is no longer the same

shadow of streets light your shadow
your face nearing pensive and secret
and the soft voice

                           "disappeared I crossed over"

soft and controlled

                           "little space but I crossed over . . ."

Practicing on the piano this afternoon
trying to practice
I listen to you
and thoughts of you come when they please

go through everything
even my refusal
my negation of you

breath of hatred of love
that comes with love

                glacial cruelty

that overthrows everything
that throws away

and is itself turned over in turn
by the Image
or Breath
or Music grown louder . . .

II Viaggio Con Sigmund

anguish and wisteria
empty axis
"I am haunted"^[1]

                the young doctor stops at the edge of the lake
                near the town
                very tired

holiday and wisteria
moment gone awry
ocher     terror

               "the lightning is so luminous
               one can actually read the hieroglyphs from afar
               on the obelisk"

            exaltation

Ball in the palace
straight axis of their dancing bodies
here and above on the fresco

                "in less than an hour and after his bath
                he truly felt Roman"

[1] Letter to Fliess, 1/30/1901.

En Conduisant L'été Sur Les Autoroutes En Europe

           le soir soleil de face
           astre du jour
           allant vers toi

                          merveille! jardin parmi des flammes
                         mon coeur^[*]  est devenu capable
                         de toutes formes

en conduisant ton char
il a peur il tombe
voile de ténèbres/   descend sur ses yeux

par des régions inconnues de l'air
les nuages fument
les points les plus hauts de l'air

commencent à prendre feu
le sol perd ses humeurs
les pâturages      blanchissent

    il tombe/     je passe
    par ce paysage de lune
    qui fait peur

    lune blessée
    où l'autoroute est toute la grâce
    : dominée construite

    et continuant
    avec son fil qui va plus loin
    donnant par moments la douceur de tout

    conduisant vers le tu  de l'amour de loin
    que la vitesse obstinément
    rapproche

    Comme si dans cette absence
    qui nous sépare
    restaient ces deux seuls termes

    que le voyage transporte
    anime
    présente l'un après l'autre suivant les courbes de la route

    :  la mort et la maison
    —me rapprochant à grande vitesse
    par la chaleur de l'accident

    de toi
    brusque échauffement
    roue qui tourne à vide

    au-delá du temps/
    au-dessus des cadavres
    unis désormais par delà

    —et aussi la maison—toi
    vers qui je cours
     enfant dans la maison —et maison toi-même
                                          Attente

    pendant ce temps les paysages qui passent
    dans la fatigue des muscles qui s'exercent
    dans la continuité du fil à suivre

    ombre du jour tunnel qui rythme
    douce nuit des organes
    interrompant l'effort de cette avance

    —Mais tu ne seras pas dans la maison
    au bout de cette route-ci
    et peut-être

    je ne mourrai pas aujourd'hui dans un grand accident
    dans l'odeur de pétrole et de foin
    silence excessif                 après bruit excessif

    roue qui tourne à vide
    dans l'air           encore
                 désirant te voir

    te désirant par les atomes du corps
    occupé immobile et tiré par la route
    je suis peut-être déjà folle

    Je vois ces chevaux qui sortent de l'eau bleue
    et verte
    courant à toute vitesse comme dressés sur l'étang

    et le cavalier qui les suit tient son fouet replié
    comme oubliant de continuer le geste
    comme arrêté         rêvant

             les cavales qui m'emportent
              aussi vite que l'élan du coeur^[*]  peut atteindre
                              avancent

Grand Vent

cette année le vent bouge
il remue l'air autour du corps qui pense
souffle doux de mer
             ou d'océan

même à Paris la nuit
grands souffles tièdes
ici aussi sur la place en fête

tout à coup traversée par un coup de souffrance
d'absence

french freesia où
où es-tu?

cette année le vent atteint l'âme
c'est elle
enfin
prête à partir déjà partie
prête à tomber par terre
d'émotion vive
à mourir d'être en vie

et lui enfant encore
s'envole sur l'avion grand pour lui
raconte

                 regarde

dans le café où ils se voient
son regard s'appuie doucement
sur le visage en face de lui

je sens sur le visage
et le corps ce regard
comme un vent doux de nuit
                 venu de loin

           french freesia

il rit au téléphone
je riais avec lui

où es-tu dans cet été vide
odeur ancienne   de platanes

odeur de présent dans le vide
où chaque bruit
retombe—

           douleur—

           et dans ce vide
           douleur est dérisoire

           —se redouble aussitôt
           à cette idée de dérisoire

           nom écrit et pensé
           sans poids
           sans preuve

             l'absence—

                               te prend

             te souffle à la saisie

voix soufflée inventée

mémoire vaine

—mais elle ne vient pas quand on veut
celle qui vient de façon si légère

quand le gros amour la porte
gros avec ses manies toujours les mêmes

nouvel objet—nouveau tout
renouvelant les sons de la musique

et le lilas n'est plus le même

ombre des rues lumière ton ombre
ton visage qui arrive tout pensif et fermé
et la voix douce

                            «disparu j'ai franchi»

douce et contrôlée

                            «peu d'espace mais j'ai franchi» . . .

Travaillant le piano cet après-midi
essayant de travailler
je t'écoute
et la pensée de toi vient quand elle veut

traverse tout
mon refus même
ma négation de toi

souffle de haine d'amour
qui vient avec l'amour

                 cruauté glaçante

qui renverse tout
qui jette

et se laisse renverser à son tour
par l'Image
ou Souffle
ou Musique plus forte . . .

Il Viaggio Con Sigmund

angoisse et glycine
axe vide
«je suis hanté»^[1]

                  le jeune docteur s'arrête au bord du lac
                  avant la ville
                  très fatigué

fête et glycine
instant déréglé
ocre       terreur

                   «Les éclairs sont si lumineux
                   qu'on peut lire de loin les hiéroglyphes
                   sur l'obélisque»

            exaltation

Bal dans le palais
axe droit de leurs corps dansants
ici et là-haut dans la fresque

                   «en moins d'une heure et après avoir pris un bain
                   il se ssentit vraiment romain»

[1] Lettre à Fliess du 30.1.1901.

Jean-Jacques Viton

Jean-Jacques Viton was born in Marseille in 1933. With Liliane Giraudon he cofounded Banana Split , which became La Revue vocale: La Nouvelle BS in 1990 and which he and Giraudon still codirect. He has published Au bord des yeux (Paris: Action poétique, 1963), Image d'une place pour le requiem de Gabriel Fauré (Paris: La Répétition, 1979), Terminal (Paris: Hachette-Littérature/P.O.L., 1981), Le Wood (Paris: Orange Export, Ltd., 1983), Douze Apparitions calmes de nus et leur suite, Qu'elles provoquent (Paris: P.O.L., 1984), Décollage (P.O.L., 1986), Galas (Marseille: Ryoan-Ji, 1989), Episodes (P.O.L., 1990), and L'Année du serpent (P.O.L., 1992). He has also translated, with Liliane Giraudon, Nanni Balestrini's Cieili (Turin: Tam-Tam, 1984) and, with Sidney Lévy, Michael Palmer's Notes pour Echo Lake (Marseille: Spectres familiers, 1992).

Selected Publication in English:

"Fractured Whole." Translated by Harry Mathews. In Violence of the White Page: Contemporary French Poetry , edited by Stacy Doris, Phillip Foss, and Emmanuel Hocquard. Special issue of Tyuonyi , no. 9/10 (1991): 213–17.

Serge Gavronsky: Poets and writers were talking about écriture before Jacques Derrida, but at a certain moment that term undeniably became a philosophic one, an idea unto itself, separate from content and, in a way, forming a content by itself; that is, écriture played on a passion which had been Mallarmé's, perhaps, but was especially that of the Russian Formalists, Tel Quel , and Change . One might even say that some of the younger poets have accepted that idea, particularly the more sensitive ones who seem to assume that to be a poet means—and can only mean—to suffer the theme of absence, negation, the void, that is, to take metaphysics as a subject and, as a way of reaching it, to exploit language per se: to write about writing, a metapoetic enterprise. This came to characterize experimental French poetics and perhaps too played havoc with the possible expression of talents that existed in a country where poetry may be considered the ultimate pursuit of language, the proof of one's nobility in literature. Too many individuals were ambushed along the way to their discovery of poetry by this THING that became what can only be considered a school of poetics. It doesn't have -ism as a suffix, but it still has magazines from Marseille to Paris, small presses, and at times even the support of major publishers like Mercure de France, Seuil, or Gallimard, as well as, in the earlier days, Flammarion. I wouldn't call it formalism, because that would be too limiting, but this focusing on the "self" of language has to be seen as one of its major traits. I suspect you see what I'm leading to . . . And now, with complete freedom to change the subject, move in another direction, or stick to this rather sticky question, I wonder if you might not comment on your own place in this language locus, in this philo-metaphysical reading of the place and significance of language in your own work?

Jean-Jacques Viton: The question you ask and the manner in which you've formulated it already contain the basis for the answers that now must be given—which is most convenient! At one point you used as an example those individuals about whom one might have said, without reservation, that they threw themselves into a form of writing that appeared to pursue the idea of écriture, even as they went

beyond that idea in their works. I would call that a constant sidetracking of écriture itself in its relation to the person writing. You spoke of a school, a fashion; you're right. There was then an unquestionable preoccupation that rendered the work of a writer opaque. Opaque because we were writing at a time when, I wouldn't say things were easy, but when we had no doubt disengaged ourselves from innumerable traps that, for the last fifteen or twenty years or thereabouts, writers had encountered, had themselves sown, reaped, and sown once more, and so on. Thence a type of activity, pleasurable enough, in which a ruffle of questions appeared in the guise of answers, answers wanting to be questions, as Barthes would have put it.

Well, then, can it be said that this concern for écriture—for écriture as a concept unto itself, in texts that move forward by perpetually going over their own projects, as we were saying—can it be said today that this constitutes a true obstacle? I believe that nothing constitutes an obstacle. Everything nourishes a scriptural enterprise. As for myself, I'm not one who was particularly involved, though I was involved, to the extent that everyone else was, at the level of an ambience, of—how should I put it?—a logic, quasi-biological in its preoccupation. But I've never been able to be, nor have I wanted to be, a theoretician of écriture. Through this preoccupation—which was more than a mere preoccupation; I would say that even among those who took themselves as representatives of this theory, there was a belief . . . a need to illustrate it with an image of danger . . . Just as people said in 1793, "The Nation Is in Danger," so these individuals suggested that "écriture is in danger." What followed was a kind of Committee of Public Safety for écriture, which completely terrorized/theorized the world of letters.

Paradoxically, these things, that period, served as a sifter, a filter, whether consciously or not, and now we find ourselves facing something that's—I don't want to imply "lighter," but a type of release, even in its gestural nature. We have turned a corner. I can't define it better: a sort of trial or test, similar to those trials in the romances of the Round Table—as if we were crossing through such an epoch

and had now passed beyond those obstacles. They were the trials. That's how I see it. What I find if not amusing, then at least curious, is that when you study these trajectories of a writer and try to situate them, there is a pre- and a post-Tel Quel period. You discover people in the pre-Tel Quel mode who had said . . . First of all, let's say they were very young, and let's say, too, they were at the beginning of their careers, careers they chose because literature interested them, not writing about literature or écriture. Then this great passage ensued, this great trial, and one discovered that for these people—not that they were doing the same thing over again—it was as if there had been something between the axis of departure and the axis of their current position that tended to connect the two. Nevertheless, one can say that they were nourished by this passage and, as a consequence, these experiences. They were enriched by them. I can't find a better word for it.

SG: May I follow through with a more precise question? You alluded to the concept of a passage, and you yourself participated in the activity of that period (the Tel-Quelian one) as a member of at least two very important literary magazines coming out of Marseille. The first was Manteïa , which at the time I considered rather Stalinian in its efforts to model itself on Parisian theories; the second, much more recently, is Banana Split , which you cofounded and codirected with Liliane Giraudon, and in which, once again, taste is being defined through a selection of artworks, lots of translations, and of course a strong sample of what is being written in France today. In both instances, there seems to have been a strong ideological position, one which you have never failed to state categorically . . .

JJV: Let me add to that list a third magazine . . .

SG: Have I forgotten Cahiers du Sud ?

JJV: In that case, I'd add still another one! And I do this not to figure in some hit-parade list of magazines, but to provide information about those to which I belonged. I actually began with Action poétique . During the Algerian War, this magazine was defined by its strong political commitments, its social views that represented many of us, especially

those who belonged to the editorial board. It was a militant magazine in the negative sense of the word; that is to say, apart from the fact that we all belonged to organizations dedicated to social struggle, Action poétique felt obliged—in a sort of continuity with post—World War II beliefs?—to evoke, in terms of images, the experience and the reflections of militant action. Then followed Cahiers du Sud , which, as everyone knows, was based in Marseille. It was the first magazine characteristic of a certain decentralization in France, the first to publish people who had not yet been published elsewhere:Barthes, Neruda, Saint-John Perse. No one had ever published them before. Later on, with a group of friends, we founded Manteïa , for which Cahiers du Sud published the first masthead—not a good sign! In the end it did find acceptance.

As you can see, that was the beginning: Action poétique , where writing was something organic, poetry mixed with a militant endeavor in its distribution and sales. Cahiers du Sud was a literary coterie that made us think we knew how to write or were bothered by the fact that we wrote . . . I don't know. Manteïa followed. That was something else! We wanted to launch something in reaction against both Action poétique and, to a certain extent, Cahiers du Sud , which had cast an overly fraternal glance in the direction of Manteïa —and you're right, what you said about that particular effort was true! But I could just as easily mention other magazines that found themselves in the same boat, alluding to your formula of being more Tel-Quelian than Tel Quel itself! Still, we cut our teeth on modernity at Manteïa . We learned to think collectively on texts that were the so-called classics, which we resituated in a temporal reading, within the scope of our own readings, and without a doubt, we learned how to make a distinction between the repositioning of the text and what might have been considered the "organic" desire expressed by the writer. This period, a very interesting one, was nearly obliterated by Tel Quel , most assuredly! But as I said a moment ago, it was also quite obviously enriched by this type of important movement that was taking place in France at that time.

That sums up three experiences that led to the creation of Banana Split . Liliane Giraudon participated in Action poétique as well, after I had left it, though she never had any contact with either Manteïa or Cahiers du Sud . When we found each other, we wanted to do something fundamentally different from what had been done previously. We wanted to get away from the institutionalized look that characterized Cahiers du Sud as well as from a dose of militancy, media, and that breathlessness that typified Action poétique . We wanted to get away, too, from a form of theoretical obeisance, or rather postural, in line with Tel Quel —that is, to define a breach with respect to Manteïa itself. We were especially interested in doing something that would disengage us from other committees, the blight of other reviews—that is, those editorial boards with their fifteen members, only one or two of whom actually made the decisions, and in which there are frightful internal struggles—all that is anecdotal because it's unbearable! We wanted to do something by ourselves. It was a couple's adventure! And why did we pick the name Banana Split ? Because we wanted to break with and set up an opposition to all those things I just mentioned. The title of the magazine was at once the most ridiculous and the best known throughout the world, and, put simply, it amused us both!

One important aspect of BS is that, unlike other magazines in which both of us have participated, we were not going to publish ourselves; that seems to me very significant, since it allowed for a certain disengagement in the way we looked at the magazine. You'll find translations and interviews in BS but no critical texts, and that we also felt was different. In terms of material presentation, there's no other magazine like ours, with its inexpensive mode of production: the contributor either types out or draws his or her own work on 8 1/2-by-11-inch paper, and then these are photo-offset. Because of this impoverished look, we took extreme care in the selection and the composition of the contents, which we thought out in light of a permanent commitment to internationalism; there was usually a bilingual presentation, with translations by people who were themselves writ-

ers and poets, serious people with a worldwide reputation. This is not so with other publications, which often publish translations but not in the same spirit. Things don't come together elsewhere the way they do for BS !

SG: And your own work? You have been a militant journalist in Marseille, a theater critic, a poet, and a novelist published by one of the most prestigious houses, that is, P.O.L. In fact you seem to have worked out all possibilities in the world of writing. When you reread yourself, the work you have done over the past many years, is there a way of identifying particular moments, types of écritures that have characterized your own work, and specifically something which is not overly fashionable these days, that is, the presence of the subject, the subject as it has been conceptualized by Lacan and specifically exorcised by him, in fact expulsed from the matter of discourse? How would you establish a relationship between écriture and content, subject and narration?

JJV: That appears to reconnect with elements of your first question, that is, a type of trajectory and the idea of a passage. I said I found it surprising that there were people who were more or less in the same position before that great period marked by Tel Quel and were obviously transformed by it thereafter, as I was. I'm talking about a real transformation. Up to 1986, roughly, I continued to write with a certain distance in mind between what I was writing and how I was writing it; I'm thinking of Terminal and Douze Apparitions calmes de nus . At the same time I became aware that, while proceeding on that course, I had succeeded in building something that now appears to me quite significant, something that, far from bringing me closer to others, from "communicating," to use a current expression, instead— I don't know how to express it—increasingly, and with greater and greater distinctiveness, cut me off from something I didn't want to belong to in any case, that is, a general exteriority of discourse, which I tend to dislike more and more.

I became aware that I was reworking this ambition, this construction in another work, Décollage . There, with an even greater preci-

sion, I was rediscovering old tracks that were still there, ones I had laid down a good while before Action poétique , at the time when I was beginning to write. But with this practical experience and with these collages, I became aware that I was placing myself in the text, and that was something I hadn't done before! First of all, this was not the way to arrive at taking the self as a subject, and second, on a more trivial level, at that time it wasn't being done. I became aware that this was the very thing that allowed me to build a sort of wall, a wall of separation. When I placed myself within the text, that wall took shape, so to speak. If I continue to write, it's in that vein—or at least that's what I sell! As you know, I'm not at all ashamed of putting myself on stage when I'm in the process of writing.

SG: For the past few years, let's say since the end of the seventies, there has been a movement toward what some call a new lyricism, an expression I use with all possible reserve. From an American point of view, especially in the shadow of the Beats, this doesn't seem to be a real issue. Lyricism in poetry—and I'd say that as much for traditional French poetry as I would for American poetry (in its dependency on the narrative, on personal experiences)—has always been central. That it should now appear in France in "difficult" texts like yours and Giraudon's is indicative of a reappraisal of what had once been ideologically taboo in the kingdom of écriture! And now there is a return, especially among younger writers, to the autobiographical, whether in homosexual narrations such as Mathieu Lindon's or the coming-to-consciousness of the feminine-feminist positions, most evident in the publications of Les Editions des Femmes. From my readings of these new texts, the body once again occupies center stage as a bio/graphic exercise.

Today, are we seeing a cultural interference, whereby the I in your own work reflects a more general current? In your evolution, might there be a rejection of "theory" in favor of the subject, the speaking subject, that is? And if that's a correct reading of recent literary events, would you talk about the concept of distanciation that characterized your écriture during the years 1960–75, and perhaps even

later? Or, put another way, can what is now being written be "readable" for you in terms of your own perception of the text?

JJV: I'm glad you asked that question, but let me go back to your initial word, lyricism. I think that in the case of lyricism in the U.S., there's always been a positive reaction, as you correctly noted—and you know more about that than I do. Today we're witnessing a worldwide trend, about which we should be asking certain questions! Or might it simply be a matter of the circulation of information? I'm not quite sure how to put it, but perhaps there is an affective element that crosses through, that moves like something living within the general body, which would be the world. It's surprising to observe this coming-and-going, this sort of voyage underway, but I believe that is happening in France. Today there are books and shows that seem to discover that things have an expression, a form of expression which, when I began writing, I had been warned against. I find this current absolutely distressing.

SG: In a paradoxical manner, I wonder if the presentation of the Beat poets in France hasn't, in the long run, had a negative influence on French readers? When we talk about poetry in France, we are actually referring to a few, very few sensitive souls—to go "romantic" for a moment—who might have discovered in those texts you published, and others that followed yours, a way of being that was otherwise censured by a poetic consensus. Might we not see in what's happening today a kind of dialectics of poetics at work here, that is, an antithesis working behind the scenes during those years which eventually would have an impact on mainstream works of the experimental school? Some of these recent autobiographical writers may be reaping the rewards of a steady American fifth column! Now they're finally legitimizing what they always wanted to do but were afraid of doing, given the existing constrictions.

JJV: I know what you're getting at! I won't name names, but let me go back to what I was saying when you were first discussing lyricism. There is indeed a new battle cry that goes by the name of lyricism. But it's a lyricism that has been contracted for. I can only speak about

poetry through my own personal experience, which is the only important one, as concerns myself. What kicked things off for me, what acted as a catalyst, was this unconscious preparatory work. As if there had been a storehouse in which such things had been placed, leading to the discovery of new texts, of new forms of expression, uncovering various changes residing in the interior of the poem. After that came all the adventures I mentioned earlier. What I now find is a freedom in my way of reading, and I find—I'm tempted to say that old spark, but obviously it comes with other elements that I now place within the poem, elements I would attribute to particular events but that are also partly the result of age, of my experiences. These are constantly seized on a daily basis. That's how it is for me. I often have the impression, reading other texts, that there must be a reaction one might qualify as lyrical but within which one can ultimately discover aspects not too distantly related to that earlier, epochal period. So that in the end, I continue to see a tale of masks which continues to play itself out.

SG: With everything we've just said, wouldn't it seem that to be a poet or a writer is, to a large extent, not uniquely determined by personal options? Can it be said, and particularly in France, that liberty of expression is readjusted according to the period's diktats, which are most effective when they are interiorized, and not necessarily when they are openly suggested and tyrannically enforced? This condition of being, to borrow a term from metaphysicians, seems to me extremely difficult for poetry, for that ideologically based poetry to which we were alluding. Everything we've been saying seems to reinscribe écriture within a framework. Would you consider this overshadowing of écriture by ideology a "good" thing? Has it affected your own work as a novelist, as a poet?

JJV: I don't understand what you mean when you speak of diktats. Are they implicit ones?

SG: Yes, which makes them all the more influential—for instance, the presence of Heidegger in contemporary French philosophy and the incorporation of this philosophy within poetic discourse, into critical writing about poetry. This doubling of the creative act seems to me

one of the fundamental characteristics of both the writing of poetry and the writing about poetry in France today. They are overdetermined by a philosophical argument, itself closely allied to what is being done in poetry at this very moment. Poetry is never by itself. It always appears to travel alongside works of the mind, and these works of contemporary philosophers or belletrists not only provide a vocabulary allowing for the discussion of poetic works but influence poetry itself.

JJV: I too believe that such things go on. It's as if you asked me, in the final analysis, whether life played a part in determining the nature of écriture. Well, yes, of course it does, but I don't believe at all that today either the writer or the poet—but let's limit it to poetry—is one who in any way holds the truth, points the way. I don't believe that at all. On the other hand, I absolutely believe that writing is a calamity. It doesn't come out with any messages, and that's why, in my own case, I'm constructing something that increasingly, and with growing success, separates me from the outside world, which, to tell the truth, I have no desire to frequent. Some writers may be subject to a number of influences—their readings, their books, their work conditions, their social milieu, what happens in the world—all that is quite evident, but I personally do not believe we're here to render an account of this type of event; I'm not, in any case.

SG: I suspect some of the newer tendencies in American poetry might concur with what you've just said, especially Language poets, who are, like any group of gifted poets, more interesting in their own specificity than as representatives of a school. But I would think that the position you've defined for yourself might clarify the proper area of poetry, of the production of poetry, one that is clearly closer to my own definition of écriture as it's being practiced in France than to a poetics of commitment or the transcription of everyday life, even into its poetic forms. The distance you've described may actually be liberating, allowing you to emphasize, outside the arena of polemics, a nonprophetic vision, a nondemagogic one, too; from this particular point of view, I believe the French influence may prove a positive one

in the U.S.—at least, of course, in certain receptive milieus. In the years to come, as you continue publishing contemporary American poetry and organizing readings in Marseille and elsewhere, it will be interesting to note if indeed an implicit American influence is discernible in French poetry.

How would you like to conclude this conversation?

JJV: With this observation: One might also simply ask why one writes. To which I would say, not so as to act as a witness for our time, and if not to point the way, to signal something, then certainly not to become the echo of what is happening in society. The answer is that only poetry can answer why we write. For someone who wants to write, it is the only means of writing: poetry, and nothing else.

Don't Forget to Write to Aunt Augusta

a moment ago in the kitchen I devoured
two servings of a veal sauté with carrots
smothered in black pepper and a chili sauce
at home we're decidedly up on everything that's hot
I drank three glasses of an excellent Luberon red
followed a while later by a chilled bottle of Belgian beer

it hadn't rained for a long time and tonight
it's coming down heavy I hope you're not cold
in your quaint little house where when we arrive
we share with you some quince jelly
don't forget to go to the garden and pick
the last fruits left on the trees
be careful and use the long rake

I want to tell you
these days I'm living like a lunatic
on my paper the ink overruns the letters
like a lunatic has become like a tick
I have to correct the words
but I believe that lunatic and tick
in this situation of the mind and the body
can really help each other mutually
lunatic and tick are noble words
they grab your attention
they grip onto the subject
lunatic and tick both captivate in the same sudden manner
they force you to step back
the same attraction

you're probably thinking
he loves like a lunatic and lives like a tick
in neither case is that acceptable

I shall therefore tell you about a word sauté
you'll find this association rather lighthearted
I know you'll mention it to me one day
a little critical at once
meaningful as a general feeling
disagreeable for evening wear
disturbing for the narrative movement
but authorizing irreplaceable round trips

if I tell you
how much I relish a veal sauté
it's because you give me the chance right here
to satisfy a very old desire
begun while reading late at night in bed
the adventures of tom sawyer  and
the adventures of tom playfair  and then
the deerslayer  and then jack london
it became definite as I read steinbeck
and a certain number of other authors
in whose works apple pie or
rhubarb pie which I don't like as much
occupies a place of importance and often repeated
not so much in its alimentary role as
in the words employed to describe it
now it's my turn I can use
the word portion I always read a hefty portion
the word serving I always read two large servings
and so let me tell you
that old desire has been satisfied

antonia she too can whip up
a wicked pear pie
she places the pies on the windowsill
you can see them going by her place
on the road that goes down to the bridge
the fruit pies are outside
the tomato jars inside
you know that this system is defined
at the heart of a wordless story
where time spent in a cave
cannot resemble the time spent
in putting up a log fence

when antonia was a young woman
albert césar and vincent made
everyone dance in the neighboring villages
the three of them were accordionists
césar was also a shoemaker he made
work shoes and going-out shoes
he bought the uppers in town
had the leather delivered to his shop
his shoes were solid and handsome
all three are now dead
antonia is the only one left who still talks about them
but she prefers to tell you how
she slit off with her knife
twenty fat slugs on her staircase
how she climbed up the mountain
to go to school holding the tail
of the donkey that her mother the teacher
led by the bridle

a teacher pulling a donkey
pulling a child going to class

what a fabulous living chain
it shows how a little girl
finally learned how to read

when I write little girl
you should be able to gauge through the paper
what emotion I feel at this moment
it pushes me off the chair I'm sitting in
perhaps this particular distress which travels
so perfectly so perfectly useless
will reach your fingers

I wonder what would be left for me to talk about
if I were in antonia's shoes
if I received friends insisting
they be told something
what could I tell them
that might have the weight of a nicely told story
with clearly interconnected links
I don't know
my life's skin like everyone else's
is emphatically marked by pithy epic episodes
without any true connections between them
that rise and then fall to the ground
like lead soldiers with broken bases
it is built up of things that cannot be placed
by those who listen in to biographies
a sequence of tiny tales slightly tufted
only remembered in one's image memory
by a twist of the mouth articulating them
a twist of the mouth first of all and then
a twist of the memory and of its fat
a sequence held together by quotes
angling on different paths

in the direction of misunderstanding and doubt
I've long been moving
on this sonorous page with its narrow squares
in the absurd dignity of a locomotive
pulling freight cars with
bags of texts of different sorts
a train carrying various bits of information
that all work in a similar manner
seals eaten up by bears on icebanks
shoes belonging to egyptian soldiers
in the streets of Port Fuad in 1956
graffiti on the walls of barracks
in the Camp des Milles where the Vichy government
locked up thousands of foreigners in trouble
before turning them over to nazi officials
that Milles Camp near Aix-en-Provence where
the bourgeoisie thrilled by Solidarity
lit up exotic candles on their windowsills
when Jaruzelski's Poland declared a state of emergency
Aix-en-Provence where the bakers downtown
still refuse to serve gypsies
and so forth
all those frightful boxcars whose roofs
must be clamped down and the tarpaulin laced
before the train can leave
it's written on the doors

one day in one of the streets of that city
in front of two raven witnesses
squeezed on the branch of a sick plane tree
like numbers on a scoreboard
an account of time was carefully inscribed
let there be gongs whistles and stridencies
a repetitive injunction

in order to forestall forgetfulness
the tongue must give
eyes and ears must take
especially don't let them get lost
without mentally touching those pieces
torn out of a puzzle handed back to us

ask yourself listening to a young girl
who only stares through the place
of history recomposing itself
who knows where her eyes are shining
on that face rosier than roses

one day that young girl comes up to him
both of them sit down by the seashore
a shot of the sea and seagulls
pirouetting around them, zigzagging
she wants to know if he still loves her
she loves him and nobody else
he holds her in his arms and tells her
the whole story of his grief and
his desire for her and his love
I love you I love you he repeats
and as he leans over to kiss her
he discovers she's dead
for while telling her of his love
he had choked her in his arms

you see the young girl might
have made a simple movement
she didn't want to
it's inexpressible

how do you remember a gesture hardly begun
how does the body move
how does the body do it in this painting
of movements to be executed
how does it do it to get up to sit down
to pick up a pebble
head held high
it rests on the neck
the neck holds up the shoulders
the shoulders bring up the arms
in all of this planning of a fall
the point of the game is to keep one's balance
the stakes of this incomprehensible game
it's the force of gravity holding us
upright like a definitive door

I know of a far funnier game
the percussive movement in Ravel's bolero
you divide the repetitive sequence into four parts
first of all four raps on the drum that's I
then four raps plus two that's II
then the four raps come back and that's III
finally ten raps on the drum and that's IV
when you work it out on a kitchen table it comes out
pa pa pa pa
pa pa pa pa    pa pa
pa pa pa pa
pa pa pa pa pa pa pa pa pa pa
a bit tedious but very pretty
it's been going on for the last fifty years
easily transmissible and simpler
than the game of alternating colors
I look at a chair in my room
its back is formed of wooden rods

dark and light alternating I count eight of them
three blacks against a yellow backdrop
five yellows against a black backdrop
I'm having fun switching from
the lights to the darks
meaning changes every time
into its opposite

now I'm going to tell you
a chinese tale

once upon a time there was a chinese man and his wife who were
    very poor
they lived in their hut by the banks of a river
they had a child and since they were very poor
they couldn't keep it
one night the man took the child
the moon was bright on the river
he threw it in the water
a year later they had another child
they were still very poor and couldn't keep it
one night the man went back to the river
and threw the child in the water
the moon was shining on the river
a year later they had a third child
they weren't as poor and so they kept it
when the child had grown some the father took him in to town
when they got back to the hut it was night
the moon was shining on the river
the child said: "look father at the beauty of the moon
shining on the river
just like on those two nights
when you drowned me"

it's a frightening tale
and splendid don't you agree
but don't water my ashes
with a useless poison

I'm a football  said a friend staring
at his feet crossed together and his legs spread out
in front of him on the train
bringing us back from Royaumont
where on the greenish canals loaded with red leaves
no more swans go by Royaumont where
I had heard that the story of the harnessing
of forty bulls brought together
to knock down the high tower of the abbey
at the beginning of the french revolution
wasn't a true story that's just fine
most of the stories told about revolutions
put into circulation like that phenomenal harnessing
are inventions rumors shot full of holes
spread among the people
to shake them up to make things jump
that shouldn't be moved

but go on speak speak mouth
your lips form a long life
you were saying how to tell things
that didn't connect
I'm still laughing at your quizzical face
as the story unfolds
the surge of a new and solid crest
that empties itself and then disappears
behind the rising fog of darkness
what is commonly known as nightfall
falling in fact falling

in the oscillation of its feathers
and the kids' bath the tea table
tree shadows in front of the house all lit up
what a moment of passage dark and narrow
the abyss impossible to cross in a single leap

I haven't forgotten the least detail
of those stories I'm telling you
everything else you already know
but perhaps you've never noticed
at the movies when on the screen
the sidewalk is wet with rain
people in the theater move their feet under their seats
fearing they too might get wet

Ne Pas Oublier La Lettre à Tante Augusta

il y a un instant j'ai dévoré dans la cuisine
deux portions de sauté de veau aux carottes
recouvertes de poivre noir et de purée de harissa
nous avons ici un vif désir de tout ce qui est fort
j'ai bu trois verres de vin rouge du Lubéron excellent
et peu après une bouteille de bière belge fraîche

depuis longtemps il n'avait pas plu et ce soir
ça tombe serré j'espère que tu n'as pas froid
dans ta vieille petite maison où quand nous venons
nous partageons avec toi de la pâte de coing
n'oublie pas d'aller dans le jardin cueillir
les derniers fruits qui restent sur les arbres
fais attention et sers-toi du long râteau

je veux te dire
en ce moment je vis comme un fou
sur mon papier l'encre déborde les lettres
comme un fou est devenu comme un pou
je suis obligé de corriger les mots
mais je trouve que fou et pou
dans cette situation du corps et de l'esprit
peuvent bien s'aider mutuellement
fou et pou sont des mots nobles
ils accrochent l'attention
ils s'accrochent au sujet
fou et pou captivent de la même manière subite
ils provoquent le même recul
la même attirance

tu es en train de penser
il aime comme un fou et vit comme un pou
dans les deux cas ce n'est pas admissible

je vais donc te parler d'un sauté de mots
tu trouveras cette association un peu leste
je sais que tu m'expliqueras ça un jour
un genre de petit jugement à la fois
important pour le sentiment général
désagréable pour la tenue formelle
encombrant pour la conduite narrative
mais autorisant des aller retour irremplaçables

si je t'avoue
ma faiblesse pour le sauté de veau
c'est que tu m'offres ici l'occasion
de satisfaire un très vieux désir
commencé en lisant tard dans mon lit
«les aventures de tom sawyer» et
«les aventures de tom playfair» et puis
«le tueur de daims» et puis jack london
ça s'est précisé en lisant aussi steinbeck
et un certain nombre d'autres auteurs
chez lesquels la tarte aux pommes ou
la tarte à la rhubarbe que j'aime moins
tient une place importante et répétée
non pas dans son rôle alimentaire mais
dans les mots employés pour sa mise en scène
c'est mon tour maintenant je peux utiliser
le mot part je lisais toujours une grosse part
le mot portion je lisais toujours deux larges portions
ainsi je peux te le dire
le vieux désir est satisfait

antonia elle aussi sait faire
de fameuses tartes aux poires
elle les place sur le rebord de sa fenêtre
on les voit en passant devant sa maison
de la route qui descend jusqu'au pont
les tartes aux fruits sont à l'extérieur
les bocaux de tomates à l'intérieur
tu sais que cette organisation s'accomplit
au centre d'une histoire sans parole
où le temps passé dans une cave
ne peut ressembler au temps mis
à monter une grille de bûches

lorsqu'antonia était une jeune femme
albert césar et vincent faisaient danser
les villages de la commune
ils étaient tous les trois accordéonistes
césar était aussi cordonnier il fabriquait
les chaussures de travail et celles de sortie
il achetait les tiges en ville
se faisait livrer le cuir chez lui
ses chaussures étaient solides et belles
ils sont morts tous les trois
antonia est seule à parler encore d'eux
mais elle préfère raconter comment
elle a sectionné au couteau
vingt grosses limaces sur son escalier
comment elle grimpait dans la montagne
pour aller à son école en tenant la queue
de la mule que l'institutrice sa mère
conduisait par la bride

une enseignante qui tire une mule
qui tire un enfant qui va en classe

c'est une magnifique chaîne animée
elle indique comment une petite fille
a finalement appris à lire

lorsque j'écris petite fille
tu devrais percevoir à travers le papier
quelle émotion j'éprouve en cet instant
qui me bouscule du siège où je suis assis
peut-être que ce trouble exact qui voyage
tellement parfait tellement inusable
parviendra jusqu'à tes doigts

je me demande ce que j'aurais à raconter
si j'étais à la place d'antonia
si je recevais des personnes décidées
à se faire raconter quelque chose
qu'est-ce que je pourrais leur dire
qui aurait valeur de récit organisé
racontable de maillon en maillon
je ne sais pas
la peau de ma vie comme celle de chacun
est martelée par de petits épisodes épiques
sans réelle relation entre eux
qui surgissent puis tombent à terre
comme des cavaliers de plomb sans assise
elle est construite de choses non repérables
par les écouteurs de biographies
une suite d'historiettes aux aigrettes maigres
dont on ne retiendrait dans la mémoire des images
que la déformation de la bouche de qui les articule
déformation de la bouche d'abord et ensuite
déformation de la mémoire et de sa graisse
une suite qui tient par citations
fléchant sur des chemins divers

en direction du malentendu et du doute
je bouge depuis longtemps
sur cet étroit quadrillage sonore
dans une absurde dignité de locomotive
qui tire des wagons de marchandises
sacs de textes de nature différente
un convoi qui charrie des informations variables
mais d'un fonctionnement semblable
des phoques bouffés par des ours sur la banquise
des chaussures de soldats égyptiens
dans les rues de Port-Fouad en 1956
des graffitis sur des murs de baraquements
au Camp des Milles où le gouvernement de Vichy
enferma des milliers d'étrangers en difficulté
avant de les livrer aux fonctionnaires nazis
ce Camp des Milles près d'Aix-en-Provence où
la bourgeoisie frémissant pour Solidarité
alluma des bougies exotiques à ses fenêtres
quand la Pologne de Jaruzelski subit l'état d'urgence
Aix-en-Provence où les boulangers du centre-ville
refusent toujours de servir les gitans
et ainsi de suite
tous ces wagons consternants dont il faut
que le toit soit verrouillé et la bâche lacée
avant que le train ne parte
c'est écrit sur leur porte

un jour dans une rue de cette ville
devant deux corbeaux témoins
serrés sur leur branche de platane malade
comme des notations de boulier
le compte du temps s'est précisément inscrit
il faut des gongs des sifflets des stridences
une injonction répétitive

afin de prévenir l'oubli
il faut donner par la langue
prendre par les yeux et les oreilles
surtout ne pas laisser se perdre
sans les palper mentalement les pièces
déchiquetées du puzzle qu'on nous a remis

il faut se demander en écoutant une jeune fille
qui ne regarde qu'à travers l'endroit
de l'histoire qui se recompose
qui sait où lui brille les yeux
dans cette face plus rose que les roses

un jour cette jeune fille s'approche de lui
tous deux s'assoient au bord de mer
vision alors de la mer et des mouettes
pirouettant autour d'eux zig-zig-zig
elle lui demande s'il ne l'aime plus
elle l'aime et n'en aime aucun autre
il la tient dans ses bras et lui raconte
toute l'histoire de son chagrin et
de son désir d'elle et de son amour
je t'aime je t'aime répète-t-il
et comme il se penche sur elle pour l'embrasser
il s'aperçoit qu'elle est morte
car pendant qu'il lui parlait de son amour
il l'avait étouffée dans ses bras

tu vois la jeune fille n'avait
qu'un mouvement à faire
elle n'a pas voulu
c'est inexprimable

comment se rappeler un geste pas vraiment commencé
comment le corps bouge-t-il
comment fait le corps dans cette toile
de mouvements à accomplir
comment fait-il pour se lever pour s'asseoir
pour ramasser un caillou
la tête est en haut
elle repose sur le cou
le cou retient les épaules
les épaules rattrapent les bras
dans toute cette construction de chute
le jeu consiste à conserver son équilibre
la mise de ce jeu incompréhensible
c'est l'attraction terrestre elle nous tient
verticale comme une porte définitive

je connais un jeu beaucoup plus drôle
celui de la percussion dans le boléro de Ravel
il faut diviser la série répétitive en quatre parties
d'abord quatre coups de poing sur le tambour c'est I
ensuite quatre coups de poing plus deux c'est II
reviennent les quatre coups de poing et c'est III
enfin dix coups sur le tambour et c'est IV
en s'exerçant sur une table de cuisine cela donne
pan pan pan pan
pan pan pan pan     pan pan
pan pan pan pan
pan pan pan pan pan pan pan pan pan pan
un peu lassant mais très joli
ça dure depuis plus de cinquante ans
facilement transmissible et plus simple
que le jeu des couleurs alternées
je regarde une chaise dans ma chambre

le dos est formé par des bâtons de bois
noir et clair alternant j'en compte huit
trois noirs sur fond jaune
cinq jaunes sur fond noir
je m'amuse à mettre le ton alternativement
ou sur le clair ou sur le noir
le sens se change chaque fois
en son contraire

maintenant je vais te raconter
une histoire chinoise

il était une fois un chinois et une chinoise très pauvres
ils vivaient dans leur cabane au bord d'une rivière
ils eurent un enfant et comme ils étaient très pauvres
ils ne pouvaient pas le garder
une nuit l'homme prit l'enfant
la lune luisait sur la rivière
il le jeta dans l'eau
un an plus tard ils eurent encore un enfant
ils étaient toujours très pauvres et ne pouvaient le garder
une nuit l'homme repartit à la rivière
et jeta l'enfant dans l'eau
la lune brillait sur la rivière
un an plus tard ils eurent un troisième enfant
ils n'étaient plus aussi pauvres et ils le gardèrent
lorsqu'il fut un peu grand le père l'emmena à la ville
lorsqu'ils regagnèrent leur cabane il faisait nuit
la lune luisait sur la rivière
l'enfant dit «regarde père la beauté de la lune
qui brille sur la rivière
exactement comme les deux nuits
au cours desquelles tu m'as noyé»

c'est une histoire effrayante
et magnifique n'est-ce pas
mais n'arrose pas mes cendres
d'un inutile poison

I'm a foot-ball disait un ami en regardant
ses pieds croisés et ses jambes allongées
devant lui dans le wagon du train
qui nous ramenait de Royaumont
où sur les canaux verdâtres chargés de feuilles rouges
plus aucun cygne ne passe Royaumont
où j'avais appris que l'histoire de l'attelage
aux quarante boeufs^[*]  rassemblés
pour abattre la tour haute de l'abbaye
au début de la révolution française
est une histoire fausse tant mieux
la plupart des histoires qui circulent sur les révolutions
mises en place comme celle de l'attelage phénoménal
sont des inventions des rumeurs crevées
répandues sur les auditoires populaires
pour émouvoir pour faire sursauter
ce qu'il ne faut pas faire bouger

mais parle parle toi bouche
tes lèvres forment une longue vie
tu racontais comment dire des choses
qui ne se rencontraient pas
je ris encore de ta figure perplexe
devant la progression de l'histoire
la vague d'une nouvelle montée solide
qui se vide et disparaît
derrière la brume d'obscurité naissante
ce que l'on désigne par la chute du jour
qui tombe en effet qui tombe

dans les balancements de ses plumes
et le bain des enfants la table à thé
l'ombre des arbres en face de la maison éclairée
quel moment de passage sombre étroit
l'abîme impossible à franchir d'un saut

je n'oublie aucun détail
de ces choses que je raconte pour toi
tout le reste tu le sais déjà
mais peut-être n'as-tu jamais remarqué
qu'au cinéma lorsqu'à l'écran
le trottoir est mouillé par la pluie
alors on recule ses pieds dans la salle
de crainte qu'ils soient mouillés aussi