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