On ne dit pas, on laisse dire. On laisse les mots venir, ils viennent dans un ordre qui n'est pas le nôtre, qui est l'ordre du mensonge, de la mort, de la vie en société. Très peu de vraies paroles s'échangent chaque jour, vraiment très peu. Peut-être ne tombe-t-on amoureux que pour enfin commencer à parler. Peut-être n'ouvre-t-on un livre que pour enfin commencer à entendre.

Christian Bobin, Le Très-Bas

Time

The people are gone, the portal is closed.

Morges, March 2007.

La Rouille

Moi, je la vois comme une plaie utile,

Marquant le temps d'ocre jaune et de roux.

La rouille aurait un charme fou

Si elle ne s'attaquait qu'aux grilles.

Maxime Le Forestier, 1973

A song I used to play on the guitar when I was a very young girl. Probably as corny as I was then, but these are still very good memories. Children of the 70's know this feeling.

Vous, ici?

(...)

I feel sorry for not having been able to post much on this blog in the last time. I work very hard in an institution for teenagers with learning difficulties, and the kids are all very lovable, but the institution sucks. I'm more of a friend than a teacher and it's obviously not what my contract asks me to be. Clearly, I don't fit in. That's exhausting.
In every bit of free time, I grasp to any good book at hand and read voraciously, as written words were my only salvation. And I spent delicious hours in company of Joseph Conrad, Paul Bowles and E. M. Forster.
By the end of June I should be definitely somewhere else, and myself again.
And then, I hope, back here!

Rue Curtat