that I cry ... The simplest expression
In his too brief collection There are too many images - too brief because his writing is equally as beautiful and electrifying sad, too short because we would also develop the reading more his mind - Bernard Emond, one of our too few artists and intellectuals, to quote these extraordinary Pasolini: "I weep for a dead world / but I who weep, I am not dead . It seems to me to hear these echoes in each text that makes up this collection.
Émond going to ask these tears as a condition for the possibility of the resurrection of the world, this text reflects the idea that any of the postmodern dissolution of real. I'd be pleased to quote a lengthy passage:
"Yet we are one of the world where reality is harder to see. Children starving, refugees crowded into camps and corpses victims of suicide bombings that we see the information have no reality. [...]
What is real is what we are talking to Everyone speaks , that's life people, rich and famous, sports, celebrities, business people, [...] what is real, what are the chances of the Canadiens win the Stanley Cup, the success of Cirque du Soleil "which we represent feel so well abroad. " [...]
So hungry children, refugees, the homeless, the mangled corpses do not exist. They must not exist if we are to believe that we are still human.
But it happens, however, that despite the injunctions of s spin doctor and ingenuity of advertising, despite the packaging of the society of spectacle, despite the anesthesia consumerism, despite the obligatory laugh, despite the drugs, tranquilizers and alcohol that we consume to keep distance, a little real success to float.
And it hurts. The eye of shipwrecked hurts. The arrogance of the powerful hurts. The unfathomable stupidity of the mass media hurts. Our responsibility, above all our responsibility, hurts. Our hands are dirty, we know that our pension funds are built on the plunder of the planet and the plight of the unemployed, and it hurts. We know that our indifference and inertia are the source of political stagnation which we pretend to complain and it hurts. But this pain is our chance and our hope, that in itself is still a bit of our humanity, it is from her that will build our refusal. "
Bernard Emond, There are too many pictures , Montreal, Lux, 2011, p. 105-106.
These are the words that accompanied me in my reading of the novel that I would efface myself Anaïs Barbeau-Lavalette, who is also director of the great movie The Ring , one of those movies like you've done just about more in Quebec. For the story, the film The Ring was shot just above our heads, to Amelia and me over our old apartment. When we had found a slip in our mail about filming, I could not help but make this thought: "Oh no, not the story of a poor boy Hochelaga! Obviously, we can only speak of a poor boy in Hochelaga! "I thought it would be One such film full of good intentions made by people who knew nothing about the neighborhood and enclosed it in the most hackneyed cliches ...
Watching the film during its theatrical release, I saw that I was wrong. The film had no defects that I feared. It was both tough and sensitive, but never complacent.
When I learned Anais Barbeau-Lavalette had published a novel, I could not help but fear less the same thing when I heard of his movie. In interviews, the filmmaker still underlines the combativeness of the individuals of which it speaks in his films. And she is right to do so. First, because it's true, because the survivors are struggling so much that all winners that our society values. And because the cliché that the poor are lazy, soft sides, steps-of-control, persists and grows. But also because I think increasingly the role of artists is just as lucid as to make us give us some light. When will we finally that cynicism is even more complacent than what the cynics called with the contempt which is their second skin otherworldliness?
I feared, however, that the novel by Anaïs Barbeau-Lavalette is heavy with the rhetoric of empowerment . Well, it's not. If the novel escapes this defect, I think that's largely thanks to more points of view narration. The novel adopts in turn the perspective of three young main characters, Roxanne, Melissa and Kevin, along with some others, and translated just as their cruelty, their despair, their intelligence and sensitivity, this sensitivity if shaken. It also feels at rare moments of quiet, loving presence of the writer, as in this passage sober and heartbreaking:
"Herd skinned men, crumbs of life, Warriors basement, they all let in the light of the moment. "
Anaïs Barbeau-Lavalette efface myself that I would , Montreal, Hurtubise, 2010, p. 140.
This passage does not, however, is exactly the language of this novel, rough and dry. The novel is written in the language of the protagonists, in popular idiom made with an accuracy rarely equaled. We feel that this writer has heard many languages and she has worked long and with respect to the return. Far from smooth and sentimental language that characterizes the stories of shattered childhoods, the novel is written in a language alive, who gives flesh to the characters.
however I could not talk about my return to play without pain that I was talking through the voice of Bernard Emond a little higher. Before opening the pages of this book, I knew too well what awaited me pain. My beloved had read this novel by my side the night before, while I finished reading Bernard Emond. I saw her upset by his reading, I saw his tears, heard his sobs. Amelia had read a few passages in tears. She did not cry these tears sweet you cry in front of a beautiful and moving passage. She wept tears of bitter and corrosive we cry when we see someone who is dear to us when we suffer or suffer himself.
So I already heavy heart by attending the reading of Amelia. We made the insomnia that night. We have stopped thinking for both reading Amelia. The next day, I am eager to read the novel because I could not wait. I knew a great time and great pain waiting for me. I had to dive.
And I dived and was worse than I feared. It hurt me physically ill, as rarely if ever have I had trouble reading. It was as if I was in shock the pain of all those people who live within a few meters from my house, I see and hear but do not know, as much because of a kind of fatalism as a kind of unwillingness on my part, a mixture of natural shyness, a feeling of never being in my place of fear and helplessness . Let there be no mistake. I am fully aware that everything around me people are suffering and do not eat their fill. I do feel however that sneak and never with this intensity. Here, it came suddenly.
However, I found the courage to move forward by rethinking the words of Bernard Emond: "This pain is our chance and our hope." Yes, I knew that this pain was my chance and I hope and I had to live through.
The truth is However, there is no end to this pain. I will soon think of something else, but I do not go out. Just as I open the pages of the book by Anaïs Barbeau-Lavalette for me to feel this pain again grabbing me round the waist. What else to add except that it is a true work of art.
0 comments:
Post a Comment