Suicide (Folio) (French Edition)
Language: French
Pages: 0
ISBN: 2070398625
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
disappeared the moment you recognized them and reappeared at the next turn before disappearing anew. You watched scenes unfurl, a passive spectator, as though at a film. By dint of being repeated, the actions you saw lost their meaning. You couldn’t have said how long each scene lasted, nor how long you spent watching them. You wouldn’t turn on the light in order to check the time, but when day broke through the shutters, you believed you hadn’t slept a moment since going to bed. Your wife
(Anguish), is a collection of shots of a peculiarly tranquil small French town by that name. Particularly memorable examples include photos of a sign proclaiming “Bienvenue à l’Angoisse” (Welcome to Anguish). In each case, the photos cumulatively cement our feeling that names are not transparent. We do not think of this particular Yves Klein when the name “Yves Klein” pops up; the name “Paris” does not evoke the town we see in the photo; “Angoisse” is not a description of what we feel when
your nebulous presence. You didn’t use to read poetry, but you would sometimes recite it: the lyrics, without music, of the songs you liked. Rock was your poetry. You used to say it was better to listen to rock in a foreign language that you knew poorly. How beautiful the words were if they were only half understood. What great stuff Dada would have brought to rock, if only the dates had coincided. You didn’t see a psychoanalyst, but you spent a lot of time analyzing yourself. You read Freud,
immobility allowed you to observe the collective action in slow motion, and to see things that, because of their urgency and the profusion of detail, would escape the notice of others. In a small provincial town, looking at a market from a hotel room above it, you grasped that the crowd moving below traced out a triangle that would swell and shrink in cycles. A futile observation? A useless sort of science? Your intelligence did not disdain gratuitous subjects. Facing your mirror, happy or
earlier. She was stunned, discovering her blindness like a time bomb. And you, faithful, kept a straight face. You were such a perfectionist that you wanted to perfect perfecting. But how can one judge whether perfection has been attained? Why not go on and modify yet another detail? There always came, however, that terrifying moment when you could no longer judge the improvements you’d brought about: your taste for perfect things bordered on madness. You would lose your frame of reference; you