\n Ni sa faiblesse ni son coeur Et quand il croit
\n Ouvrir ses bras son ombre est celle d’une croix
\n Et quand il croit serrer son bonheur il le broie
\n Sa vie est un \u00e9trange et douloureux divorce
\n Il n’y a pas d’amour heureux
\n (Aragon, il n’y a pas d’amour heureux<\/i>)<\/blockquote>\n\n
Je peux aussi vous siffloter du Brel (vous pensez que \u00e7a ferait bien sur un CV, “siflotteur de Brel”?), je connais pas mal de ses chansons par coeur et il parlait souvent de la joie, du bonheur & co: “L’enfance”:<\/p>\n\n <\/i>“je suis un soir d’\u00e9t\u00e9<\/i>“, “Zangra<\/i>“, “Voir un ami pleurer<\/i>“, “Le plat pays<\/i>“, “ne me quitte pas<\/i>“, “il neige sur Li\u00e8ge<\/i>“, “Il y a<\/i>“, “Pourquoi faut-il que les hommes s’ennuient ?<\/i>“, “Amsterdam<\/i>“, “Seul<\/i>“, “Vivre debout<\/i>“,”Fanette<\/i>“, “Les taureaux<\/i>“:<\/p><\/p>\n\n Brel. Je ne l’ai pas \u00e9cout\u00e9 depuis beaucoup trop longtemps.<\/p>\n\n Cette nuit, j’ai commenc\u00e9 Absolom, Absolom!<\/i> de Faulkner. En fait, je l’ai recommenc\u00e9. La premi\u00e8re fois que je l’ai ouvert, j’avais 13 ans et mon anglais me permettait juste de rougir en invitant cette fille au cin\u00e9, et encore fallait faire des gestes — I love you<\/em> qu’elle m’a \u00e9crit sur un bout de serviette en papier, avant de repartir dans son pays. Je la croyais. Je l’I lovait you aussi.<\/p>\n\n Les premi\u00e8res pages du Faulkner me font mal au ventre tant elles me plaisent. Sans rire, j’ai envie de claquer le livre sur les murs et en m\u00eame temps, promu, de vivre la vie d’un mot dans From a little after two oclok until almost sundown of the long still hot weary dead september afternoon they sat in what Miss Coldfield still called the office because her father had called it that — a dim hot airless room with the blinds all closed and fastened for forty-three summers because when she was a girl someone had believed that light and moving air carried heat and that dark was always cooler, wich (as the sun shone fuller and fuller on that side of the house) became latticed with yellow slashes full of dust motes which Quentin thought of as being flecks of the dead old dried paint itself blown inward from the scaling blinds as wind might have blown them. There was as wistaria vine blooming for the second time that summer on a wooden trellis before one window, into which sparrows came now and then in random gusts, making a dry vivid dusty sound before going away: and opposite Quentin, Miss Coldfield in the eternal black which she had worn for forty-three years now, whether for sister, father, or nothusband non knew, sitting so bold upright in the straight hard chair that was so tall for her that her legs hung straight and rigid as if she had iron shinbones and ankles, clear of the floor with that air of impotent and static rage like children’s feet, and talking in that grim haggard amazed voice until at last listening would renege and hearing-sense self-confound and the long-dead object of her impotent yet indomitable frustration would appear, as though by outraged recapitulation evoked, quiet inattentive and harmless, out of the biding and dreamy and victorious dust.<\/p> Her voice would not cease, it would just vanish. (…) <\/blockquote>\n\n Putain (note d’enthousiasme)! Rien que sa fa\u00e7on d’utiliser la ponctuation me donne des frissons… Peut-\u00eatre parce que, derri\u00e8re mon air triste et pas enthousiaste, je suis un grand sensible qu’une virgule d\u00e9plac\u00e9e ou un point omis suffisent \u00e0 \u00e9mouvoir? Peut-\u00eatre parce que j’aime la musique des mots et des phrases (il faut le lire \u00e0 haute voix)? Ou alors c’est la temp\u00e9rature qui a baiss\u00e9 d’un coup ? Il para\u00eet (dixit les coll\u00e8gues au boulot) que je n’exprime pas assez ma joie, ni mon enthousiasme. Bah. Voil\u00e0 qui est ennuyant: Triste Sire, c’est moi. Je me voyais plut\u00f4t en Robin des bois (avec le chapeau ridicule). Ou en … Read more →<\/a><\/p>","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[22],"class_list":["post-5343","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-general","tag-litterature"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbosman.fr\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5343","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbosman.fr\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbosman.fr\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbosman.fr\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbosman.fr\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5343"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbosman.fr\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5343\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6460,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbosman.fr\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5343\/revisions\/6460"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbosman.fr\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5343"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbosman.fr\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5343"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbosman.fr\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5343"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}C’est rien avec de l’imprudence
\n C’est tout ce qui n’est pas \u00e9crit.
<\/blockquote>\n\nQui nous dira \u00e0 quoi \u00e7a pense un taureau qui tourne et danse et s’aper\u00e7oit soudain qu’il est tout nu?
\n Qui nous dira \u00e0 quoi \u00e7a r\u00eave, un taureau dont l’oeil se l\u00e8ve et qui d\u00e9couvre les cornes des cocus?<\/p> <\/blockquote>\n\n![](\"http:\/\/davidbosman.fr\/images\/zen.png\")
<\/div>\n\nces<\/s> ses pages.<\/p>\n\n
L’\u00e9t\u00e9 est pass\u00e9.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"