#claude bonnefoy

[abridurif]

Encore ceci où on verra qu’écrire est bien différent de parler. On écrit aussi pour n’avoir plus de visage, pour s’enfouir soi-même sous sa propre écriture. On écrit pour que la vie qu’on a autour, à côté, en dehors, mais ennuyeuse et pleine de soucis, qui est exposée aux autres, se résorbe dans ce petit rectangle de papier qu’on a sous les yeux et dont on est maître. Écrire, au fond, c’est essayer de faire s’écouler, par les canaux mystérieux de la plume et de l’écriture, toute la substance, non seulement de l’existence, mais du corps, dans ces traces minuscules qu’on dépose sur le papier. N’être plus, en fait de vie, que ce gribouillage à la fois mort et bavard que l’on a déposé sur la feuille blanche, c’est à cela qu’on rêve quand on écrit. Mais à cette résorption de la vie grouillante dans le grouillement immobile des lettres, on n’arrive jamais. Michel Foucault, Le Beau danger, Entretien avec Claude Bonnefoy, Éditions EHESS. Paris, 2011

[schizografia]

Un giorno a Madrid, per esempio, ero rimasto affascinato dalle Meninas di Velazquez. Avevo guardato quel quadro molto a lungo, così, senza pensare di poterne mai parlare un giorno, e tanto meno di descriverlo - cosa che in quel momento mi sarebbe sembrata irrilevante e ridicola. E poi, un giorno, non so più come, senza averlo rivisto, senza nemmeno aver guardato delle riproduzioni, mi è venuta la voglia di parlare a memoria di quel quadro, di descrivere quello che c’era lì dentro. Non appena ho cercato di descriverlo, una certa colorazione del linguaggio, un certo ritmo, una certa forma di analisi, soprattutto, mi hanno dato l’impressione, la quasi certezza - falsa forse - di avere proprio là il discorso attraverso il quale sarebbe potuta sorgere e misurarsi la distanza che abbiamo nei confronti della filosofia classica della rappresentazione e nei confronti del pensiero classico dell’ordine e della somiglianza. E' così che ho cominciato a scrivere Le parole e le cose. Per questo libro ho utilizzato tutto un materiale che avevo accumulato negli anni precedenti un po’ a caso, senza sapere che cosa ne avrei fatto, senza avere nessuna certezza sulla possibilità di farne mai un saggio. Era una specie di materiale morto che percorrevo un po’ come una sorta di giardino desertico, come un’estensione inutilizzabile, che percorrevo così come immagino che lo scultore d’altri tempi, lo scultore del diciassettesimo o del diciottesimo secolo, dovesse contemplare, toccare il blocco di marmo di cui non sapeva ancora che cosa fare.

Michel Foucault, Il bel rischio. Conversazione con Claude Bonnefoy

[honeyleesblog]

June 24 ZODIAC

They are very respectable, steady, erotic, blissful, they appreciate interruptions and games, music, life in extravagance and solaces. It should be added that they are smart individuals, very shrewd and enterprising. Specifically, they target different mystery plans and activities. They head out in a different direction with a great deal of persistence, despite the fact that they don't necessarily finish things eventually. They appreciate functions and official appearances. They are rich and blessed with a specific ability for acting. They are intrigued by the excellence of the scenes, blossoms and plants. They would rather not practice a lot throughout everyday life. In spite of the fact that they can be exceptionally dynamic, they need a lighthearted life. Their defects are narrow-mindedness and envy, and they don't make a special effort to offer courtesies to others. Their nuances and shrewd as a rule clear their path through life. They need to live in flourishing and solace no matter what, with moral splits the difference or aspirations. June 24 ZODIAC 

 On the off chance that your birthday is June 24, your zodiac sign is Disease June 24 - character and character character: mindful, energetic, bright, horrendous, insane, unreasonable calling: stylist, cosmetologist, secretary tones: pink, beige, blue stone: topaz creature: gazelle plant: Snapdragon fortunate numbers: 2,7,30,46,51,53 very fortunate number: 1 Occasions and observances - June 24 Argentina: We Tripantu, Ano Nuevo Mapuche, Holiday de San Juan (in the territory of San Juan), Auto Dashing Day, Soccer Day celebrating the introduction of Lionel Messi and Pilot Day recognizing the introduction of Argentine driver Juan Manuel Fangio Peru: Inti Raymi (Celebration of the Sun particularly Cusco), Holiday de San Juan (in every one of the towns of the Peruvian Wilderness) and Day of the Laborer Canada: Public Occasion of the Territory of Quebec. Mexico (Guadalupe, Zacatecas): La Morisma de Guadalupe out of appreciation for Holy person John the Baptist. Colombia, Tamale Day in the city of Ibague Mexico (Chiapas): San Juan Chamula. Chile: We Tripantu, Mapuche New Year. Venezuela: Day of San Juan Bautista, Evening of San Juan Bautista, Day of the Public Multitude of Venezuela. June 24 VIP birthday celebrations. Who was conceived that very day as you? 1901: Marcel Donkey, French traditional saxophonist, soloist and teacher (f. 2001). 1901: Harry Partch, American arranger (d. 1974). 1901: Ricardo Saprissa, Salvadoran-Costa Rican soccer player and financial specialist (d. 1990). 1904: დ?ngel Garma, Spanish-Argentine therapist (f. 1993). 1908: Hugo Distler, German arranger (d. 1942). 1910: Guillermo Sautier Casaseca, Spanish author (d. 1980). 1911: Juan Manuel Fangio, Argentine Recipe 1 driver (f. 1995). 1911: Ernesto Sabato, Argentine writer and writer (d. 2011). 1912: Juan Reynoso Portillo, Mexican violin player (d. 2007). 1913: Juan Criado, Peruvian footballer, vocalist lyricist and writer (d. 1978). 1913: Gustaaf Deloor, Belgian cyclist (d. 2002). 1913: Jan Kubish, Czech warrior (d. 1942). 1914: Humberto Briseno Sierra, Mexican law specialist, teacher and scholastic (f. 2003). 1914: Juan Grela, Argentine painter and printmaker (d. 1992). 1914: Luis Sდ¡nchez Agesta, Spanish law specialist, teacher and scholastic (f. 1997). 1915: Sir Fred Hoyle, English astrophysicist and essayist (d. 2001). 1923: Yves Bonnefoy, French writer, interpreter and workmanship pundit (d. 2016). 1927: Martin Lewis Perl, American physicist, Nobel Prize in Material science in 1995. 1927: Osvaldo Zubeldia, Argentine soccer player (d. 1982). 1928: Argentino Ledesma, Argentine artist (d. 2004). 1930: Claude Chabrol, French producer (d. 2010). 1932: Antonete (Antonio Chenel), Spanish matador (d. 2011). 1932: Queta Claver, Spanish entertainer (f. 2003). 1933: Sam Jones, American ball player. 1935: Juan Carlos Rousselot, Argentine columnist and legislator (d. 2010). 1938: Lawrence Block, American essayist. 1940: Vittorio Storaro, Italian cinematographer. 1941: Julia Kristeva, French scholar, psychoanalyst and author. 1942: Eduardo Frei Ruiz-Tagle, Chilean president somewhere in the range of 1994 and 2000. 1942: Colin Forests, Australian primatologist. 1944: Petra Martდ­nez, Spanish entertainer. 1944: Jeff Beck, English artist, of the band The Yardbirds. 1944: Arturo Goetz, Argentine entertainer (d. 2014). 1945: Mario Alarcდ³n, Argentine entertainer. 1946: Ellison Onizuka, American space explorer (d. 1986). 1948: Armando Calderდ³n Sol, Salvadoran president somewhere in the range of 1994 and 1999. 1948: Steve Patterson, American ball player (d. 2004). 1949: John Illsley, English bassist. 1953: Laura Cepeda, Spanish entertainer. 1957: Luis Salinas, Argentine guitarist 1961: Terse Smith, English performer. 1962: Lancaster Gordon, American ball player. 1964: Fდ©lix de Bedout, Colombian columnist. 1967: Richard Z. Kruspe, German guitarist, of the band Rammstein. 1968: Jaime Enrique Aymara, Ecuadorian artist. 1968: Anna Ciocchetti, Mexican entertainer. 1971: Tony Hernდ¡ndez, Mexican artist lyricist and guitarist. 1972: Robbie McEwen, Australian cyclist. 1977: Josდ© Antonio Crespo, Spanish badminton player. 1978: Luis Garcდ­a, Spanish footballer. 1978: Shunsuke Nakamura, Japanese footballer. 1978: Juan Romდ¡n Riquelme, Argentine footballer. 1978: Emppu Vuorinen, Finnish guitarist. 1980: Cicinho (Cდ­cero Joao de Cezare), Brazilian soccer player. 1981: Johnny 3 Tears, artist of Rap Rock. 1982: Kevin Nolan, English footballer. 1982: Christian Montero, Costa Rican soccer player. 1982: Serginho Greene, Dutch footballer. 1983: Sofდ­a Mulდ¡novich Aljovდ­n, Peruvian surfer. 1983: Ariel Kenig, French essayist and writer. 1984: Osvaldo Noდ© Miranda, Argentine footballer. 1984: JJ Redick, American ball player. 1985: Diego Alves Carreira, Brazilian soccer player. 1986: Solange Knowles, American entertainer, model and artist. 1986: Francisco Munoz, Chilean pilot and city hall leader of La Reina. 1987: Lionel Messi, Argentine footballer. 1987: LiSA, Japanese artist. 1988: Micah Richards, English footballer. 1988: Facundo Ardusso, Argentine pilot. 1991: Mutaz Essa Barshim, Qatari competitor. 1992: Raven Goodwin, American entertainer. 1992: David Alaba, Austrian footballer. 1993: Piero Barone, Italian artist.

[domleb]

Villa “Ombre blanche” // Royan // 2011

[the-chomsky-hash]

[finita--la--commedia]

... we write to hide our face, to bury ourselves in our own writing. We write so that the life around us, alongside us, outside, far from the sheet of paper, this life that’s not very funny but tiresome and filled with worry, exposed to others, is absorbed in that small rectangle of paper before our eyes and which we control. Writing is a way of trying to evacuate, through the mysterious channels of pen and ink, the substance, not just of existence, but of the body, in those minuscule marks we make on paper. To be nothing more, in terms of life, than this dead and jabbering scribbling that we’ve put on the white sheet of paper is what we dream about when we write. But we never succeed in absorbing all that teeming life in the motionless swarm of letters. Life always goes on outside the sheet of paper, continues to proliferate, keeps going, and is never pinned down to that small rectangle; the heavy volume of the body never succeeds in spreading itself across the surface of the paper, we can never pass into that two-dimensional universe, that pure line of speech; we never succeed in becoming thin enough or adroit enough to be nothing more than the linearity of a text, and yet that’s what we hope to achieve. So we keep trying, we continue to restrain ourselves, to take control of ourselves, to slip into the funnel of pen and ink, an infinite task, but the task to which we’ve dedicated ourselves.

Michel Foucault in an interview with Claude Bonnefoy, 1968 edited by Philippe Artières, translated by Robert Bononno.

[ask-le-fdp-blog]

I could see him work as the beast in a beauty and the beast au-))

How about

François Frollo?

[theacademicgatsby]

An author is by definition someone who has faith in words.

- Eugene Ionesco in conversation with Claude Bonnefoy

[0416esther-blog]

Group Clovis~!

Esther and Lauren Final~~~

The Musee de l’Homme is a museum that holds the prehistoric anthropology and paleontology galleries. They are mainly arranged by geographical regions and it says that the brain of Rene Descartes is in here as well as the Inca mummy that inspired the painting The Scream (Michelin Green Guide).

As soon as we got out of Trocadero, the Museum was right in front of us. We took a picture in front of the museum and Lauren wanted more pictures so she took pictures on the side and of the Effiel tower from the view of the museum. The museum is split into two buildings with a great opening in the middle, where the buildings frame the Effiel tower, so it is a very pretty place to visit if you'd ever like to see the Effiel tower from a distance.

Place des Vosges was the first place we went to - it was close to Bastille, straight line 5 from Place d’Iltalie. This is the oldest square that is in Paris; it was originally called Place Royale. in 1605, Henri IV transformed it into a vast square and had houses built around it. It became a center for elegance, parades, festivals, and duels. In 1800, it was renamed to Place des Vosges “after the Vosges [department], the first to pay its taxes” (MGG).

The Place was very beautiful, very symmetrical as well. And I really loved the fact that there are houses around the place because it's almost like a hidden place while other places are usually in a more open area; I thought that was very unique.

source: picture

BEHOLD~ the train station.

When I saw the destination on our piece of paper, I couldn't really tell what I was supposed to expect (even though it said that Monet painted the train station) but when I got there, I was like “Ohhhhh I remember this painting”.

The SNCF was a train that connected the northwest of France with Paris so the people would take the train to go out to the suburbs or the beach (and vice versa). Claude Monet really well captures this place in several of his paintings. 

One thing, while on our finals, that was really really helpful was the maps that were provided in every metro station. it showed the 5-minute radius and all the different streets that the exits led to. That way, we didn't have to get lost trying to find our way around on the ground, but actually, find the exit we needed and be able to go to our destination.

The first actual painting that we went to go see was the mural in the Church of Saint Sulpice. This is a fresco painting called “Jacob Wrestling with the Angel” by Eugene Delacroix and it was a very beautiful painting. As art in a church was meant to be telling a story, I think this painting did a good job in doing so. Even if I didn't know which one was the piece, it is obvious that this is a scene of Jacob wrestling with the angel. 

Last but not least, we found the Mural by Pierre Alechinsky illustrating the poem L’arbre des rues by Yves Bonnefoy. It was actually funny how we found this place. I stopped to rest and look at the map, turned to the side to lean against the pole, just to see the mural right in front of us. “YES WE ARE DONEE.” we took a picture, took more picture, and took a picture one last time and with that our final was finally over.

source: michelin green guide

[lunchboxpoems]

CENTO FOR THE NIGHT I SAID “I LOVE YOU”

Today, gentle reader,

is as good a place to start.

But you knew that, didn’t you? Then let us

give ourselves over to the noise

of a great scheme that included everything.

That indicts everything.

Let us roam the night together

in an attempt to catch the stars that drop.

                              •••

White clouds against sky

come humming toward me.

One closely resembling the beginning

of a miracle. There’s

the moonlight on a curved path

lighting the purple flowers of fragrant June.

I dreamed him and there he was

silent as destiny,

lit by a momentary match.

                              •••

Men are so clueless sometimes,                                                          

like startled fish                                                                                              

living just to live.                                                                                            

We are dying quickly                                                                                      

but behave as good guests should:                                                                  

patiently allowing the night                                                                              

to have the last word.                                                              

And I just don’t know,                                                                                  

you know? I never had a whole lot to say                                                        

while talking to strange men.                                                                          

                              •••

What allows some strangers to go past strangeness? Exchanging                      

yearning for permanence. And who wouldn’t

come back to bed? Love—

How free we are; how bound. Put here in love’s name:                      

called John. A name so common as

a name sung quietly from somewhere.

Like a cry abandoned someplace

in a city about which I know.

                              •••

Like black birds pushing against glass,

I didn’t hold myself back. I gave in completely and went

all the way to the vague influence of the distant stars.

I saw something like an angel

spread across the horizon like some dreadful prophecy

refusing to be contained, to accept limits.

She said, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

                              •••

I love you, I say, desperate

to admit that

the flesh extends its vanity

to an unknown land

where all the wild swarm.

This is not death. It is something safer,

almost made of air—

I think they call it god.

                              •••

Some say we’re lucky to be alive, to have

a sky that stays there. Above.

And I suppose I would have to agree…

but the hell with that.

It isn’t ordinary. The way the world unravels,

from a distance, can look like pain

eager as penned-in horses.

                              •••

And it came to pass that meaning faltered, came detached.

I learned my name was not my name.

I was not myself. Myself

resembles something else

that had nothing to do with me, except

I am again the child with too many questions

as old as light. I am always learning the same thing:

one day all this will only be memory.

One day soon. For no good reason.

                              •••

Dying is simple—

the body relaxes inside

hysterical light

as someone drafts an elegy

in a body too much alive.

Love is like this;

not a heartbeat, but a moan.

                              •••

Can you see me

sinking out of sight

in the middle of our life?

Should I be ashamed of myself

for something I didn’t know I—

(He walks by. He walks by

laughing at me.)

“What else did you expect

from this day forward?” For better. Or worse.

                              •••

One life is not enough

to remember all the things

marriage is. This town at dawn

can will away my lust

to suck honey from the sunlight,

so why am I out here trying

to make men tremble who never weep?

                              •••

After all’s said and after all’s done                  

and all arrogance dismissed,

the distance rumbles in

sparing only stars.

The moon, like a flower,

survives as opinion

making it almost transparent.

The pieces of heavy sky

heavy as sleep.

I close my eyes

and this is my life now.

NICOLE SEALEY

** “Cento for the Night I Said, ‘I Love You’” is comprised entirely of lines borrowed from the following poets (in order of appearance): C.D. Wright, Mary Jo Salter, Patricia Smith, Toi Derricotte, Philip Levine, Lynda Hull, Langston Hughes, Malachi Black, Kimberly Blaeser, Maxine Kumine, Afaa Michael Weaver, Hédi Kaddour, dg nanouk okpik, Claude McKay, Deborah Landau, Sharkmeat Blue, George Bradley, Yona Harvey, Federico Garc��a Lorca, June Jordan, Kwame Dawes, W.H. Auden, Ana Castillo, Erica Hunt, Muriel Rukeyser, Ed Roberson, Ruth Madievsky, Thylias Moss, Gregory Orr, Yusef Komunyakaa, Elizabeth Spires, Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon, Tim Seibles, Nathalie Handal, Wisława Szymborska, Lucille Clifton, C.P. Cavafy, Rainer Maria Rilke, Raúl Zurita, August Kleinzahler, Louise Glück, Victoria Redel, Adélia Prado, Sonia Sanchez, Jean Sénac, Claribel Alegría, Remica L. Bingham-Risher, Sylvia Plath, Harryette Mullen, Emily Dickinson, Sharon Strange, Larry Levis, Sherman Alexie, Franz Wright, Marianne Boruch, Andrea Cohen, Linda Susan Jackson, Carl Phillips, Robert Hayden, Eavan Boland, Anne Waldman, Dorianne Laux, Natasha Trethewey, Eric Gamalinda, Galway Kinnell, John Murillo, Yves Bonnefoy, Tina Chang, David Wojahn, Nick Laird, Simone White, Catherine Barnett, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Brenda Shaughnessy, Kazim Ali, Brenda Hillman, Valzhyna Mort, Blas Falconer, Theodore Roethke, Kahlil Gibran, Rita Dove, Brigit Pegeen Kelly, Khaled Mattawa, Tracy K. Smith, Ed Skoog, Alice Walker, Pablo Neruda, Adrienne Rich, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Aimé Césaire, Jake Adam York, Bob Kaufman, William Blake, Frank Bidart, Marilyn Nelson, Polina Barskova, Santee Frazier, Suheir Hammad and Cornelius Eady.

[abridurif]

J’imagine qu’il y a dans mon porte-plume une vieille hérédité du bistouri. Peut-être, après tout : est-ce que je trace sur la blancheur du papier ces mêmes signes agressifs que mon père traçait dans le corps des autres lorsqu’il opérait ? J’ai transformé le bistouri en porte-plume. Je suis passé de l’efficacité de la guérison à l’inefficacité du libre propos ; j’ai substitué à la cicatrice sur le corps le graffiti sur le papier ; j’ai substitué à l’ineffaçable de la cicatrice le signe parfaitement effaçable et raturable de l’écriture. Peut-être même faudrait-il aller plus loin. La feuille de papier pour moi c’est peut-être le corps des autres. Michel Foucault, Le Beau danger, Entretien avec Claude Bonnefoy, Éditions EHESS. Paris, 2011

[schizografia]

Non sono uno scrittore perché la scrittura, così come la pratico io, l’infimo piccolo lavoro che faccio ogni mattina, non è un momento eretto su un piedistallo e che si tiene in piedi a partire dal proprio prestigio. Non ho affatto l’impressione e neppure l’intenzione di fare un’opera. Ho il progetto di dire delle cose.

E non sono neanche un interprete. Voglio dire che non cerco di far apparire cose assolutamente sepolte, celate, dimenticate da secoli o da millenni, né di ritrovare dietro ciò che è stato detto da altri un segreto che volevano nascondere. Non cerco di scoprire un altro senso dissimulato nelle cose o nei discorsi. No, cerco semplicemente di far apparire ciò che è immediatamente presente e allo stesso tempo invisibile. Il mio progetto di discorso è il progetto di un presbite. Vorrei far apparire ciò che è troppo vicino al nostro sguardo perché possiamo vederlo, ciò che sta là, vicinissimo a noi, ma attraverso cui guardiamo per vedere un’altra cosa. Restituire una densità a quell’atmosfera che, tutt’intorno a noi, ci garantisce di vedere le cose lontano da noi, restituire densità e spessore a ciò che non sentiamo come trasparenza: questo è uno dei progetti, dei temi costanti in me. Come pure riuscire a delineare, disegnare, designare quella specie di punto cieco a partire dal quale parliamo e vediamo, riuscire a riafferrare ciò che rende possibile lo sguardo lontano, a definire la prossimità che intorno a noi orienta il campo generale del nostro sguardo e del nostro sapere. Afferrare quell’invisibilità, quell’invisibile del troppo visibile, quella lontananza di ciò che è troppo vicino, quella familiarità sconosciuta è per me l’operazione importante del mio linguaggio e del mio discorso.

Michel Foucault, Il bel rischio. Conversazione con Claude Bonnefoy

[thezame-barreme]

La nuit de la poésie (1ère édition à Arles, le 27 mai XXII), Le ciel dans l’escalier - maison de geste, la galerie "Aux arts exetera", Chezarthuretjanine se réunissent pour ARLES SE LIVRE... EN POESIE les 25, 26 et 27 février 2022. Trois jours, trois lieux, trois îles réunies en archipel pour un parcours de lectures, concerts, nuit d'écriture, rencontres, déambulations labyrinthiques, performances autour du livre et de la poésie vivante. ★ Vendredi 25 février. Librairie transportative, partage en bateau-livre au Ciel dans l’escalier (17h – 19 h) suivis de déambulations selon un rythme soutenu (19h - 20h) autour d’un piano et d’un escalier du XIIème siècle, portes entr'ouvertes, surprises poétiques, musicales et autres expériences iconoclastes. Pour terminer : une nuit d'écriture “Ile merveilleuse, exil, écrin, minature du lointain", atelier de création textes à dire et à chanter (21h – minuit) chez Arthur et Janine. Avec Thézame Barrême et Abdul Jaba du groupe Hedy Lamarr et leurs invité.e.s. Nombre de places limité, réservation impérative pour l'atelier : lecieldanslescalier@gmail.com. (5 euros pour l’adhésion au Ciel dans l’escalier + participation libre et consciente). ★ Samedi 26 février : lectures-rencontres poétiques, musicales au Ciel dans l’escalier (16h30-18h), autour du patio et de la cuisine des chevaliers de Malte. Puis apéro-concert Bob Dylan en français (19h-21h) à la Galerie Aux Arts Exetera. ★ Dimanche 27 février : concert-lecture autour de Delphine Capron, auteure, compositrice (15h à 17h) à la Galerie Aux Arts Exetera. Puis rendez-vous au Théâtre de la ville pour le Journal d’Arles, performance proposée par Edouard Baer à laquelle le duo Hedy Lamarr (Thézame Barrême et Abdul Jaba) a été convié.

ARLES SE LIVRE... EN POESIE, archipel en bateaux-livres avec Abdul Jaba, Amédée Beriot, Anna Akhmatova, Arthur Rimbaud, Cécile Montigny, Chantal Mainguy, Claude Sportis, Dora Ozal, Delphine Capron, Emily Dickinson, Fernado Pessoa, Florence Ligier D’Avignon, Frédérique de Gravelaine, Georges Trakl, Hélios Warin, Jacques Barville, Jean-Marc Sajous, Kourou Fia, Léo Ferré, Louis Aragon, Marie Huot, Omi Keitifine, Pablo Neruda, Paul Lequesne, Philippe Jaccottet, René Char, Rosa Luxemburg, Rûmî, Thézame Barrême, Thierry Metz, William Blake, Walt Whihman, William Wordsworth, Yves Bonnefoy et autres célébrités en graines, en herbe, en fleurs, en feuilles déjà.

[lesnuitsdefranceculture]

UNE HISTOIRE PARTICULIÈRE, UN RÉCIT DOCUMENTAIRE EN DEUX PARTIES par Stéphane Bonnefoi et Véronique Samouiloff https://www.franceculture.fr/emissions/une-histoire-particuliere-un-recit-documentaire-en-deux-parties/gabrielle-russier-par-dela-les-barricades-12-mourir-daimer https://www.franceculture.fr/emissions/une-histoire-particuliere-un-recit-documentaire-en-deux-parties/gabrielle-russier-par-dela-les-barricades-22-une-enseignante-amoureuse Réécouter Gabrielle Russier par-delà les barricades (1/2) : Mourir d'aimer 29 MIN Une professeur de 32 ans et son élève de 16 ans. Une histoire d'amour qui finit mal sur fond de barricades de mai 68. Le 1er septembre 1969, une professeure de lettres de 32 ans se suicide au gaz dans son appartement des quartiers nord de Marseille. Quelques mois plus tôt, Gabrielle Russier battait le pavé du côté du Vieux-Port au côté de Christian Rossi, un lycéen de 16 ans. Son jeune amant. 1er épisode : Mourir d'aimer https://www.franceculture.fr/emissions/une-histoire-particuliere-un-recit-documentaire-en-deux-parties/gabrielle-russier-par-dela-les-barricades-12-mourir-daimer C'est une professeure de lettres brillante, promise à un poste à la faculté d'Aix. Il est son élève de seconde dans le lycée marseillais où elle enseigne. Gabrielle et Christian vont s'aimer au rythme des manifestations de mai, où l'on crie « Vivre c'est aimer ». Mais à l'automne 1968, la fête est bien finie. Les parents de Christian portent plainte pour détournement de mineur. Christian fugue et Gabrielle est jetée en prison. Suivra un acharnement judiciaire qui la conduira vers une lente descente aux enfers. Jean Cau se déchaîne dans Paris Match, dénonçant ses « allures lesbiennes » (Gabrielle portait les cheveux courts), et à travers elle « les pantalons serrés, la drogue et la pédérastie »... « Cela tient de San Antonio et de Racine, cela se terminera peut-être par un faits divers », écrit-elle alors depuis les Baumettes. Le combat de cette femme éprise de liberté cessera définitivement à la veille d'un nouveau procès, le 1er septembre 1969. "Ne m'en veuillez pas. je suis à bout de forces. Parce que la lucidité et la compréhension des choses et des êtres ne m'ont servi à rien. On me répète par les papiers que je reçois, que je suis coupable et j'en arrive à envier ceux qui le sont vraiment, qui rient dans la cour. Je ne pourrais plus jamais rire. On a fait une montagne avec rien. On me garde ici pour des faits très anciens nullement répréhensibles. Je n'arrête pas d'essayer de comprendre. Je tourne, je tourne dans ma tête les idées les plus noires. Je ne sais plus raisonner, réfléchir. J'ai peur pour les enfants. J'ai si peur. "Gabrielle Russier" En 1971, son amant Christian Rossi livrera un unique témoignage : « Ce n'était pas du tout une passion. C'était de l'amour. La passion, ce n'est pas lucide. Or, c'était lucide. Les (deux ans) de souvenirs qu'elle m'a laissés, elle me les a laissés à moi, je n'ai pas à les raconter. Je les sens ». Avec Valérie Nogues, fille de Gabrielle Russier, Anne, ancienne élève de Gabrielle, Corinne Bouchoux et Claude Lelièvre, historiens et Mireille Cifali, professeure de sciences de l'éducation. Bibliographie  * Gabrielle Russier, Lettres de prison, précédé de Pour Gabriellede Raymond Jean, Ed. du Seuil * Michel del Castillo, Les écrous de la haine. Vous avez tué Gabrielle Russier. Ed . Julliard * Pierre Duschesne (pseudonyme de Jean-Patrick Manchette), Mourir d'aimer, Ed . Presses de la cité * Claude Lelièvre, Les profs, l'école et la sexualité, Ed . Odile Jacob * Mireille Cifali, Le lien éducatif,Ed . PUF Pour aller plus loin :  * Le blog de Jean-Claude Grosse qui s'est intéressé à l'histoire de Gabrielle Russier  * Le lien vers le numéro des Cahiers de l'Egaré consacré à Gabrielle Russier  * Le lien vers le texte d'Anne Riébel, ancienne élève de Gabrielle, et des lettres inédites de Gabrielle  À découvrir Gabrielle Russier par-delà les barricades (2/2) : Une enseignante amoureuse https://www.franceculture.fr/emissions/une-histoire-particuliere-un-recit-documentaire-en-deux-parties/gabrielle-russier-par-dela-les-barricades-22-une-enseignante-amoureuse

[the-chomsky-hash]

[CB: Do you get the impression that you always dominate this method of writing or, at times, are being led by it? - cont'd]

[MF: I strongly believe in the distinction, now quite well known, that Roland Barthes made between authors (écrivains) and writers (écrivants) - cont'd]

MF [cont'd]: I’m not an author. First of all,

I have no imagination.

I’m completely uninventive.

I’ve never even been able to conceive of something like the subject of a novel.

Of course, at times, I’ve sometimes wanted to write short stories, almost in the journalistic sense of the term:

to narrate micro-events

to talk about someone’s life

but in five lines, ten lines, no more.

So, I’m not an author. I place myself resolutely on the side of the writers, those for whom writing is transitive. By that I mean those for whom writing is intended to

designate

show

manifest outside itself

something that, without it, would have remained if not hidden at least invisible. For me, that’s where, in spite of everything, the enchantment of writing lies.

I’m not an author because writing, the way I do it, the little bit of work I do every morning, isn’t a moment

that’s been set on a pedestal

that remains up-right through its own prestige

I don’t get the impression at all, or even have the intention, of creating a body of work. I want to say things.

– Michel Foucault, Speech Begins after Death, In Conversation with Claude Bonnefoy, 1968, edited by Philippe Artièred, translated by Robert Bononno

[finita--la--commedia]

I think that’s what made me want to write. Because the possibility of speaking had been denied me, I discovered the pleasure of writing. Between the pleasure of writing and the possibility of speaking, there exists a certain relationship of incompatibility. When it is no longer possible to speak, we discover the secret, difficult, somewhat dangerous charm of writing.

Michel Foucault interviewed by Claude Bonnefoy, 1968 edited by Philippe Artières, translated by Robert Bononno.