#des murmures

[mmepastel]

Quel livre !

Un vrai page-turner, que j’ai eu du mal à lâcher. Et pourtant, j’ai souffert, car l’histoire est vraiment cruelle.

Un genre de Desperate Housewives version hardcore. Presque tous les personnages mentent ou s’aveuglent. Ils pensent tous à préserver leur apparence. L’ambivalence des mères est particulièrement scrutée ici, les pères sont plutôt fallots ou faux-culs. L’amitié féminine devient un truc malsain où l’on se compare. L’idée de l’enfant comme vitrine de la réussite parentale est probablement celle qui m’a le plus plu, que j’ai trouvée la plus juste, et la plus complexe.

Bref, j’ai trouvé le récit hyper bien construit, bien ficelé, haletant, les défauts humains très bien épinglés. Mais je crois que j’ai trouvé ça trop noir. Ce condensé de malaise m’a un peu oppressée à vrai dire.

Roman très habile et culotté, un peu trop brutal pour moi. Il manque peut-être un ou deux personnages pas trop naze qui aurait pu donner de l’espoir, ça ne m’aurait pas dérangée.

[crystal-linity]

murmures de la nature…

whispers of nature…

自然のささやき。。

[captain-fflewddurfflam]

Percy: "You don't have to get involved in this."

Vex: "Oh, we are SO involved."

Grog: "Yeah we do, you said you want 'em dead."

Vex: "We've got your back, darling."

Vax: "Percival, you don't really have a choice in the matter."

[yama-bato]

https://www.ecomare.nl/verdiep/nieuws/wetenschappers-aan-het-woord-bij-ecomare/

[bulles-de-bd]

Le Murmure du Temps (Herra)

[sensitiveaangel]

listening to the new hozier i was like. either i’m having a stroke RIGHT NOW or this man is speaking gaelic

[euphorial-docx]

little snippet of opev’s sequel ;) from “chapter 1: overture”

Regulus lets out a breath and steps closer and closer, looks him in the eye. “Isaac, sei qui,” he says, stunned and trying to conceal it.

“I told you I would be,” Isaac responds in English, because despite all these years around the globe, his Italian has not been perfected.

“You told me you’d try,” corrected Regulus, folding his arms over his chest.

“Well, I did try really hard, so…” Isaac shrugs, “here I am.”

“Here you are,” he echoes back with a fondness that his younger self would have blanched at.

Regulus’s eyes slip down, then back up. Isaac is dressed smart, clean, unassuming. Slacks and a button-up and a long, and surely expensive, jacket. He looks handsome, certainly of his age, but handsome nonetheless.

Isaac moves his hands from behind his back. Regulus was too enamored but him being here, flesh and blood, to notice he was hiding something behind his back— flowers. Isaac got him flowers.

White orchids; they will look good in his apartment, on his library desk or on the bookshelf in his sitting room.

Regulus bites back a smile as he accepts the flowers, putting down his defensive cross of his arms to do so. Regulus tries not to smile too much in such a public setting, and it takes nearly all his strength not to do something idiotic. He’s no idiot, no matter how badly he wishes he could be.

Regulus gently grazes over one of the petals. “Grazie.”

[krisis-krinein]

C’est le murmure de l’eau qui chante (the whisper of whistling water)

[groriatrevi10xx]

❄️...Petits Murmures...❄️

[quillheel]

@playedbetter // lyric starters; without mythologies by the weakerthans.

Maybe the scariest part of seeing Kim with a fever, hot-cold all the time and aching, was less about the fever itself; it was about seeing how that sickness pried back the composure on him like skinning a beetle of its shell, it was less the times he was asleep and more when he was awake; often irritated beneath a reluctance to engage at all and murmuring barely there mostly through the breath of wheezing, it was more about the times he murmured at all.

The Lieutenant's apartment is clean, and maybe it would've reminded you of the Pox if not for the fact you were allowed within it's walls where many weren't, and the various small details that filled itself in on it's own lived in qualities. Clean but imperfect, and unable to escape from the fact of the city you both lived in ━ Revachol whispering on the paint cracked window-sills as summer heat leaked in through them, on the smell of maybe something rotten. gasoline. vaguely something plantlike, like trees bending their leaves up to break up the noise.

There are exactly 11 trees along Kim's street. Maybe you would've noticed in the way here, or maybe not, since Kim invited Harry over after struggling; frustratingly inattentive; throughout the day on a case, and the first time Kim had handed over his place at the wheel of the Kineema so willingly since the beginning of it's service at the station ( it might've been the station's vehicle, one he was lucky to have been able to take with him when transferring over to station 41 after a major amount of string-pulling, ass kissing, and excuses about repairs, but in the end it was always Kim's baby ) to Harry. ━ so naturally, there were many other things to notice when one is entrusted with the golden ticket of a sick man almost begging him not to crash the damn thing than the amount of trees on Kim's street. But there are still 11 trees, and one way or another, you'd gotten home.

And in this home, Kim lays on his back on his couch, glasses removed and eyes covered with a cool wet cloth as a radio plays some random station quietly enough to be unintrusive but still filling a white noise ━ something classical, or at the very least, instrumental. the voices of the piece if you focused on it no more than a distant kind of cloud that wasps over hazily on compressed air waves ━ and occasionally he murmurs to himself, quiet and voice shot. this was the scary part, what he'd say. what it'd tell you. this was the scary part, to hear him through the softest electrical hum...

" si je pouvais, je ferais de toi une rivière déchaînée avec des rapides en colère alimentés en pluie, pour que tu puisses toujours serpenter et pouvoir toujours t'enfuir… " ━ breathe in. ( if i could, i would make you a raging river with angry rapids supplied with rain, so you could always meander, and forever be able to run away… )

sings to himself, rather, here. sings to you? the language hangs on his tongue, syllable after syllable.

" sans lutter… contre les mythes mal interprétés, contre la douleur… " ━ breathe out. ( without contending… with myths wrongly interpreted, with pain… )

he does, sing to you. the only person you can remember who would, regardless of intention. he breathes with the music, and with it comes over with the terror of an honesty so grandiose it becomes small again; marble-like; like an unfulfilled wish he offers out, downy feathered, anyways, because the sentiment matters more than whatever it is now. maybe he doesn't even realize he says it out loud to begin with, but he does, whispers in the gentle shuffle of the apartment's small spaces, composure a dream he hasn't woken into, rarely; rarely, a heart on his sleeve. ( like speaking in your sleep. like honesty when you don't realize it, laid back on the worn cushioning of a couch, allowing himself not to see, allowing himself to merely be, be there. to drive him home. trusting. trusting you. )

[insecateur]

je devrais choisir un jour de la semaine où je poste uniquement en français pour mon propre plaisir vicieux. french friday

[thejoyofviolentmovement]

New Video: JOVM Mainstay Mariaa Siga Shares Uplifting "Le murmure des anges"

New Video: JOVM Mainstay Mariaa Siga Shares Uplifting "Le murmure des anges" @mariaasiga @heygroover @romainpalmieri @DorianPerron

Mariaa Siga (born Mariama Siga Goudiaby) is a Senegalese singer/songwriter, musician, and JOVM mainstay, who can trace the bulk of the origins of her music career to winning a local talent show, where she caught the attention of acclaimed Senegalese act Joan of Arc. Joan of Arc’s frontperson mentored the young Goudiaby, helping her refine her style and further develop her musical skills. Shortly…

[mmepastel]

Je suis réjouie.

J’ai découvert l’existence de ce court roman grâce à ma librairie préférée La femme Renard 🦊 qui a posté un joli billet sur ce texte (sur Instagram) qui a immédiatement attiré mon attention. Le titre était si beau, et la critique si élogieuse, que je voulais lire ce texte. En plus, dès qu’il s’agit de forêt, je suis déjà à moitié conquise.

J’ai donc lu, d’une traite, ce court roman sombre édité chez Le Rouergue (Noir).

Difficile de classer ce roman, les éditions nous disent que c’est un roman noir, voire un polar, la quatrième de couverture parle de conte noir. En effet, ce qui vient d’emblée c’est la noirceur, l’obscurité qui enserre les quelques personnages, Jean, éleveur de brebis, et Agnès, sa fille, largement adulte, coincée auprès de lui dans un monde masculin et taiseux, après la disparition de sa mère, et Pàl, un homme d’ailleurs, solitaire, comme effectuant une halte dans cette campagne âpre et inhospitalière où la vie est rude pour tout le monde.

Obscurité de la forêt, qui est le personnage matrice du roman, qui contient beauté, obstacles, mystère immémoriaux, secrets dévastateurs, sauvagerie, air neuf et… un loup. (Écoutez ci-dessus, sans vous commander, l’auteur qui parle de la forêt et de sa dimension métaphorique).

Celui-ci (le loup) apparaît immédiatement comme meurtrier puisque le récit s’ouvre sur un carnage qui est son œuvre auprès d’un éleveur voisin. Le loup, la forêt, évidemment. Des tropes ancestraux qui éveillent la peur, et ramènent l’homme à sa condition de mortel et de proie, éventuellement.

Mais la course lente qui mène Jean et son fusil pour abattre le nuisible prend pourtant une toute autre tournure. Il s’agit plutôt d’un face à face qui va révéler les secrets et les aspirations de chacun et chacune.

Au fond, le sujet principal du roman à mon sens est la solitude, tapie au fond des corps de chacun, sombre et silencieuse, qui empêche tout élan vers l’autre, et replie l’individu dans des réflexes primaires, presque animaux. Pentecôte, le chien, est, comme le dit l’auteur lui-même, le seul à essayer de faire le lien entre ces êtres malheureux, muselés et solitaires. Le loup semble être, l’espace d’un jour entier, le miroir d’un homme muré dans son silence, l’incarnation de sa propre sauvagerie.

Il faut beaucoup de talent d’écriture pour rendre toute cette tension et ce noeud quasi freudien en une centaine de pages. Aucun mot n’est inutile ici, tout est condensé, ramassé, resserré autour d’un suspens psychologique qui ne passe pas par des explications, mais plutôt par des sensations qui lient les corps aux éléments. Les images font mouche, les phrases sèches ou elliptiques sont d’une grande beauté grave. Agnès, au prénom prédestiné, jusque-là sacrifiée sur l’autel d’une famille amputée, doit apprendre à écouter ce que son ventre lui dit, pour espérer se libérer des secrets de son père, pour rompre l’héritage mortifère qui la guette. On ne sait pas si elle pourra renaître après cela, mais on sait qu’elle pourra partir, sortir du conte, et de son rôle. Après cet horizon bouché qui était son quotidien, c’est déjà une issue lumineuse, on n’en demande pas plus, on est dans un conte noir, ne l’oublions pas, et pas dans un conte de fées.

NB : après quelques recherches, il s’avère que l’auteur est mon voisin, et cette proximité géographique est tout à fait réjouissante, ne me demandez pas pourquoi.

NB 2 : ce roman m’a fait penser à un autre livre que j’avais beaucoup aimé, Écorces vives, d’Alexandre Lénot, publié chez Actes Sud (Noir) il y a quelques années.

[lepidoptera-dreams]

silver has asked me to "stop using your unique magic on floyd when he falls asleep in class" because giving him various nightmares to try and figure out what he's afraid of is "invasive". however, he knows of my little experiments because he uses his unique magic in class, peeking into other people's dreams while he sleeps. seems it is the hospital that does not care about charity, no?

[leszackardises]

« Murmure des songes » : Le nouveau roman de Zachary Barde

Continue reading « Murmure des songes » : Le nouveau roman de Zachary Barde

[labede]

Le Manoir des Murmures (Intégrale)

David Muñoz, argumento

Tirso, arte

Javi Montes, cor

Les Humanoïdes Associés (2008-2011, 2012, Intégral)