Japansese Gropped Subway

Should no one resists (at Butterball Mary)

(Photo taken in the office of G. with my new lamp Celine Saby , received in the pretty wrapping paper! I like it very much. I hope you had a nice Christmas too!)
That evening, in the subway, Chevaleret, there is a big guy coming up, throwing the other passengers on a hard look behind his glasses rimmed strict . It was about my age, and shoes polished to a close and stiff coat. Installed on a seat, he rubs his hands, then leaves her little gold buckle satchel a medical journal. An internal neurology! It reminded me as I could hide behind the racks of newspapers news briefing at the hospital when I had the course but I wanted to avoid the other students when the teacher was late.
(I'm a bit antisocial. The other day when this was not the point, I was even told in a tone of reproach that I mysterious ).
was early December and I was alone in Paris for a conference. I had never seen snow on the Seine. I watched all the little sections Skytrain. I felt at that time a discreet melancholy which paraded in front of the facades, all windows, the lives that are played back, all the people we will never know which one knows nothing.
I slept with an uncle and his girlfriend, they have a life family to which I am not at all familiar. I discovered the Barbie shoes scattered on the floor of the corridor, the numbers Astrapi in toilets, crockery melamine cups with handles double chicken breast, cut into small pieces, ketchup that draws a smile in base, shower gel strawberry, cherry toothpaste, drawings on the walls everywhere, the zones (lift, bedroom) must be absolutely respected. Another world.
I'll walk to the Salpetriere, I carefully avoid all colleague. A nurse then a Strasbourg hospital director Dijon ask me the path. I find an empty seat at the back of the auditorium yellowed and I do move.
Lunch. No way to go to the hospital self with others. I watch the subway map in my Moleskine tired and I note that Rose Bakery is just two stations. So I make a diversion and I'm missing.
Snowstorm on the beautiful grounds of the Salpetriere (I learn later by S., who was a caregiver there, there are labyrinthine underground passageways where he regularly lost with little reassurance of patients) . I think exposure to the beautiful trees and snowy Kiarostami that captivated me.
A Rose Bakery, a final table waiting for me, and once will not hurt, the service is lovely. A Japanese woman who wears a sweatshirt decorated with a turquoise bow at the neckline installs the paper tablecloth, fresh bread and butter tender, a server with a checkered shirt and a lot of hair takes control (a plate of vegetables and hot chocolate). A young woman with long hair, smooth and dark upright on the back of his chair, his beautiful coat and black Miu Miu camel behind me two English reflect the relevance or not to share a banana juice and date when I selected the chocolat-blanc/matcha cake with the approval of the waitress. I leave the conference regretfully.
In the snowy streets, everybody walks with short unsteady steps and the next day at Vanina Escoubet between two fittings disastrous, we'll talk about the Parisian dramatization of the situation with one of its friend who was a little black dress in contrast beautifully. The bitter cold and constant I would later excuse when I was confronted with a pair of mittens all sweet (but oddly, the following days, I will continue to lose).
As I was walking alone in my favorite neighborhoods, I remembered my short week in Paris when I was teen, and I had a red backpack. I already slept with the same uncle, but there were no children. I was preparing finger sandwiches in the morning with a bottle of ice water to turn the bag in the refrigerator and I explore the city until the evening, dragging parks in bookstores. I liked.
life has changed (phew!) and in a few days I'll be in Paris with G., but the taste of Butterball Mary seems to me timeless.
extremely simple to prepare, gently melting, they do not make a mouthful. They made me think Baci di Dama I discovered the blog of Eva past.

The Butterball Mary , a survey of Bea

-230
g soft butter 100 g sugar cane blond
-250 g flour
-125 ml dark chocolate ganache (I made the caramel chocolate spread black Mrs. Durand )
a little sugar-cane and more blonde and vanilla powder to coat the cookies

Work the butter until it is well ventilated (3-5 min).
Add sugar. Once the preparation is homogenous, add the flour to obtain a ball.
Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 3 hours (this allows cookies do not spread during baking).
Preheat oven to 190 C.
Remove a piece of the ball of dough and form into small balls 2 cm in diameter and then freeze them for 30 minutes
After this time, place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and bake for 13 to 15 minutes, until cookies are firm but do not brown.
Cool on a wire rack.
Bring cookies in pairs with ganache or cream cheese chosen (ie although it is not too sweet, I do not know if the Nut-Nut inappropriate example) then roll in the blend butterball sugar and vanilla.
A snack with a glass of chilled milk!

Longer You Have Herpes

THE ANGEL OF THE CATHEDRAL FOUND HIS SMILE

The campaign to restore the north portal of the facade of Notre-Dame de Reims is nearing completion, a few months of the start of the celebrations of the 8th centenary of the building.

The famous Smiling Angel, as a symbol of Franco-German reconciliation after World War II, has been liberated from the scaffolding that masked. It has been cleaned by then microabrasion "repatiné" back to its original smoothness.

Diaper Instead Of Maxi

Your voice I know so well

I looked everywhere. I brought piles of novels, I looked behind the library, I looked at all the drawers and papers pile up in it already, I angrily emptied tons of boxes. My tea cooled miserably. I could not move on. It was imperative that I find the little blue disc pocket, the compilation of QED Inrocks 2002/2003, the first session.
Winter 2002, I wear mostly jeans and white wine tucked. I do not know yet G., although it seems that we have seen I love you, I love you by Alain Resnais in the same room on a Saturday night.
Winter 2002, I do not cook often on two small plates of electric mini-studio in the Rue Nantes. Pasta with tuna, fried rice (Chinese sausage + onion salad + spinach), sometimes a chicken leg roasted in a microwave oven capricious, often mashed sardines on buttered bread or a sliced banana in a bowl of cereal. Fairly regularly, nothing but a hard boiled egg, as were the time back then.
Winter 2002, I still attend all courses in the faculty of medicine. It will not really.
Winter 2002, I spent some time with Saint-Melaine Naomi, a girl who studied medicine with me when she is not an air hostess. She showed me a picture of her in uniform with the ridiculous little hat. I had not recognized, because of the makeup. Otherwise, the summer she likes to quietly go canoeing on the waters of Brittany. She slippers Austrian boiled wool and an excellent English accent. She loves my ratatouille and my pasta with tomato. Is an avid reader of Paul Auster and David Lodge. We're going to the movies all the time, which means sometimes to see anything. I make records but do not listen too hard, her roommate often has headaches. As the year of the first album by Vincent Delerm, of course it is right intensively. She loves Shakespearean monologue.
That year, there are also Disappearance, Out of season , Wimbledon Stadium, Millennium Mambo , The Royal Tenenbaums and Drunk on Women and Painting .
Winter 2002, I do not want my parents to go home for Christmas, I'd steal the planned gift for my father (a collection of new Chinese), my mother buy me a teapot (yet).
Winter 2002, Inrocks * launching a contest. Twenty-one songs selected from among thousands submitted to the editor, who then asked readers to decide their vote for third spot in the designation of who will be offered a maximum five titles in a label. On my mini-chain, I listen with concentration twenty-one songs. I remember Innocent blind by Three Guys Never in (track 21), and start again End by Syd Matters (track 9) and similar All by Florent Marchetti (track 4). For the latter, more than the song in question (which includes a female choir quite unbearable), it is mainly the small text accompanying his photo had touched me very simple. He says he is doing quite well especially the spaghetti with seafood
It happens that last Saturday, I applaud the same Florent Marchet in a small concert hall in Rennes for his latest album, absolutely in season since ' He called Courchevel. The set is quite sad, say it looks pretty good in this space then, the feelings between two waters, the melancholy that we do not really want to separate. The effect is reinforced by the lack of interaction with the public itself positively glacial.
At the end of the concert, some fans gather around the bar. I discuss the rest of the night (where we eat?) ** With G. and my sister who works for / with Florent Marchet (that's still crazy when I think back to the article of spaghetti with seafood). It then emerges, wearing a white shirt with a nice ascot. I'm a little embarrassed, nothing special say, not really a fan, too shy to make a joke out of spaghetti ... Nothing to add really. But I'm still a little agitated when he kisses to greet me, because I think back to winter 2002, when I heard his voice for the first time.
You understand why I really wanted to find the small comp (this year, there was also Peter von Poehl!). It was in the office of G., near some comics. I also emerged the number of Inrocks partner and I laminated with a heavy heart. I felt the time had passed, although I still wear some white wine. In last pages, I forgot that as it is an issue entirely written by readers, a certain Giacomo had written a poem entitled twenty, hundred, thousand times Delerm . A poem in itself not terrible but I liked it anyway because I felt between the lines, that Giacomo Delerm loved as much as me, soaked to the core of his world, his words (and then the picture illustrated the article was pretty cool).

* I do not read too much Inrocks, I do not like their new formula, highly touted and vulgar. I prefer to flip through old issues and I remain fascinated to the length of some interviews, dense and rich (eg meeting with Neil Hannon in Florence's number 53). The problem is that each new number received in the mailbox (I am a subscriber since the gift with the subscription was a Diana F +, which now features a bedroom Development snapshot, not leave me more), there is an article I like: Interview with Jason Schwartzman, photo Catherine Deneuve / Delphine Seyrig, text by Christophe Honore on his early years Rennes
... When I was a teenager, I dreamed that one of my emails either published under the heading Ping-Pong , which has unfortunately never happened. ** Question

purely defensive and occupational since that night, G. and I had two tickets purchased at the last minute to a boy who had a parka-wig for Transmusicales. The dinner was absolutely incidental and is summarized in consistency with the evening, at a maxi-kebab sauce harissa-white-free fries.
had not counted until midnight, m'extrayant a concert hall to keep intact eardrums for my old days, when I was hanging in the main hall with a cup of mint tea to hand (the place was beautiful, with giant luminous jellyfish suspended from the ceiling black, but cameras were forbidden, body search in support), I discover in the vast hall "restaurant" multiple small stalls terribly attractive: homemade pizza, sandwiches, Mexican and Lebanese fritters, fritters and turnovers filled, pancake-sausage (biologique!), hot dogs, chocolate crepes (house!) I look forward
G. join me to choose (his eardrums are stronger than mine).

*** At the end of the concert, there was also Olivier Adam, who was waiting Florent Marchet, obviously a friend. It was strange because he Olivier is a new Adam that I love. So, I wanted to go to the pages of his other novels on Monday night. And to highlight one of them, he cites Dominique A.
Make me return to the world
The touch without gloves
Although he collapsed to feel
Although it no longer believes as before
Let me find my shadow
Lost in the shadows to me The memory is the next

After reading these few lines, and heard the voice of Dominic A. resurgence of the past, amid the aisles of the bookstore where people were busy hypocritically to find gifts Christmas, I had a little cry. Many things are parties to pieces this year, I would have to busy myself with the repair.

Multicystic Kidney Hope

Patator shots! : No. 29 Matamoros, Alain Farah

Matamoros No. 29 , Alain Farah is a very curious novel . Call it novel, written under the title - as the title page in the back cover. Sometimes, indeed, that the term "novel" is on books, attached to securities without any justification. Here, it is not the case: the designation of the novel is legitimate and weighed, but the novel form is raised here to be brought to its limits, so that the elasticity of its borders being tested. Formally, the device of the novel - plot, characters, dialogue - is present, it is even declined at by some of his Genre (provincial manners, romance, etc..) but it is set to work with forces that call for them far more open and broken - where the instructions and definition have their place - certainly originated in contemporary poetry . It also notes that the authors cited in Matamoros No. 29 are certainly a literary genealogy that irrigated the writing of Alain Farah: Alain Robbe-Grillet (who is even a character), whose novels began their critique of the fundamental elements of romance historical legacy, James Joyce, whose Ulysses and Finnegans Wake are both works of fiction and total limits, as they pushed away the linguistic experiments, and Nathalie Emmanuel Hocquard Quintane, contemporary poets, also working on the novel form, and authors of a reflexive poetry, struggling with the abstract and prosaic, with the speculation.

The coexistence of these two forces brought into tension with one another is essential here in Matamore No. 29 between the strength of the poetic form that wants to break the novel, which opens opportunities to overflow continuities of narrative, and the strength of the novel form that takes all the lights and arrows all means to take them around the arc of a story.

In brief paragraphs and suites of heterogeneous materials that force field extends up to twenty-form nine chapters and a novel about 170 pages:

And Hegel, I've never read

Who says that the meaning of things is determined by their purpose.

Yes.

champion ends his salmon tartar, do not yet know he does not digest, tells me about this phrase from Hegel, and we are all overwhelmed by the turn that takes the grand finale,

Zinedine Zidane gave his opponent a whim.

's my shirt you want?

No, I would rather do your ****** sister.

Egghead in the heart of Bologna: it lost the championship.

We are not at the end of a film, but in the middle of the book,

Somewhere where it condenses,

In the egg, yes.

My God, my God, I wish things go nicely. But I was telling a simple story: he loved a tennis player, his parents were Fertile Crescent.

There were complications.

Dear Diary,

I'm sad today because Joe left Montreal and moved to a province, at least, does not pretend not to be one. This leads to serious discussions on this land of ours, which is nothing else precisely, a part of the country, our province who tells stories: she can not say I , The simplest expressions.

Joe's comment concerns me: we're not saying I But Chu .

Joe talks about the habit of people to say: "Chu chu ben like", I pointed out the weakness of a verse of George Dor "La Manic" ( dirty streets / cross ), I am sad to see Joe go, we're talking about sadness, dark matter, very dense, it produces, this lead that took shape in the intestine.

I remember yes (ie currency) that When Zazou, her cat, died at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, Joe felt a sadness so strong that this dark matter has indeed accumulated in the intestine until it explodes to reveal its name:

the-dark .

(pp.84-86)

In this novel, what is the plot? The author sends a strange agent and alter ego Joseph Marriage, in search of her past - that of the author - to see more clearly and to understand something. But between the author's life and marriage, with the places where they were, who they loved, references which they depend and the stories they crossed it a whole mess of thoughts, timing, space and obsessions that will sweep. The writing and the events seem to go in all directions, over (to son, rather) the association of ideas and episodes of life is a web of obsessions and polysemic cross is woven with a fancy and wacky humor delightful, where the recurring number 29 (author's age at the time of writing the book), a tennis champion Polish, Poland, which drift toward the pope on one side and to Bologna the other, Egypt, Dalida, sole, place the chicken and eggs, the way tennis points are counted, potatoes and their possible use as a projectile barrel appointed Patator - which means a second time will be assassinated in Dallas, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Over this energy to bounce back - with blows of onomatopoeia Bop Bop Bop Bop Bop - in those heady chip breaks In this network of coincidences emerge episodes of the young life of the author - because reporting is the mission of Joseph Wedding - of episodes which one feels the emotional power and depth of experience, and with this drawing event truly tested, as and when it progresses in the novel a blackness that appears in the zaniness. We meet more often pain, sadness and illness, missing persons, all of this together into a substance called generic the-dark , another recurring motif, it also dealt with alacrity and enthusiasm, crossover then repelled before they can return by a circuitous route, we would déprenne and we continue to play like hide and seek with him.

Matamoros No. 29 is also a way of self-fiction - and the dark secret and stealth that is registered his heart and stirs powerful brand - bringing the narrative excitement and wacky humor autofiction this approach to its limits, where it confronts what is it, and that it involves all the opposing forces to each other, as knows how strong the literature, literature risky.

A novel by a young author Quebec (b. 1979) he is very happy to see published in France, and which finds its place perfectly in the beautiful and exciting collection of novels intractable Laureli (where the novel is precisely worked and moved by poetry, and vice versa), headed by Laure Limongi , published by Leo Scheer.

(Alain Farah, Matamore n°29 , Léo Scheer, collection Laureli, 2010.)

 

© Anthony Poiraudeau – 2010

Images : Cover Matamoros No. 29 by Marion Pannier - Portrait of Alain Farah, F. Duchesne

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MAY TO OCTOBER 2011, THE CATHEDRAL OF REIMS CELEBRATES 800 YEARS

A special event for which the City of Reims will be included in the line of builders and comes alive with lights.

many events celebrating the history and architecture of this magnificent building.

Throughout these months have held a rich and diverse alternating street theater, exhibitions, concerts, conferences, festivals ... and culminating in a show sound and light dynamic full color, which illuminate the facade of the cathedral at nightfall.

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A foundation by grace: Birth of a bridge, Maylis Kerangal

in the imaginary town of Coca, in northern California - enclave of fiction in the real world, an enclave of fiction where everything is as real - The new mayor starts dreaming of a great work to do for his city, to make it either the provincial, sleepy town background estuary it has ceased to be that since it is a city but a city included in the lists of cities that place and practice of modern twenty-first century emerging across their entire landscape. He wants to build a gigantic Coca and extraordinary, which is taken in the same movement powerful and frightening as that brings out Dubai Desert skyscrapers and spread like oil slicks artificial peninsulas, as that in China is growing like mushrooms growing more and new megacities. This is a gigantic work of art that will last command, a bridge spanning the valley at the bottom of which is Coke, the cross from the mesa overlooking the town to the ancient forest which faces , through which he drives a highway, and with his foot Edgefront on the other side of the river like the ramshackle suburb of Coke, including Coca never wanted to be while still drawing his proletariat. The bridge will be huge and powerful air at once, suspended two rounds of two hundred meters high each, and as a large cut on the sky line.


This site that implements Birth of a bridge , the last novel of Maylis of Kerangal (Vert, 2010), the building and tells the story, giving us his world and lives that do. The novel gives the square of the central character in George Diderot, the engineer who runs the site, and not Ralph Waldo, architect who designed the bridge, we do occasionally intersect, and this clearly states the book's way of showing us the construction site and in its technical and material, or not according to their symbolism and ideas abstract allegedly presided over the bridge design to build. It is a novel that is on the side of the action, on the hardware side and action to take, which, rather than designers, famous builders, those who like Summer Diamantis are responsible for overseeing the production of huge mass of concrete required, which, like Duane Fischer and Buddy must ensure Loo the proper functioning of the machinery that dredge the river bottom, or as Sancho Alfonso Cameron must carry and handle materials within a centimeter from the cabin of crane. The novel does not deliver much for these characters, these and others, as if they were devoid of depth and as if their existence was reduced to their technical acts, it gives us quite the contrary, their lives - with which everyone is struggling as it is elsewhere with the specific work required by the site - and we know intimately as the drama of their lives and the heavy work of their interiority without having to we say the front, thanks to the constant force and subtlety of the text to always tell more than he makes explicit.

The novel is a foundation, the foundation of a new age of an area slightly away from the paths through which passed the foundation canonical in the imagination, the U.S. - that of discovering a new world to conquer a new territory to the construction and establishment of a new company driven by the idea of universality and certainty of the uniqueness of her fate. The Americanness of the novel is multiple, since of course the location of the story, California - the region that is the culmination chronological, geographical, mythological, metaphysical and aesthetic of the grand narrative of the American founding, and the Americanness - until the work space and territorial and implements the text, via the function played by characters in the economy of the book, each of which can be read as figures American or American-style (to speak as subtitle of the novel by Norman Mailer), migrant hero, destiny.

The foundation on which we are witnessing in Birth of a bridge replays of one hand the great foundation whose space was the American theater, and several character names there are various explicit references: Georges is an echo Diderot Denis Diderot, whose movement and philosphy century Enlightenment in the eighteenth century were those that allowed the political foundation of the United States of America; architect Ralph Waldo is called the two names and surname of Ralph Waldo Emerson, American transcendentalist philosopher of the nineteenth century and the beautiful character Katherine Thoreau has the same surname Henry David Thoreau, the great American writer of the nineteenth century, near Emerson - and these are both materialism and the elegy of the U.S. territory as a promised land which are then summoned by resonance of names. But on the other hand, the novel up this foundation in another age, that of early twenty-first century, an era when the foundations of new cities and new worlds are primarily elsewhere in North America - Asia South East, the Middle East, India - and passed through Dubai , where the mayor of Coca is struck by a violent shock that he understands what he wants to accomplish, the movement and momentum that will create the yard and deck. It is a city away from the full glory of the story of the American foundation that will adopt, to rely again, a way in the world and a report similar to those of countries that now pronounce an account of Foundation whose full luster away from America.

The narration of a fiction novels that deploy on a large scale, whether long-term chronological territorial scale, thick historical or large group adventures is very often - always? How would this be circumvented? - A linking of the world and large scale events on the one hand and the trajectories of individual lives and characters of the other. The relevance, accuracy and quality of such joints scales and distances in general seems in this novel type of project, particularly difficult to find, but here in Birth of a Bridge , everything is smooth and ease, and the passage of the large scale of landscape and territory close to that of the characters and their cohabitation shall be made in Maylis Kerangal of virtuosity with a discreet and gracious thanks to which we always feel the size of space and monumental project without ever leaving the size of individuals and their actions. The site and those who work there, and do, are obviously interdependent, but in the inseparability of one and the other one is here on the characters - these are the characters that bridge, no bridge the fact - without losing the power supplied by the dimensions of space and history, or lose the energy expended by the shipyard. It is a tour de force, but it seems to flow naturally. It was said that the characters 'made' in the narrative in the sense that their action is paramount, but we must also say that they act deeply on the story, meaning their lives, which we recounts the drama and ordinariness in a few pages good and just, "do" something to the story and the novel, add their depth, their contingency, their fragility and they carry the hopes of a better life, although without quite knowing how, a life as possible.

The feat while flexibility and fluidity that makes Maylis of Kerangal with Birth a bridge is fully engaged with the language of his text, which we can only welcome the beauty and power, bringing the lyrical writing, while taking great vigor and fierceness of the orality, which is always comfortable and natural on the two registers and manages, with a facilitated lively and serene virtuosity to both keep them together in momentum and tension. All this holds together, the extent of the written language of declamation and power and violence of orality, integral with one another and working together without ever anything seems artificial.

It is, frankly, a text to phrases and pages removed but held, shouting but sing these phrases, loose and lyrical sensual when something is caused disproportionate and called that one does not believe it at first may be seized and carried by language but we'll see, drunk, she made yet, indeed, that language, it takes the shock and it is up to snuff, rhythmic pulse, alert and nervous, where violence and outcrops where beauty squirts - Birth of a bridge, is a language that sounded music that finally I always look for in literature, the family of the one for me as the more fiery glory of the language, and we hear in Faulkner, in Michon. I wanted to find another word than thanks to say what is there, since it is precisely this term that aptly puts Claro forward on his blog about this book, and writing of Maylis Kerangal in general (and it's a word - to grace , Toward Grace - which is certainly much Claro, he does not use lightly), and we would always find yourself another formulation that we have read elsewhere, but another term would be less accurate and more artificial about this book and the writing. Grace , it's good that he is .

I quote to finish a long and splendid, dazzling chapter excerpt from "take the measure of the place" , centrally located the novel, which contains the story of the first foundation of Coca, which takes place next to the second, with the construction of this extraordinary bridge:

Yet even today, it is unclear how the men could think of to settle below a mesa red so badly c abossé in the flat bottom of one sided valley where asymmetric hyenas descended at dawn and lynx to the incisors still bleeding. Yes, it is unclear how the die-suppressant fanatics, driven by the sole mission of giving land to their faith, worship their god, a god to their death, had managed to cross the continent in all its breadth, cutting the meadow and mountains, finding a path in grass high enough to feed their animals, to fight their way through the cactus forest that surrounded the plain - plants with sharp antlers as straight razors or other machete - the barbed wire border height of a man on horseback, how they were strangled with bare hands rattlesnakes, passed through the bottom of canyons, how they had circumvented the murky ponds evolved into frozen lakes in winter, in reserve in the summer of deadly mosquitoes . How they had braved the heat and cold beast of beggars. Hunted deer, trapped hare, harpooned tench. Indian killed. How they had dragged their carts piled aboard filthy, built houses, raised bison, fattened pigs, enclosed fields of potatoes and corn to feed the whole. How many dead bodies and how crazy at the end of the road? How many horses butchered into steaks on primitive fire? How many scalps? How they could stay there especially about having children, to bury their dead, spring summer autumn winter one year, then two, then ten, spring summer autumn winter, continue to burn and brains to pierce the breasts, there to eviscerate bodies, spring summer autumn winter, how they had done so, one wonders really, because there remain, on this strip of land as a flared skirt the edge of the river, grow between the high plains and the forest screaming, take root, it was still defying Heaven and Creation, claim tu coyotes and grizzly smoke, drink melted snow to stick to the runs, to roast scorpions crouching shoulder against shoulder , spitting sand and eat flint. They did, however, these bearded men with hair, hemp hat these women, these children with fever, all dirty st scared to death chanting hymns hand on the trigger, all murderers: they founded a city.

But they were not mistaken. The corner was worth the trouble and more - the cracks and tears putrid blisters, frostbite hammers to crack their feet pale: the hold is off seven kilometers between the plates and blazed the underground giant, flat, a palm, and provided with a river on its western flank. A harsh climate but loyal, declined at the regular Solstice after solstice - music paper, the scanning of their lives, bringing their days, they monotony eventually die - hot summers with thunderstorms liquidated electric sky and hailstones as ping-pong, bright autumns, winters icy, spring kings, while the sweetness, a gentle clearing, a thousand shades of green, not the horses in the meadow, youth and strength of reeds, water and acid air noise. And there are those winds have arisen from the east, they pick up charge of loess on the plateau, which permeates the soil, sowing the valley, cattle fattening as butter cream. Arriving, men who could still have been knee and brought to their mouth with a pinch of earth to enjoy a snap of language - since there was the gesture - and then they had raised, had circled on their own launched their hats into the air and yelled there is, is where the fuck is there, we got - anyway they had no choice, that was or ever had the horses fever, children no longer spoke, women's bellies are covered with eczema and they themselves were going mad.
(Maylis of Kerangal, Birth of a bridge , Vertical: 2010, pp.163-165)

© Anthony Poiraudeau - 2010

Images: Cover Birth of a bridge , Vertical Editions, 2010 - Maylis of Kerangal, portraits C. Helie - Gallimard.

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of communicating vessels: CES Wood, night landscape, Clara Lamireau

CES Wood, nightlife landscape

A start in the city. The night has already slipped between the buildings of the Golden Gate. My companions are ready to stride, hands gloved, crampons, headlamp screwed on the cap. We can be distinguished through the glass pieces of lives cut in windows, such as Advent calendars that my grandmother gave me the Alsace Saint-Nicolas. When they were received, it was already December 6, you could eat six chocolates in one go. Then he had to wait each morning that the sun rises.

First steps on the pavement in warm-up. The look is soft and the lives behind the windows begin to scroll. From our small group we see only the LEDs on the heads and strips of light reflective clothing. At the edge of the park, rare dog walkers are returning, driven by darkness. A blind man and his guide complete their Vesper jogging around the lake. The night is different for the day who can not see? The freshness of the air is it brighter, sounds more crystalline? We begin the first half loop around the water. At the traffic light there, it will be the first break, then entered the woods.

My breath is regular, I did not even need to force oxygen into the carbon dioxide out of my lungs misty. Pedestrian traffic lights. Some trot on the spot so as not to cool. He did a degree Celsius above zero. Pedestrian green light. So started the world without lighting. Without urban landscape without lantern perched. Discussions subside, everyone focuses on breathing, on the uncertain terrain of the ground between mud puddles and roots.

is the passage near the river that most impresses my senses. On a trip to the other, the memories fade but leave their mark on the pen as the powder from the telescreen. It was nice to shake the slate, the features do not disappear completely. The river has dug his bed vigil after vigil, in the powder from my memory. I see nothing, or almost. The land to my feet, not the rider in front of me, the glow of the retro-luminescent. I hear the murmurs, the strides, the water flowing to my right. Do not slide, it surfaces. Attention to the wooden bridge which crosses it, he skates too. Tonight when I go to sleep, a jump me out of torpor - I slipped on the planks of the bridge - to make sure I'm not dying. For now I keep the pace, although I'm beginning to see signs of exhaustion. The city lights greet us off. Half-loop of the pond, last. The sidewalk is more than a gray ribbon that I bounced.

Text: Clara Lamireau - 2010 / Image: Groum

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I resume today participation in waterbed , Which I used between summer 2009 and spring 2010, before they have been neglected, not by lack of interest for them and what is happening each month in connection with them, but simply because that it had become very difficult to write anything other than my daily texts for the convoy glossolalists . Now that my stress of a text a day convoy arrived to an end (I switched to a new constraint since mid-November, asking me two books per week), I return to this monthly meeting, and felt safe, the literature on blogs, which I briefly recall here the principle : The first Friday of each month, the time of a ticket, two people share their blogs (you can go see facebook group monthly devoted to this upheaval, it allows bloggers to announce their participating exchanges, and often find their buddy for a month later). Communicating vessels are not an exclusive club, just have a blog and find one or a blogger / partner is involved.

It seems ideal to reconnect with the communicating vessels in an exchange with Clara Lamireau. It was already in an exchange with Clara that I participated for the first time in communicating vessels in August 2009. It was then crossed with takuhertz , his blog devoted to the books in the urban space. Today, the exchange takes place with Running Newbie , an entirely different blog, in which Clara expressed his passionate practice of running and its relation with it. There will also in the running in the text published here today (and we can also note the attention to urban space in it). As for me, so I wrote a text for Running Newbie when it comes to sports, tennis, and you can read here . A pleasant additional aspect of this particular exchange is that it is done with a blog dealing with a work area well Specifically, the running (which is part of a blog community whose life is, apparently, very lively and dynamic - we are talking about runnosphère ), it provides an opportunity to be read by people who have habits of blog (as a player and author) and not necessarily literary certainly very different from mine. It is a true crossing of borders, so. A big thank you to Clara, obviously.

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Finally, the list of blogs participating in this edition of communicating vessels (listed by the as always very valuable Brigitte Celerier, author of the blog clueless , we thank):

Lifelines (Gilles Bertin) & clueless (Brigitte Célérier) ;

Face Land (Daniel Bourrion) & Urban Urban too (Matthew Duperrex)

The third book (François Bon) & volkovitch.com (Michel Volkovitch)

Attempts (Christine Jeanney) & Koukistories (Kouki Rossi) ;

Lines (Samuel Dixneuf) & Unfinished (Jeremiah Szpirzglas) ;

liminal (Pierre Menard) & Déboîtements (Christophe Grossi) ;

to chat because (Michel Brosseau) & Margins (John Prod'hom) ;

The Winds inspires (Lambert Savigneux) & daily stroll ;

Twitching (Olivier Guery) & Fragments, falls and consequences (Joachim Senna) ;

Semenoir (Mary Axe) & Small Racine (Cécile Portier) ;

The Wild Garden (Anita Navarrete Berbel) & Landry Jutier ;

windows open space (Anne Savelli) & During Weekend (Piero Cohen-Hadria) ;

Walk Romanesque & Exile words (Bertrand Redonnet) ;

Notebooks (Arnaud Maïsetti) & Kill me Sarah ;

Starsky & Random Songs (Mathieu Gandin) ;

Doors (Laure Morali) & Abadon (Michele Dujardin) ;

Poezibao (Florence Trocmé) & Works open (Lawrence Margantin) ;

Aedificavit (Isabelle Buterlin) & Gammalphabets (Jean Yves Got) ;

Déployé seen Zèles (Barbara Albeck) & smiling Rest ;

Minette scrap (Kathie Durand) & Blog-notes (Nolwenn Euzen) ;

Forgot Maquis (Juliette Mezenc) & Notes & Parsees (Nathanael Gobenceaux)

Shot By Both Sides & Playlist Society .