Fate write a book, my last book, around or in the UK. Back to the ancestral bones. That this book, not by denial is similar to the first.
A book about Britain. Shape to find. Read, meditate. See, I walk. Funds Breton Library. Dr. Corre and Admiral Réveillère. From Villemarquée. The Celtism.
This book is similar to the first. Cycling and return to origin, confined to oneself. Back to myself. So take all the anecdote, and almost chapter by chapter Immemorial: The Bard oral without writing but not without memory, the bard and night walker. - Men in New talk: Saints preachers, the apostles of Hibernia - And again, the pagan holiday. Exoticism. Exoticism. A travel and speak Old: the forest. Britain's deaf. The third party. Here the story ends with beauty, but as a Roman? Why not. Do not try to go "further", to strive for the absolute, but as the old man dying back to the Milky childhood, toothless gums, followed by the childish memory, then the non-existence well, my last book can or should afford even the childish form of Roman. The top of my work and being a particular point median Son of Heaven or what remains to be invented ...
Several years have passed since my time on the Rock (the name affectionately given by its inhabitants in New Caledonia). Contradicting my daily life, I pérégriné with joy in this little corner of the Pacific, real and imaginary. This is not exotic in the common sense that has made this an unforgettable experience, but moving from my point of view and therefore in my eyes.
On Caillou a new editions of the Petit Pavé.
Courtesans of forgetfulness which no no longer raises dresses,
The fawn sheepskin dresses with gold tracery,
The gloomy volumes bookmarks faded silk frays
lie scattered black powder oak cabinets.
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wings of night caress the vaults graze dormant
Where of vertical chains swinging lamps of calm,
lamps resigned in rust, and very quiet,
sips of shadows which never shine more flame.
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A fog of dust undecided secular lines;
It's raining trouble mild sweetness collected.
Since time and times, the sand sank hourglasses.
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Appearances faded things were erased;
draperies on rigidly from the world,
The Darkness nit handles sows velvety silences.
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Gustave Le Rouge
Library dead
poem published in the journal The blue eye
June 2010
Photographie : Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève, Paris
