Modifié le : 2019/08/04

I’ve been writ­ing these prom­e­nades for a lit­tle over a year. It is, there­fore, a form of an anniver­sary. Time is an unfath­omable ver­ti­go that col­ors my eyes.

I am not here to make res­o­lu­tions, because the ones stat­ed at the begin­ning of this writ­ing have more or less been flout­ed. I was sup­posed to start a dai­ly march, and the promise was not kept. Yet, the thought is still run­ning around. It has also worked hard, fed on a sto­ry that I always try to get published.

Dur­ing that year, I revived two oth­er sto­ries, now sus­pend­ed, like kites, from the elec­tron­ic wires of the Inter­net. I also con­tin­ued my ren­o­va­tions, which are well under­way. I have worked and spent. I have loved, con­tin­ue to be loved. And recent­ly, I have begun to dis­cov­er singing.

My life is full of life. The expec­ta­tion remains the same. The idea of a sev­enth nov­el (or a col­lec­tion of short sto­ries) emerges. The work­ing title : Ver­ti­go. Because, before falling asleep, I often plunge into dizzy­ing images ; while wait­ing for the metro, I feel gal­va­nized by the crit­i­cal approach of the head-end, I observe this per­fect­ly sta­ble world that is told to be on the edge of the precipice. These images of the man who fell from the stratos­phere fright­en me. I have not yet decid­ed to watch a video that shows this achieve­ment. This is not a writer’s whim. I’m terrified.

That’s me, after a year. In full pos­ses­sion of my means, pos­sessed by great ver­ti­go. It is time for me to tame it or, at the very least, to sub­mit to it with­out fear. Some­one around me told me that I would have made a good monk. He is not wrong, even if I am one of those men who will always need firm skin to fight against. In that sense, I would have made a vicious monk. Might as well stay sec­u­lar. And I like too much the base­ness that words allow me, even if I don’t see in this “free­dom” of the artist the right to write every­thing. A fic­tion that makes life exist is, for me, an insult to procreation.

So, Guy, will you tell me, read­er, why this anguish ?

So, read­er, I will answer, how come you don’t hear it ?