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Taudis de l'autel

Il arrive qu'un enfant se promenant s'arrête et se mette sans l'avoir décidé vraiment sans trop savoir pourquoi à assembler quelques bouts de bois entasser quelques cailloux et poursuivre après les avoir considérés un instant.

(Marc Cholodenko, Taudis/Autels)

#Marc Cholodenko #Tro de mi el

Explications (phrases usinées successives)

1770. Puis gris que dilue du rose que brûle le bleu, Marc Cholodenko (Marc Cholodenko, Puis gris que dilue du rose que brûle le bleu) (P.O.L, 2014)

[☞] [☞]

#Marc Cholodenko #Le Compost #Légende

Mordechai Schamz by Marc Cholodenko, translated by Dominic Di Bernardi

. . . . In conclusion, he concludes, one hardly is, and the little that one is, consists of what one is not. (p. 4)

***

While he is watching the passing cloud, which decomposes and recomposes upon itself, and again decomposes, constantly, up in the high wind, Mordechai Schamz says to himself, thus lending form to the discomfort inhabiting him: Undoubtedly I am watching this particular cloud but why does it seem to me that I do not really see it? Constantly must I make an effort to keep my eyes attached to it. Or rather I must constantly reattach them for, no sooner settled, they detach themselves. And all this to go where? To arrive back at myself, who yet has dedicated himself to contemplating this cloud. Am I so imperiously important that I do not have it in my power to be detached from myself for a few wretched instants? Important I cannot say; imperiously, there is not one second which, the need arising, would fail to bring me another proof of it. What to do about this, if not to relentlessly redirect toward the relinquished object the interest that is constantly returning to its source? Redirect, have I said? But does not the interest itself rebound upon arriving and immediately head back toward its object? For to attempt to remain within myself I have known nothing more successful than to try to fix myself upon the cloud. Thus I become the pole of attraction of my interest, for apparently it is in its nature to be repelled by the object one wishes to fix it on rather than to be attracted by the object from which one attempts to keep it at a distance. More than a faculty, whose functioning could be said to resemble a crane-grab, it is a back and forth motion regulating our relationship to the world, and we act exactly as do animals deprived of sight which regulate their movements according to the velocity at which the waves they emit are returned by surrounding objects. That strikes me as a security system just as indispensable for us as for them, concludes Mordechai Schamz. Indeed, if my interest were not to come back to me upon touching the object it aims for, I would forget myself and no doubt like to melt into a cloud so beautiful, I would leap through the window and—but who will tell me that in such case I would not be able to fly? (pp. 25-26)

***

Ah! Mordechai Schamz should be given a good slap. That would teach him quite a few things. Given a good slap often—every day, perhaps. Yes, every day he ought to be slapped, but not by just anybody, not by those who, in the street, with the looks of brutes, easily resort to violence, but rather by people who are calm and stable, even gentle, who are admirable, friendly, people he would admire and befriend. The blows attributed to fate would do nothing to humble his vain arrogance; on the contrary, they would harden it. What's needed for such pride are the blows of fellowmen, voluntary, regular, daily blows, nothing less. Maybe then he would learn at last what it is to be a man, among men and with men. These blows ought to signify their contempt and their rejection. However, it could just as well happen that they have the opposite effect. Could not Mordechai Schamz see in them an indubitable proof of their interest in him and even of their solicitude? He would be quite capable of this, and in one way, he would not be wrong. That several persons think about him every day, dedicate a few daily minutes to thrashing him, irrefutably indicates a concern they have about him and verges on the kind of treatment that eventually would risk confirming the morbid attention he pays to himself. No, the contempt should be displayed haphazardly and assume forms as savage as they are unexpected. After all, you can always expect the contempt of those you know, but if a worthy stranger stopped Mordechai Schamz in the street to spit in his face, now that would go a long way in sparking closer interest on his part in the shadowy facets of his personality. Is my vileness so apparent, he would be forced to ask himself, that it commands the indignation of a passerby? Be careful: now it's no longer even an ethical question, but rather one of simple safety. And that would be a good thing, for there are creatures, including Mordechai Schamz, who are happy to pass judgment on themselves and to keep their guilt hidden from the world, as if too precious, undoubtedly, to be shown, or too rare to be understood. (pp. 27-28)

***

It is not unusual for people in the street to smile at Mordechai Schamz. Are they smiling at me, he asks himself, or at the sight of me? It's worth raising the question because there is quite a difference between the two. If they are smiling at me it is because, in a certain way, they know me, and because they at least recognize in me something that pleases them or makes them happy; if they are smiling at the sight of me, it is simply because I amuse them. But how can they know me when I have never seen them before? They cannot, quite obviously. Therefore, the reason is that I amuse them. But exactly how, honestly, I could not say. From time to time I catch sight of myself and even take a look at myself, and never once has this brought the slightest smile to my lips. So couldn't it be said that I am the one who doesn't know myself, based on the fact that I am unable to see in myself what can make people smile—or, after all, make them happy—and that they, on the other hand, know me since they are able to see in me what can make people smile or happy? Their great number, as well as their inability to reach a consensus on this matter beforehand, pleads in their favor; but on the other hand, I see nothing that might support my cause. I am therefore forced to admit that there exists within me something quite visible and objective, something likeable or amusing, which my subjectivity renders invisible to my eyes. Here's yet another piece of evidence to add to the list of this irksome character's liabilities, as if there weren't enough already! Ah! Mordechai Schamz takes to dreaming, if it were only possible to unload oneself entirely on other people, how light life would be! You would only need to go up to the first person passing by and ask him, Am I cheerful, am I sad, is it beautiful, is it good or is it bad? And once the answer is given, you would be on your way, even lighter still, if possible. Considering only the case before me now, am I not, in the eyes of many, the most jolly sort of rake, a genuine public clown? Yes, but it is quite possible that those who do not smile at the sight of me, who are even more numerous, find me a rather glum specimen. So ought I not to be on the alert to change my mood according to whom I meet, not to mention that I would be unable to shirk the demands of individual consciousnesses in quest of their own reality as I am of my own? All things considered, concludes Mordechai Schamz, it is far simpler for me, after all, to subscribe to the feeling of the first person chance sends my way, and which is as valid as any other. (pp. 91-92)

#book quotes #marc cholodenko

Le meilleur moyen de souffrir la fatalité qui voue à s'occuper sans répit de comptes rendus d'habitudes et d'incidents plutôt que de l'être d'une histoire qui s'achèverait à mesure qu'elle se poursuit et à combler l'espace sans pouvoir l'être d'une place sienne est encore de fréquenter les vestiges laissés par les efforts que de plus acharnés et non moins malheureux ont faits pour la conjurer à défaut de suivre leurs traces.

(Marc Cholodenko, Puis gris que dilue du rose que brûle le bleu)

#Marc Cholodenko #Tro de mi el

C'est une lettre autre que celle qu'il avait en mémoire qu'il a sortie et range aussitôt avant de refermer la boîte s'étant souvenu de ce qu'il cherchait à se rappeler qui est qu'à la surface réfléchissante de la matière opaque du passé où toutes choses quelle qu'en soit la profondeur de leur enfouissement reposent dans l'égalité il est indifférent au présent que telle ou telle soit évoquée.

(Marc Cholodenko, Puis gris que dilue du rose que brûle le bleu)

#Marc Cholodenko #Tro de mi el

Se restreindre volontairement n'est pas se priver de ce qu'on se refuse mais s'accroître de ce qu'on ne s'accorde pas.

(Marc Cholodenko, Glossaire, Restriction)

#Marc Cholodenko #dits