prendre la tangente

Il lui semblait qu'après toutes ces turbulences, ces révélations

déplaisantes qui avaient fait naître en lui de noirs soupçons, tous ces instants plus faciles à oublier qu'à comprendre ou accepter, sa vie reprenait son cours ordinaire. Et c'était la condition pour pouvoir envisager l'avenir, son avenir : il ne parviendrait à l'atteindre qu'en filant tout droit, sans s'arrêter pour élucider un quelconque mystère ni s'appesantir sur le changement de nature de sa vie elle-même. L'existence est une route, et si on prend la tangente, elle est plus longue. Et là, le processus compte plus que le résultat, puisque l'aboutissement est toujours le même : la mort.

Le pingouin, Andreï Kourkov (trad. Nathalie Amargier) «Andreï Kourkov nous livre un vrai roman comique, qui décrit la corruption en Ukraine. Les personnages sont placés dans des situations déprimantes mais le livre ne l’est pas, car Kourkov crée un décalage où l’absurde devient normal et le sordide comique. Polyglotte et scénariste de cinéma, il a fait un Pingouin triste à rire.» Le Monde. 

and fuck'em all (et qu'ils aillent tous se faire foutre)

Or should I have said that I wanted to die, not in the sense of wanting to throw myself off of that train bridge over there, but more like wanting to be asleep forever because there isn't any making up for killing women or even watching women get killed, or for that matter killing men and shooting them in the back and shooting them more times than necessary to actually kill them and it was like just trying to kill everything you saw sometimes because it felt like there was acid seeping down into your soul and then your soul is gone and knowing from being taught your whole life that there is no making up for what you are doing, you're taught that your whole life, but then even your mother is so happy and proud because you lined up your sight posts and made people crumple and they were not getting up ever and yeah they might have been trying to kill you too, so you say, What are you gonna do?, but really it doesn't matter because by the end you failed at the one good thing you could have done, the one person you promised would live is dead, and you have seen all things die in more manners than you'd like to recall and for a while the whole thing fucking ravaged your spirit like some deep-down shit, man, that you didn't even realize you had until only the animals made you sad, the husks of dogs filled with explosives and old arty shells and the fucking guts and everything stinking like metal and burning garbage and you walk around and the smell is deep down into you now and you say, How can metal be so on fire? and Where is all this fucking trash coming from? and even back home you're getting whiffs of it and then that thing you started to notice slipping away is gone and now it's becoming inverted, like you have bottomed out in your spirit but yet a deeper hole is being dug because everybody is so fucking happy to see you, the murderer, the fucking accomplice, the at-bare-minimum bearer of some fucking responsibility, and everyone wants to slap you on the back and you start to want to burn the whole goddamn country down, you want to burn every goddamn yellow ribbon in sight, and you can't explain it but it's just like, Fuck you, but then you signed up to go so it's all your fault, really, because you went on purpose, so you are in the end doubly fucked, so why not just find a spot and curl up and die and let's make it as painless as possible because you are a coward and, really, cowardice got you into this mess because you wanted to be a man and people made fun of you and pushed you around in the cafeteria and the hallways in high school because you liked to read books and poems sometimes and they called you a fag and really deep down you know you went because you wanted to be a man and that's never gonna happen now and you're too much of a coward to be a man and get it over with so why not find a clean, dry place and wait out with it hurting as little as possible and just wait to go to sleep and not wake up and fuck'em all.

(Yellow Birds, Kevin Powers, trad. Emmanuelle et Philippe Aronson)

twenty-four hours

Edward Hopper
They sat quietly for a minute. Martin Beck was hungry.

 He thought about his wife and her chatter about regular meals. He hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours.

Maj Sjöwall & Per Wahlöö, Roseanna

Books Love & Music

annavalenn mOOd est une application du principe de Shéhérazade et codé naturellement.

merci à T.S. Eliot Prufrock, et photo de moi pieds nus, ne sais plus qui, F. ? et calligraphie Do, et Guillaume Dubois jingle tu es fou !... et jingle RIEN Xavier Rubin - et Wong Kar-Wai In the Mood for Love.