FRANCK ANDRÉ JAMMEDe la multiplication des brèches et des obstacles, 1993; Un diamant sans étonne-
ment, 1998; L’Avantage de la parole, 1999; Encore une attaque silencieuse, 1999;
Nouveaux exercises, 2002.
The Life of a Beetle
And the peacock, once again, started to strut about the park, alone.
Or rather a simple gesture: he drew a diagonal line across things. Across all
things. Those of his mind, of his eyes, of his hands. Strangely, all of a sudden: no
more up or down, no more high or low.
‘‘Don’t forget, your speech is behind you, always past, lost upon being uttered, at
the very moment it is severed from you. But look, it grows back, each time. A real
lizard’s tail.’’ He didn’t forget.
Dream, one morning maybe: an end to this uproar of thoughts.
He wondered whether there were clocks which would tick a little slower when
called by name.
Even a simple vocal inflection could change everything, couldn’t it?
He sang out his lists: ‘‘Guessing tree, violence of illusion, clever machinery of
interests, what imprisoned, what freed.’’
For what he still sought also had to be an undi√erentiated speech, which had lost
its master, its author—a needle of hay in a haystack.
And the peacock, once again, started to strut about the park, alone, unobserved.
Dream, maybe one evening: just a sort of big smile coming to hang, briefly, over
the absolute appeasement.
And then, especially, the light. Which was actually making fun of the air. The air
which appeared to laugh at it. Which prevented you from deciding which of the
two was more supple, more playful. Even if, especially, the light.
When a tear rolled down his cheek. At last.