ANNIE LE BRUNrealism and the marquis de Sade’s writings, recognizing in both a concern with
the liberation of desire and primitive instincts. Le Brun edited de Sade’s complete
works, in addition to those of Raymond Roussel. Le Brun has also worked with
fellow poets Radovan Ivsic and Georges Goldfayn and the painter Toyen through
Éditions Maintenant. Principal works: Les Mots font l’amour, 1970; Les Pâles et
Fiévreux Après-midis des villes, 1972; Tout près, les nomades, 1972; Les Écureuils de
l’orange, 1974; Annulaire de lune, 1977; Lâchez tout, 1977; Les Châteaux de la
subversion, 1982; A distance, 1984; Appel d’air, 1988.
Rituals
The place and the formula recede with the echo to win back the fallow lands.
We won’t stop pursuing them at a gallop, towards the vanishing point of what
wants to escape.
At the beginning of each of the body’s seasons, the nomads gather so as to
scatter apart.
Not a word is pronounced on the trembling land while the children play at
leapfrog on their destiny. Umbilical cords are distributed to the youngest among
them so they can become familiar with the joys of the lasso.
The ceremonies of separation take place in the rarefied air of November.
Intermittently, a few fugitive images are projected on the incestuous fogs whose
most decisive particles remain suspended in the atmosphere.
The slightest touches care for the occasional wounds (due to the inevitable
slowness of some voyages), for example, for the temporary misrecognition of the
southeastern part of thought. The magical practices used in such circumstances
succeed in stopping the accumulation of the tetanized concentric circles: gradu-
ally, these detach from each other. There is a spectacular swelling of interior
distances. And suddenly, the part that was sick becomes visible, palpable, leaping,
sparkling, once again impatient to invade.
Slowly the presences of the prey spread out. Whips lash the spine of the air.
And the heath disappears under the powdery roads. Young stomachs have bro-
ken forth from their cables forever.
We shall no longer stride along the fields of love, we shall link them to the sea.
—mary ann caws