2023-10-29 13:14:33
►“Thebaid”
Anna Moï, writer and stylist born in Vietnam
As a child, I did not say to myself: when I grow up, I will be an anchorite in the desert of Thebaid, with writing as my priesthood. Later, I coaxed inspiration into unpopulated places. For example: a monastic cell in the corner tower of the residence of a Thai prince, on the banks of the Chao Phraya. An isolated lodge at the top of a ferruginous stone manor, in Collonges-la-Rouge. A loggia overlooking tall trees in Saigon.
This “room of one’s own” nestles where the gaze becomes blurred, where the real world and the dream world overlap, where words indulge in chaos. I’m lonely, but not really. My space of solitude is perforated, day after night. Characters from nowhere rush into it. They bother me, because that is my wish.
The Thebaids are not deserts but places of their own. I don’t find them in Wadi Rum, in Jordan, nor in the princely residences, they are where I write. I can enter it at will, after having pronounced the magic formula: “Earth, goodbye. »
80 words from VietnamL’Asiathèque, 184 p., €16.50. has published on November 8
Francophonie: the French Alliance, the soft power of French for 140 years
►“Choir”
Thierry Machuel, composer and pianist
For the art of encounter. For listening to oneself, to others and to our mingling voices. For the miracle of having, all, a unique timbre and of building, together, the house of common harmony. Choir, with or without “h”, to be in the most intimate of the human condition, to make the harmonics of a whole life resonate in a cry, the dialogue of all languages in the same song, mouth closed.
To hear what no language can say, no thought can describe, for the unspeakable, for the invisible, what connects and unbinds us. Choir, for our hesitations, our assumed fragilities, our voices which escape under the vault of the choir and which revolve with the tangled words, which lose the the and even find it, sometimes, and then, what joy! Choir, for the song that delivers, giving birth to the other by being reborn. Choir, for the heat that never burns, the quivering of the soul that is freed, the infinity revealed in the moment.
►« Île »
Kamel Daoud, Franco-Algerian journalist and writer
At a young age, words are few in the mind and their contaminations of sound and meaning appear inevitable. It is the age of colored vowels, black A, white E, red I… “Island” then meant the impersonal, the third person singular, a palm tree with the circumflex accent of a makeshift hut, a tiny territory. But also: a third choice between life and death, the father and mother who imposed on me their worlds of conflicting loyalties, the country and the deceased adults of the War of Independence, school and home and above all earth and heaven.
There is no island in the Muslim paradise, or an ocean. Only rivers to drink. Island, and elsewhere, which will become the exotic, the escape. At the time this word was installed in my mind, I read a lot of stories of shipwreck, starting over, loss of self, estrangement, escape, and birth without debt through the story of his country. I discovered Jules Verne, among others. He is the creator of many islands in my head, some of which still remain, as footrests.
The truth is that I was suffocating in a narrow Algeria. An Algeria overflowing with the dead of the war of decolonization and their names on every street corner on the walls. A country distorted by religion and its promise of paradise, without entertainment between the insufficient Algerian language and the unlivable and severe Arabic language. God and the “martyrs” of independence met everywhere without leaving room for dreams, infinity, mystery, play.
The island then emerged like a small breach, an imaginary orphanage. I loved this very simple word, perfectly calligraphed, which refused to draw attention to itself and which was the beginning of enormous escapes, the proof of ancient cartography. The word “island” was my foothold in the open sea, the mechanics of the fairies, the afterlife, but without God, the goal of swimming and the child’s hut.
There you have it: the sea was France, the land was Algeria, the sky leaned like Allah and the island was the only place where I could isolate myself from everyone.
His eye in my hand. Algeria 1961-2019, with photographs by Raymond Depardon, Barzakh/Images Plurielles (2022), 224 p., €35
►“Hallier”
Jean Claude GISBERT/©J.-C. GISBERT/Opale/Leemage
Raphaël Confiant, Martinican writer of French and Creole expression
The French word that resonates most with me is unknown to today’s French people. This is the word “hallier” which means “bush” and which was creolized into “razié”. It reminds me of my childhood wandering in the countryside of northern Martinique where my maternal grandfather owned a small rum distillery.
The thicket is what hides and protects, what we fear at nightfall, because of the zombies who haunt it, this place where children’s first loves but also brown negroes, all these people who have broken their ban, hide. despite the abolition of slavery a century and a half ago. There are also fruits that have become rare such as beef heart cachiman, sweet peas or cinnamon apples.
Every time I find myself outside of Martinique, it’s this word that comes to mind when I think of her.
The Dark Muse by Charles BaudelaireMercure de France (2021), 272 p., €20
►« Femme »
Noëlle Revaz, Swiss writer
In the word “woman”, I like the breath of its “f” which proclaims its false “e”, and its long final syllable. A generic word whose archaic resonance reminds me of its origins. The ambiguity of its “e” which is an “a” is disturbing, it makes it a separate word.
As a child, I wasn’t very sure about this word and I looked at it a lot to find out what it was, what it meant and how to write it, because of this vowel which is pronounced differently. The word “woman” always escapes a little, as if I can’t grasp it. I see him oscillating and multiple, he lets me understand that he carries several layers within him.
It is a complex, powerful, vibrant word, and at the same time very simple, with a single syllable. It took me a while to tame it and love it, probably because of the disdain that can sometimes surround it.
Self-portrait with artist. Portrait of Valentin CarronArt & Fiction, 96 p., 14,50 €, has published on November 2
► « Temps »
Tanella Boni, Ivorian philosopher and poet
In the French language, there is a word that I find elusive. I don’t particularly like him, but he imposes himself on me, on us. It’s the word “time.” There is the time of seasons, there is also the passing of time. We have the impression that it is happening but we don’t know how.
One fine day, we realize that we have grown up, that we have aged. Our body tells us that we are in time. This time that we do not see, which works without our knowledge, I do not see any other word in the French language to better describe it. We realize, one day or another, that we are in time because we are living.
Time is life, it is also the story that sticks to our skin. We will not be able to get rid of time, nor the time of the seasons, nor the feeling we have of the passage of time. Although I dream that I am not in time, that I am free not to be there, it remains a dream, very far from reality!
Among the English, there are two words – perhaps more – to say “time”: time et weather. With time, it’s the time we waste or gain, that we have. And weather tells us that it is hot or cold, that it is snowing, that it is raining, that it is spring, autumn or winter. Whatever it may be, in one or more words, time always passes and it is time that tells the story of our lives…
Unbearable border, Éditions Bruno Doucey (2022), 136 p., €15
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In practice
♦ After the inauguration by the President of the Republic, the International city of the French language and the Château de Villers-Cotterêts will be accessible free of charge for ten days. Meetings, artistic performances, shows, activities for children… A cultural program is then planned for the whole year.
♦ QuatrYears of construction were necessary to create, in the castle built at the request of François Ithis new place dedicated to the French language, directed by Paul Rondin, former deputy director of the Avignon Festival. This city aims to “show the adventure of French, its diffusion throughout the world, its evolution through contact with other languages, its link to the political construction of the nation, its relationship to regional languages, its constant reinvention” .
♦ The public spaces include 1,200 m² of permanent exhibition400 m² of temporary exhibitions and 150 m² of reception areas.
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