Automatic translation
Lucian could not have said when the name Anatole imposed itself. It was not written in the notebook Igniatius had sent him and had not yet been spoken by Igniatius.
It slipped in between two sentences, without his noticing.
“Anatole…,” he had said.
Almost to see what it would do.
Félix had not reacted. Not even a sign.
That silence was neither approval nor refusal. Rather a way of not giving substance too quickly to what had just been released.
“It’s not a proper name,” Lucian added afterward, as if correcting himself without being asked. “It’s… what remains when none of the three really speaks.”
He searches for his words. He senses that if he goes too far, he will fabricate a figure. And that would already be too much… so he sums up… Don Carotte speaks in order to hold on… Sang Chaud speaks in order to resist… Igniatius speaks in order to tell himself.
He pauses briefly and continues.
“Anatole… is not someone who speaks. It is what happens when speaking is no longer enough.”
Félix lets it come.
Lucian continues again, more slowly.
“In the notebook, there is a strange moment. Without anything being added… yet… something has changed. The sentences are shorter. As if the writing hesitated to keep producing images.”
He leafs through it.
“Is that your notebook?” asks Félix, who is struggling to follow Lucian’s line of thought.
It must be said that the notebooks, whether Lucian’s or Igniatius’s… resemble one another, and that, as Igniatius himself pointed out, the handwritings all look alike…
“No, Félix, I’m talking to you about Don Carotte’s notebook…”
“Which… since Don Carotte is a creation of Igniatius… can only be written by Igniatius… if I understand correctly…”
“You understand, Félix… it is nevertheless Don Carotte’s notebook… Look… here, Don Carotte no longer describes. He states things and… Sang Chaud no longer responds. He… notes.”
“And Igniatius…?” Félix asks.
“Igniatius literally disappears from the text… without being named absent.”
“And Anatole?” Félix slips in quietly, without insisting.
Lucian smiles faintly.
“Anatole is perhaps… a silence… and that silence is beginning to create a bond. It is a voice which, without giving a solution, takes stock… a point where none can say ‘I,’ how shall I put it… without stumbling.”
He stops short.
“I realize that as soon as I try to define it, I lose it.”
“Then don’t define it,” says Félix.
Félix’s reply falls simply. It closes nothing. Lucian breathes.
“Anatole does not think.”
“And, according to what you’ve told me, he does not act.”
“And he doesn’t even remember.”
Félix and Lucian fall silent, their gaze turned inward.
“He illuminates. But not like a lamp, Félix. More like a badly adjusted opening. Too much light at once. One looks away.”
He raises his head.
“If I make him a character, I betray him. If I make him a meaning, I close him off. He exists only as long as no one takes hold of him.”
Félix nods almost imperceptibly.
“Then let’s leave it at that,” he says.
At the point where something is said without yet wanting to be understood.
Lucian closes the notebook.
For the first time in a long while, he does not seek what comes next.
He accepts that the text, for now, stops where language begins to fail, and that this failure itself does the work.
Félix, for his part, struggles against the thoughts that surge up and refuse to disappear…
It slipped in between two sentences, without his noticing.
“Anatole…,” he had said.
Almost to see what it would do.
Félix had not reacted. Not even a sign.
That silence was neither approval nor refusal. Rather a way of not giving substance too quickly to what had just been released.
“It’s not a proper name,” Lucian added afterward, as if correcting himself without being asked. “It’s… what remains when none of the three really speaks.”
He searches for his words. He senses that if he goes too far, he will fabricate a figure. And that would already be too much… so he sums up… Don Carotte speaks in order to hold on… Sang Chaud speaks in order to resist… Igniatius speaks in order to tell himself.
He pauses briefly and continues.
“Anatole… is not someone who speaks. It is what happens when speaking is no longer enough.”
Félix lets it come.
Lucian continues again, more slowly.
“In the notebook, there is a strange moment. Without anything being added… yet… something has changed. The sentences are shorter. As if the writing hesitated to keep producing images.”
He leafs through it.
“Is that your notebook?” asks Félix, who is struggling to follow Lucian’s line of thought.
It must be said that the notebooks, whether Lucian’s or Igniatius’s… resemble one another, and that, as Igniatius himself pointed out, the handwritings all look alike…
“No, Félix, I’m talking to you about Don Carotte’s notebook…”
“Which… since Don Carotte is a creation of Igniatius… can only be written by Igniatius… if I understand correctly…”
“You understand, Félix… it is nevertheless Don Carotte’s notebook… Look… here, Don Carotte no longer describes. He states things and… Sang Chaud no longer responds. He… notes.”
“And Igniatius…?” Félix asks.
“Igniatius literally disappears from the text… without being named absent.”
“And Anatole?” Félix slips in quietly, without insisting.
Lucian smiles faintly.
“Anatole is perhaps… a silence… and that silence is beginning to create a bond. It is a voice which, without giving a solution, takes stock… a point where none can say ‘I,’ how shall I put it… without stumbling.”
He stops short.
“I realize that as soon as I try to define it, I lose it.”
“Then don’t define it,” says Félix.
Félix’s reply falls simply. It closes nothing. Lucian breathes.
“Anatole does not think.”
“And, according to what you’ve told me, he does not act.”
“And he doesn’t even remember.”
Félix and Lucian fall silent, their gaze turned inward.
“He illuminates. But not like a lamp, Félix. More like a badly adjusted opening. Too much light at once. One looks away.”
He raises his head.
“If I make him a character, I betray him. If I make him a meaning, I close him off. He exists only as long as no one takes hold of him.”
Félix nods almost imperceptibly.
“Then let’s leave it at that,” he says.
At the point where something is said without yet wanting to be understood.
Lucian closes the notebook.
For the first time in a long while, he does not seek what comes next.
He accepts that the text, for now, stops where language begins to fail, and that this failure itself does the work.
Félix, for his part, struggles against the thoughts that surge up and refuse to disappear…
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