“When I had not been born yet, when I had not yet closed my life into a loop and what was to become indelible had not yet begun to be inscribed; when I belonged to nothing that exists, when I was not even conceived, nor conceivable, when that chance made of infinitely minute precisions had not yet begun its action; when I was neither of the past, nor of the present, nor above all of the future; when I was not; when I could not be; a detail one could not perceive, a seed mingled with the seed, a simple possibility that a nothing was enough to divert from its path. Me, or others. Man, woman, or horse, or fir tree, or golden staphylococcus. When I was not even nothing, since I was not the negation of something, nor even an absence, nor even an imagination. When my seed wandered without form and without future, like all the other seeds in the immense night that did not come to fruition. When I was the one who is fed upon, and not the one who feeds, the one who composes, and not the one who is composed. I was not dead.”
Philippe Claudel, Monsieur Linh and His Child, Le Livre de Poche
Anatole’s Journal
Very young, like all children, I am already surrounded by words, and yet they remain distant from me. I was not yet writing, and the words I heard did not always say something to me. Writing does not come easily. It is born first of an obligation… and much later, of an excess. The world reaches me with a continuous intensity. Nothing stands out clearly. Everything arrives at once… at the same time… Everything vibrates deeply… immediately present. Things do not allow themselves to be isolated. They impose themselves as a compact whole, crossed by nuances that I perceive without being able to order them… and… perhaps, without wishing to.
What takes shape within me precedes formulated thought. These are powerful impressions, inner movements without stable contours. I feel before I can recognize. What I live is not confused, but too rich to enter immediately into a sentence. This is where the gap widens. I do not lack words. I lack a passage between what inhabits me and what can be said; a space remains open, difficult to cross.
Very young, like all children, I am already surrounded by words, and yet they remain distant from me. I was not yet writing, and the words I heard did not always say something to me. Writing does not come easily. It is born first of an obligation… and much later, of an excess. The world reaches me with a continuous intensity. Nothing stands out clearly. Everything arrives at once… at the same time… Everything vibrates deeply… immediately present. Things do not allow themselves to be isolated. They impose themselves as a compact whole, crossed by nuances that I perceive without being able to order them… and… perhaps, without wishing to.
What takes shape within me precedes formulated thought. These are powerful impressions, inner movements without stable contours. I feel before I can recognize. What I live is not confused, but too rich to enter immediately into a sentence. This is where the gap widens. I do not lack words. I lack a passage between what inhabits me and what can be said; a space remains open, difficult to cross.
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