Flamme

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Flamme

L’exercice que j’avais fait dans la matinée était celui d’une danse, d’un ballet, sans soie, sans rose, sans pliées, mais une coulée bleue de prose toute encrée qui débordait sur les pages, qui provenait d’une plume dotée d’une voix sauvage. 

Dehors il pleuvait, à l’intérieur aussi. Dehors, la terre fertile accueillait des gouttelettes en forme de perles imparfaites, à l’intérieure les points de ponctuations et virgules tombaient sur les papiers devenues riches et saturées eux aussi en narration.

Quelques contemplatifs solitaires qui s’enivraient de ces expéditions, se métamorphosaient en machines à faire, à produire, à partager ou à se taire. De toutes les œuvres partagées (et il en fut de charmantes), la plus belle était le lieu dans lequel on se créait.

C’était une flamme cette maison, perdue parmi les arbres pleureurs qui accompagnait la pluie dans sa lamentation, tel le Garsington Manor dont fréquentaient Aldous Huxley et T.S. Eliot. On y trouve des cœurs lourds et remplis, des poèmes belliqueux, des couloirs peuplés par de petits bruits, et le crépitement rassurant d’un feu.


Telle une vaste étendue d’eau cristalline et claire, on s’esquivait dans la nature, et on respirait de la littérature comme on inspire de l’air.


* Exercice de réécriture et d'invention à The Burn, 2018.

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