An
extract of « Wasteland »
Preliminary
notes for a chapter devoted to
lyricism
by Jean-Michel MAULPOIX,
in La Matinée à l'anglaise,
Seghers, 1982
Translated from the
original French by Catherine Wieder
Lyricism
At first some kind of
vanishing line : the sea heading for the open sea.
Such a joy in dying to oneself, in spilling out.
There, beyond, marvellous clouds carry a load of
skies. O to mingle our bodies to such unachievable,
our fingers, our locks, and a multifold array of
desirable weaknesses
When the soul is at low
tide, we gather on the washed out beach but a few
salted sea sprays and those thin spoils of shells, of
sea-weeds, of shrimps and crabs which the deep silence
of the seas grants us sparingly.
Lyricism is almost some
kind of a wasteland : an indefinite boundless space
where all kinds of strange objects run aground on
sandbank : e.g. the world's scrapes, scraps and old
carcasses, without neither value nor meaning. A wild
space, disquieting and yet familiar where the most
elementary community puts itself together again poles
apart from both museum or church. In such a
bric-à-brac of junk images the frail
forget-me-not blossomed
In such a place, one goes
about one's business. Lyricism in man is something
like the
consistuent of some kind
of wandering.
Putting one's thought on
trial of the wasteland means that one accepts being
driven, called, filled again and again. It doesn't
mean handling concepts but answering a flow of
astounding images. Thus, in both utopia and absence,
presence can assert itself. Lyricism first compels
every one's availability to some kind of
trial.
A path does exist, which
our steps invent. Such a line appears all of a sudden,
then becomes blurred, draws itself again, it lasts
hardly the short while of our stroll. Our capacity to
pace and increase such a field falls both on to our
stamina and our marvelling. The more we walk, the more
it does exist.