Affichage des articles dont le libellé est KUNDERA MILAN. Afficher tous les articles
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est KUNDERA MILAN. Afficher tous les articles

mercredi 12 juillet 2023

Milan Kundera (premier avril 1929 - 12 juillet 2023)

Le kitsch fait naître tour à tour deux larmes d'émotion. La première larme dit: Comme c'est triste, la mort de Milan Kundera !
 La deuxième larme dit: Comme c'est beau d'être ému avec toute l'humanité à la pensée de la mort de Milan Kundera !
Seule cette deuxième larme fait que le kitsch est kitsch.



 

A l'angle du Boulevard Diderot
Et de la rue de l'Opéra
Un homme aux manières de séducteur
Converse en un français très sentimental
Avec deux jeunes femmes
Plutôt belles
Une blonde et une brune
Assises à la terrasse
D'un café littéraire
Deux grandes jeunes femmes à la mode
Une Italienne et une Bohémienne
Qui montrent avec élégance
Leurs jambes hâlées
Croisées
Excitantes


Mais l'homme est le seul sur cette terrasse
Très parisienne
A leur parler et à ne pas les regarder
Concentré sur ce qu'il dit
Pour ne rien dire
Evitant leurs corps parfaits de jeunes femmes
Fatales
Occupé à parler pour les séduire
Ces deux jeunes femmes qui sourient d'être jeunes
Et belles
Assises à côté de cette homme plus âgé qu'elles
Qui parle avec accent
Dans ce qui n'est pas sa langue maternelle
Qui parle de sa voix douce et légère
A ces deux jeunes femmes qui l'écoutent
Et font semblant
Insouciantes
De croire à ce qu'il dit
Alors qu'elles se savent déjà séduites
Par le séducteur
Aux manières de séducteur
Persuadées d'avance
Par le rythme de ses phrases
Et la délicatesse de son timbre
Ne se demandant même pas
Les ingénues
A laquelle
De la brune Romaine
Qui s'appelle Tamina
Et qui n'a jamais lu Milan
Ou
De la blonde Praguoise
Qui s'appelle Jenufa
Et qui n'a jamais vu Milan
Il téléphonera ce soir
Et à qui il proposera
En italien pour l'une
Et en tchèque pour l'autre
De partager la soirée
Ou la vie
En leur parlant de sa même voix douce et légère
Et en continuant d'écrire des romans
Où elles se chercheront en vain
Des romans écrits d'un style aérien
Pour parler
Avec détachement
De sujets légers et profonds comme :
Comment séduire deux jeunes femmes
Belles et grandes à la terrasse d'un café
Parisien
En faisant plaisir à l'une et à l'autre ?
Comment faire semblant d'être un séducteur
Quand ce sont les jeunes femmes
Grandes, belles et fatales
Qui vous ont séduit avant même d'avoir esquissé
Le moindre geste de séduction ?
Ou encore :
Comment être un romancier célèbre
Et passer inaperçu
Dans sa vie et dans ses romans ?


Le séducteur séduit
Se regarde
Assis à la terrasse d'un café
Avec deux jeunes femmes
Qu'il trouve belles et séduisantes
Et il se promet
Tout en continuant de parler de sa voix
Douce et légère
Que jamais il n'osera
Romancier pudique
Raconter dans un roman
L'histoire d'un séducteur
Attablé avec deux jeunes femmes à la mode
A la terrasse d'un café parisien 
L'une parlant italien
Et l'autre dans la langue maternelle du séducteur écrivain
Dans laquelle il n'écrit plus


Les deux jeunes femmes séduites
Regardent le romancier séducteur
Qui s'écoute parler
Assis à la terrasse
Ensoleillée
D'un café littéraire parisien
Avec deux jeunes femmes
Qu'il trouve belles et attirantes
Et se promet de continuer à n'être qu'un romancier respectueux
De la vie des humains
Qu'il fréquente
Ou qu'il a fréquenté
A Prague
Comme à Paris
Ou ailleurs
N'importe où
Entre Diderot et Opéra

Zak Menkiewicz

(Octobre 1993)


jeudi 13 octobre 2016

Prix Nobel de littérature 2016 : Bob Dylan.




Je suis tellement content qu'il y ait des grincheux, des envieux, des jaloux,
Tellement content que l'on dise que Bob, c'est pas de la littérature,
Je n'aurais pas la méchanceté de citer d'autres prix Nobel que l'on ne lit jamais,
Tellement content qu'il ait eu le prix,
Tout simplement,
Tellement certain que dans plusieurs générations on l'écoutera encore chanter et qu'on lira ses textes.
Pourtant,
J'aurais préféré que ce soit Milan Kundera


Ou Philip Roth


Mais ces trois là, je ne cite pas les autres car j'en oublierais tant,
Sont des artistes de génie. C'est déjà pas mal.

Rajout du 4 juin 2017 : on peut écouter son discours. Magique. Inspiré. Dylanesque : ICI.
Pour finir : une de mes chansons favorites :

"Tombstone Blues"

The sweet pretty things are in bed now of course
The city fathers they're trying to endorse
The reincarnation of Paul Revere's horse
But the town has no need to be nervous.

The ghost of Belle Starr she hands down her wits
To Jezebel the nun she violently knits
A bald wig for Jack the Ripper who sits
At the head of the chamber of commerce.

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for food
I'm in the kitchen
With the tombstone blues.

The hysterical bride in the penny arcade
Screaming she moans, "I've just been made."
Then sends out for the doctor who pulls down the shade
And says, "My advice is to not let the boys in."

Now the medicine man comes and he shuffles inside
He walks with a swagger and he says to the bride
"Stop all this weeping, swallow your pride.
You will not die, it's not poison."

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for food
I'm in the kitchen
With the tombstone blues.

Well, John the Baptist after torturing a thief
Looks up at his hero the Commander-in-Chief
Saying, "Tell me great hero, but please make it brief
Is there a hole for me to get sick in?"
The Commander-in-Chief answers him while chasing a fly
Saying, "Death to all those who would whimper and cry."
And dropping a bar bell he points to the sky
Saying, "The sun's not yellow it's chicken."

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for food
I'm in the kitchen
With the tombstone blues.

The king of the Philistines his soldiers to save
Puts jawbones on their tombstones and flatters their graves
Puts the pied pipers in prison and fattens the slaves
Then sends them out to the jungle.

Gypsy Davey with a blowtorch he burns out their camps
With his faithful slave Pedro behind him he tramps
With a fantastic collection of stamps
To win friends and influence his uncle.

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for food
I'm in trouble
With the tombstone blues.

The geometry of innocent flesh on the bone
Causes Galileo's math book to get thrown
At Delilah who's sitting worthlessly alone
But the tears on her cheeks are from laughter.

I wish I could give Brother Bill his great thrill
I would set him in chains at the top of the hill
Then send out for some pillars and Cecil B. DeMille
He could die happily ever after.

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for food
I'm in the kitchen
With the tombstone blues.

Where Ma Raney and Beethoven once unwrapped their bed roll
Tuba players now rehearse around the flagpole
And the National Bank at a profit sells road maps for the soul
To the old folks' home in the college.

I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you, dear lady, from going insane
That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for food
I'm in the kitchen
With the tombstone blues.

Alright!


Le site officiel de Bob : LA.
Les chansons en français : ICI.


mercredi 1 janvier 2014

Bonne année 2014 à toutes et à tous.

The Most Original Book of the Season
Philip Roth interviews Milan Kundera (30/11/1980)
This interview is condensed from two conversations Philip Roth had with Milan Kundera after reading a translated manuscript of his "Book of Laughter and Forgetting"--one conversation while he was visiting london for the first time, the other when he was on his first visit to the United States. He took these trips from France; since 1975 he and his wife have been living as Èmigrès, in Reenes, where he taught at the University, and now in Paris. During the conversations, Kundera spoke sporadically in French, but mostly in Czech, and his wife Vera served as his translator. A final Czech text was translated into English by Peter Kussi.
PR: Do you think the destruction of the world is coming soon?
MK: That depends on what you mean by the word "soon."
PR: Tomorrow or the day after.
MK: The feeling that the world is rushing to ruin is an ancient one.
PR: So then we have nothing to worry about.
MK: On the contrary. If a fear has been present in the human mind for ages, there must be something to it.
PR: In any event, it seems to me that this concern is the background against which all the stories in your latest book take place, even those that are of a decidedly humorous nature.
MK: If someone had told me as a boy: One day you will see your nation vanish from the world, I would have considered it nonsense, something I couldn't possibly imagine. A man knows he is mortal, but he takes it for granted that his nation possesses a kind of eternal life. But after the Russian invasion of 1968, every Czech was confronted with the thought that his nation could be quietly erased from Europe, just as over the past five decades 40 million Ukrainians have been quietly vanishing from the world without the world paying any heed. Or Lithuanians. Do you know that in the 17th century, Lithuania was a powerful European nation? Today the Russians keep Lithuanians on their reservation like a half-extinct tribe; they are sealed off from the visitors to prevent knowledge about their existence from reaching the outside. I don't know what the future holds for my nation. It is certain that the Russians will do everything they can to dissolve it gradually into their own civilization. Nobody knows whether they will succeed. But the possibility is here. And the sudden realization that such a possibility exists is enough to change one's whole sense of life. Nowadays I even see Europe as fragile, mortal.
PR: And yet, are not the fates of Eastern Europe and Western Europe radically different matters?
MK: As a concept of cultural history, Eastern Europe is Russia, with its quite specific history anchored in the Byzantine world. Bohemia, Poland, Hungary, just like Austria have never been part of Eastern Europe. From the very beginning they have taken part in the great adventure of Western civilization, with its Gothic, its Renaissance, its Reformation--a movement which has its cradle precisely in this region. It was here, in Central Europe, that modern culture found its greatest impulses; psychoanalysis, structuralism, dodecaphony, BartÛk's music, Kafka's and Musil's new esthetics of the novel. The postwar annexation of Central Europe (or at least its major part) by Russian civilization caused Western culture to lose its vital center of gravity. It is the most significant event in the history of the West in our century, and we cannot dismiss the possibility that the end of Central Europe marked the beginning of the end for Europe as a whole.
PR: During the Prague Spring, your novel "The Joke" and your stories "Laughable Loves" were published in editions of 150,000. After the Russian invasion you were dismissed from your teaching post at the film academy and all your books were removed from the shelves of public libraries. Seven years later you and your wife tossed a few books and some clothes in the back of your car and drove off to France, where you've become one of the most widely read foreign authors. How do you feel as an ÈmigrÈ?
MK: For a writer, the experience of living in a number of countries is an enormous boon. You can only understand the world if you see it from several sides. My latest book, which came into being in France, unfolds in a special geographic space: Those events which take place in Prague are seen through West European eyes, while what happens in France is seen through the eyes of Prague. It is an encounter of two worlds. On one side, my native country: In the course of a mere half- century, it experienced democracy, fascism, revolution, Stalinist terror as well as the disintegration of Stalinism, German and Russian occupation, mass deportations, the death of the West in its own land. It is thus sinking under the weight of history, and looks at the world with immense skepticism. On the other side, France: For centuries it was the center of the world and nowadays it is suffering from the lack of great historic events. This is why it revels in radical ideologic postures. It is the lyrical, neurotic expectation of some great deed of its own which however is not coming, and will never come.
PR: Are you living in France as a strange or do you feel culturally at home?
MK: I am enormously fond of French culture and I am greatly indebted to it. Especially to the older literature. Rebelais is dearest to me of all writers. And Diderot. I love his "Jacques le fataliste" as much as I do Laurence Sterne. Those were the greatest experimenters of all time in the form of the novel. And their experiments were, so to say, amusing, full of happiness and joy, which have by now vanished from French literature and without which everything in art loses its significance. Sterne and Diderot understand the novel as a great game . They discovered the humor of the novelistic form. When I hear learned arguments that the novel has exhausted its possibilities, I have precisely the opposite feeling: In the course of its history the novel missed many of its possibilities. For example, impulses for the development of the novel hidden in Sterne and Diderot have not been picked up by any successors.
PR: Your latest book is not called a novel, and yet in the text you declare: This book is a novel in the form of variations. So then--is it a novel or not?
MK: As far as my own quite personal esthetic judgment goes, it really is a novel, but I have no wish to force this opinion on anyone. There is enormous freedom latent within the novelistic form. It is a mistake to regard a certain stereotyped structure as the inviolable essence of the novel.
PR: Yet surely there is something which makes a novel a novel, and which limits this freedom.
MK: A novel is a long piece of synthetic prose based on play with invented characters. These are the only limits. By the term synthetic I have in mind the novelist's desire to grasp his subject from all sides and in the fullest possible completeness. Ironic essay, novelistic narrative, autobiographical fragment, historic fact, flight of fantasy: The synthetic power of the novel is capable of combining everything into a unified whole like the voices of polyphonic music. The unity of a book need not stem from the plot, but can be provided by the theme. In my latest book, there are two such themes: laughter and forgetting.
PR: Laughter has always been close to you. Your books provoke laughter through humor or irony. When your characters come to grief it is because they bump against a world that has lost its sense of humor.
MK: I learned the value of humor during the time of Stalinist terror. I was 20 then. I could always recognize a person who was not a Stalinist, a person whom I needn't fear, by the way he smiled. A sense of humor was a trustworthy sign of recognition. Ever since, I have been terrified by a world that is losing its sense of humor.
PR: In your last book, though, something else is involved. In a little parable you compare the laughter of angels with the laughter of the devil. The devil laughs because God's world seems senseless to him; the angels laugh with joy because everything in God's world has its meaning.
MK: Yes, man uses the same physiologic manifestations--laughter--to express two different metaphysical attitudes. Someone's hat drops on a coffin in a freshly dug grave, the funeral loses its meaning and laughter is born. Two lovers race through the meadow, holding hands, laughing. Their laughter has nothing to do with jokes or humor, it is the serious laughter of angels expressing their joy of being. Both kinds of laughter belong among life's pleasures, but when it also denotes a dual apocalypse: the enthusiastic laughter of angel-fanatics, who are so convinced of their world's significance that they are ready to hang anyone not sharing their joy. And the other laughter, sounding from the opposite side, which proclaims that everything has become meaningless, that even funerals are ridiculous and group sex a mere comical pantomime. Human life is bounded by two chasms: fanaticism on one side, absolute skepticism on the other.
PR: What you now call the laughter of angels is a new term for the "lyrical attitude to life" of your previous novels. In one of your books you characterize the era of Stalinist terror as the reign of the hangman and the poet.
MK: Totalitarianism is not only hell, but also the dream of paradise--the age old drama of a world where everybody would live in harmony, united by a single common will and faith, without secrets from one another. Andrè Breton, too, dreamed of this paradise when he talked about the glass house in which he longed to live. If totalitarianism did not exploit these archetypes, which are deep inside us all and rooted deep in all religions, it could never attract so many people, especially during the early phases of its existence. Once the dream of paradise starts to turn into reality, however, here and there people begin to crop up who stand in its way, and so the rulers of paradise must build a little gulag on the side of Eden. In the course of time this gulag grows ever bigger and more perfect, while the adjoining paradise gets ever smaller and poorer.
PR: In your book, the great French poet Eluard soars over paradise and gulag, singing. Is this bit of history which you mention in the book authentic?
MK: After the war, Paul Eluard abandoned surrealism and became the greatest exponent of what I might call the "poesy of totalitarianism." He sang for brotherhood, peace, justice, better tomorrows, he sang for comradeship and against isolation, for joy and against gloom, for innocence and against cynicism. When in 1950 the rulers of paradise sentenced Eluard's Prague friend, the surrealist Zalvis Kalandra, to death by hanging, Eluard suppressed his personal feelings of friendship for the sake of supra-personal ideals, and publicly declared his approval of his comrade's execution. The hangman killed while the poet sang.
And not just the poet. The whole period of Stalinist terror was a period of collective lyrical delirium. This has by now been completely forgotten but it is the crux of the matter. People like to say: Revolution is beautiful, it is only the terror arising from it which is evil. But this is not true. The evil is already present in the beautiful, hell is already contained in the dream of paradise and if we wish to understand the essence of hell we must examine the essence of the paradise from which it originated. It is extremely easy to condemn gulags, but to reject the totalitarianism poesy which leads to the gulag, by way of paradise is as difficult as ever. Nowadays, people all over the world unequivocally reject the idea of gulags, yet they are still willing to let themselves be hypnotized by totalitarian poesy and to march to new gulags to the tune of the same lyrical song piped by Eluard when he soared over Prague like the great archangel of the lyre, while the smoke of Kalandra's body rose to the sky from the crematory chimney.
PR: What is so characteristic of your prose is the constant confrontation of the private and the public. But not in the sense that private stories take place against a political backdrop, nor that political events encroach on private lives. Rather, you continually show that political events are governed by the same laws as private happenings, so that your prose is a kind of psychoanalysis of politics.
MK: The metaphysics of man is the same in the private sphere as in the public one. Take the other theme of the book, forgetting. This is the great private problem of man: death as the loss of the self. But what is this self? It is the sum of everything we remember. Thus what terrifies us about death is not the loss of the past. Forgetting is a form of death ever present within life. This is the problem of my heroine, in desperately trying to preserve the vanishing memories of her beloved dead husband. But forgetting is also the great problem of politics. When a big power wants to deprive a small country of its national consciousness it uses the method of organized forgetting . This is what is currently happening in Bohemia. Contemporary Czech literature, insofar as it has any value at all, has not been printed for 12 years; 200 Czech writers have been proscribed, including the dead Franz Kafka; 145 Czech historians have been dismissed from their posts, history has been rewritten, monuments demolished. A nation which loses awareness of its past gradually loses its self. And so the political situation has brutally illuminated the ordinary metaphysical problem of forgetting that we face all the time, every day, without paying any attention. Politics unmasks the metaphysics of private life, private life unmasks the metaphysics of politics.
PR: In the sixth part of your book of variations the main heroine, Tamina, reaches an island where there are only children. In the end they hound her to death. Is this a dream, a fairy tale, an allegory?
MK: Nothing is more foreign to me than allegory, a story invented by the author in order to illustrate some thesis. Events, whether realistic or imaginary, must be significant in themselves, and the reader is meant to be naively seduced by their power and poetry. I have always been haunted by this image, and during one period of my life it kept recurring in my dreams: A person finds himself in a world of children, from which he cannot escape. And suddenly childhood, which we all lyricize and adore, reveals itself as pure horror. As a trap. This story is not allegory. But my book is a polyphony in which various stories mutually explain, illumine, complement each other. The basic event of the book is the story of totalitarianism, which deprives people of memory and thus retools them into a nation of children. All totalitarianisms do this. And perhaps our entire technical age does this, with its cult of the future, its indifference to the past and mistrust of thought. In the midst of a relentlessly juvenile society, an adult equipped with memory and irony feels like Tamina on the isle of children.
PR: Almost all your novels, in fact all the individual parts of your latest book, find their denouement in great scenes of coitus. Even that part which goes by the innocent name of "Mother" is but one long scene of three-way sex, with a prologue and epilogue. What does sex mean to you as a novelist?
MK: These days, when sexuality is no longer taboo, mere description, mere sexual confession, has become noticeably boring. How dated Lawrence seems, or even Henry Miller, with his lyricism of obscenity! And yet certain erotic passages of George Bataille have made a lasting impression on me. Perhaps it is because they are not lyrical but philosophic. You are right that, with me everything ends in great erotic scenes. I have the feeling that a scene of physical love generates an extremely sharp light which suddenly reveals the essence of characters and sums up their life situation. Hugo makes love to Tamina while she is desperately trying to think about lost vacations with her dead husband. The erotic scene is the focus where all the themes of the story converge and where its deepest secrets are located.
PR: The last part, the seventh, actually deals with nothing but sexuality. Why does this part close the book rather than another, such as the much more dramatic sixth party in which the heroine dies?
MK: Tamina dies, metaphorically speaking, amid the laughter of angels. Through the last section of the book, on the other hand, resounds the contrary kind of laugh, the kind heard when things lose their meaning. There is a certain imaginary dividing line beyond which things appear senseless and ridiculous. A person asks himself: Isn't it nonsensical for me to get up in the morning? to go to work? to strive for anything? to belong to a nation just because I was born that way? Man lives in close proximity to this boundary, and can easily find himself on the other side. That boundary exists everywhere, in all areas of human life and even in the deepest, most biological of all: sexuality. And precisely because it is the deepest region of life the question posed to sexuality is the deepest question. This is why my book of variations can end with no variation but this.
PR: Is this, then, the furthest point you have reached in your pessimism?
MK: I am wary of the words pessimism and optimism. A novel does not assert anything; a novel searches and poses questions. I don't know whether my nation will perish and I don't know which of my characters is right. I invent stories, confront one with another, and by this means I ask questions. The stupidity of people comes from having a question for everything. When Don Quixote went out in the world, that world turned into a mystery before his eyes. That is the legacy of the first European novel to the entire subsequent history of the novel. The novelist teaches the reader to comprehend the world as a question. There is wisdom and tolerance in that attitude. In a world built on sacrosanct certainties the novel is dead. The totalitarian world, whether founded on Marx, Islam or anything else, is a world of answers rather than questions. There, the novel has no place. In any case, it seems to me that all over the world people nowadays prefer to judge rather than to understand, to answer rather than ask, so that the voice of the novel can hardly be heard over the noisy foolishness of human certainties.


samedi 1 janvier 2011

BONNE ANNEE 2011 A TOUS



Sous le regard de Milan Kundera (et de sa femme Vera en 1973 à Prague) et de Philip Roth (plus récemment photographié) qui m'accompagnent depuis tant d'années et qui m'aident à réenchanter le monde je voulais nous souhaiter, à nous tous qui fréquentons les cabinets de médecine générale, une excellente année 2011.
(La photographie de Kundera et Roth ensemble et jeunes, tellement nostalgique, n'est pas reproductible en raison de droits. Je vous invite à aller la regarder ici).
Continuons de faire notre travail à notre rythme et ne désespérons pas de l'avenir.
Continuons au jour le jour de modifier nos comportements ou de fortifier nos pratiques en tentant de nous informer et de nous former.
Ne tentons pas, chacun de notre côté, de rendre le monde meilleur. Si la société n'a plus besoin de nous, il n'est pas besoin de résister, nous disparaîtrons : quand une révolution est en marche il vaut mieux être sur le bulldozer plutôt que dessous.
Je viens d'un monde où il fallait trois ans pour obtenir une ligne téléphonique, où la télévision était rare dans les foyers, où l'on se servait de carbones, où les machines à écrire s'appelaient Remington, où ce que je mangeais était fabriqué non loin de chez moi, où les réfrigérateurs s'appelaient Frigidaire, où l'on allait à Orly acheter des billets d'avion... Donc, il est très possible que les médecins généralistes soient remplaçables ou remplacés... Si c'est une tendance sociétale, qu'y pouvons-nous ?
Nous continuerons donc, ici, de rapporter ce qui pourrait améliorer notre pratique afin que nous puissions vivre de notre activité, quand je dis vivre, ce n'est pas seulement vivre décemment de façon sonnante et trébuchante, c'est vivre sans nous épuiser à la tâche et sans nous désespérer mentalement. La satisfaction professionnelle est différente de la satisfaction pécuniaire mais il n'est pas besoin de se comparer pour se rendre heureux ou malheureux.
Je voudrais terminer par des citations, ce que je déteste le plus, des citations, donc, pour dire pourquoi j'écris ce blog, sinon la gloriole :
  1. Une citation de Marcel (Proust) : " L'inconnu de la vie des êtres est comme celui de la nature que chaque découverte scientifique ne fait que reculer mais n'annule pas." La Prisonnière in La Recherche du temps perdu, La Pléiade, 1954.
  2. Une autre de Robert (Musil) : "Il s'est constitué un monde de qualités sans homme, d'expériences vécues sans personne pour les vivre ; on en viendrait presque à penser que l'homme, dans le cas idéal, finira par ne plus pouvoir disposer d'une expérience privée et que le doux fardeau de la responsabilité personnelle se dissoudra dans l'algèbre des situations possibles." L'homme sans qualités. (traduction de Philippe Jaccottet - 1956)
  3. Et encore une de Marcel (Proust) : "Ce que nous n'avons pas eu à déchiffrer, à éclaircir par notre effort personnel, ce qui était clair avant nous, n'est pas à nous. Ne vient de nous-même que ce que nous tirons de l'obscurité qui est en nous et que ne connaissent pas les autres." ibid.
  4. Enfin, pour terminer cet étalage égoïste qui montre la "grande" culture du blogger, une citation de Milan (Kundera) : " Les biographes ne connaissent pas la vie sexuelle de leur propre épouse mais ils croient connaître celle de Stendhal ou de Faulkner." Les Testaments trahis.
BONNE ANNEE 2011