12 réponses à “short novels”

1. Marie-Agnès dit :

   18/07/2011 à 09:53

   “They don’t raise us for this world, you know why?” she says.
   Doesn’t ask. Never asks, always says.
   “They don’t know it, this world, they know nothing about.”
   Her face glowing. Her usual aging face, no sleep/nights “out”, glowing.
   Where does she go, that tired woman when she goes out? I don’t ask, never ask. The questions are all hers. The questions she says.
   You can’t guess because she dresses so badly, but she has a beautiful body. Still has. We sweated in a sauna together once, I was surprised by her nipples, felt like touching them to make sure they were for real.
   Except during nude interludes she looks like a witch. I love her. I fear her. She’s me in ten, fifteen years?
   She looks like a witch, so will I.
   And that’s true we’re not prepared to live in this world, and who dare swear to comprehend it ?
   “Because they name things they believe they are the Masters of the things: those who put things in jails of names, how will they treat people?”
   Now anger darkens her glowing face. Anger about me all the same. She doesn’t love me, though she tried hard. She’s a wanderer, I’m a hider. She despises me but she must tolerate me, her role on this planet being to improve the general level of human-hood. A serious matter. No jokes allowed.
   Born in a country buried in the memory of the dead, she grew up in Rio. An explosive mix. She’s an explosive woman.
   A scared trying-hard-not-to-explode woman who drinks too much. So do I.
   She drinks to lighten her pace, me to hide deeper.
   “… absurd flowers made of cervical cells. Oh! they ignore the sanctity of Mother Nature, those who committed those sacrileges.”
   Gone the anger, welcome to sorrow. She’s drunk.
   I trapped her and I’m enjoying it a lot.
   So easy to trap her. My love is stronger than her carefulness – very careful not to get drunk en ma compagnie. But I am the strongest. Me and the bottle.
   Now comes the hate. I admire her so much it’s almost nauseous, she handles her hate very well.
   Then in a flash it’s over. Party time meets its end.
   Icy colors of our hearts, is this the only way for us to be together?

   Before she leaves we kiss good-bye. She’d rather not. Me neither. For all my love I avoid touching her.
   A clumsy double-kiss.

2. male puppet dit :

   28/11/2011 à 07:42

   No, franckly i did not fancy more from life than to mix to it, when i couldn’t fix out about it. Sometimes the other is so straight, so down, i can not find neither mistake love. Love. If it is really hers, or if this is the man, and virtually i’m fucked in outer space, with no shit even to dirty with a drop on a cotton-paper or a screen with my own fingerprints, if necessary. Ha ha ha. <3 Whatever. No, the fix is love, and if there is a cock is futile. And futile is a great part of matter. And I feel sad inside for the woman, but if i make a show from sadness on women would i be decored with a toison d'or or whatever the best of ? This is good, this is cute and good, haveing just life, the bone of life, as male is for the eye, the cartesian eye of screen spells, the worst a beast, but the first of matters. But man is just a screen of silk, find out, please, the cunt.

3. male puppet dit :

   28/11/2011 à 07:57

   Interesting in any case, to discuss love openly and franckly, but to make indeed an English matter of litterature. The temptation is pleasure yet. There’s no other pleasure going on, than this first and unfinishing pleasure of mistaking. Man gave the tools, even if man where a stranger, truth about women, and among women, is stranger than mother’s law and paw. Mother’s law and paw, and bearded men, and even terrestrial fathers, are the same. So if i am sometheing, me, i’m a father and a son, two persons, you are the third.

4. male puppet dit :

   28/11/2011 à 08:04

   You see the great writer (and artist) reading our lines with secret amusement ? The Father, yes.

5. Manuel dit :

   30/11/2011 à 13:38

   primitive ? border-line ? smells fine, fishy primeur

   the song of an empereur going wrong as went the king of primal tribe

   the ape I’ll have an angry young man shape

   and you’re anguished and excited as a kid

6. Manuel dit :

   30/11/2011 à 16:09

   who’s older ? the lycéenne or the school kid ? just listen what they did

   they kissed between homework and poemes and just this

   and a steady galactactical nuit chimique came tou the kid

   and the lycéenne became mad, but may be a better person and entered

   the Université

7. Manuel dit :

   04/12/2011 à 12:48

   Luise, read it in my books, there are plenty of answers to your questions. And maybe i’ll publish some other next, if not posthumously at least lately and out of immature Université ambience. Specially for you, and the others, who are suffering so much…

8. jerome dit :

   16/11/2012 à 15:38

   Why not?

   I wish I could tell you half the things Alice used to say, beginning with her favourite phrase Let’s pretend. She had had quite a long argument with her sister only the day before — all because Alice had begun with Let’s pretend we’re kings and queens; and her sister, who liked being very exact, had argued that they couldn’t, because there were only two of them, and Alice had been reduced at last to say, Well, YOU can be one of them then, and I’LL be all the rest.
   alice…

   The impossible it is the Reality, simply, the pure Reality, the definition of the possible always requiring(demanding) a first symbolization: if you exclude this symbolization, she(it) will seem to you much more natural, this formula of the impossible, it is the Reality.
   Lacan…

9. 1 dit :

   26/12/2012 à 22:53

   if all the other planets were none anymore, too, we could rotate around ourselves in eternal symbiosis with the sun,
   without knowing even that we existed – in revolution around what ages ago has been thought being a part of us

10. the turnpike dit :

    04/01/2014 à 02:18

    She sat in the plane, waiting for it to land in Amsterdam. For the first time in a very long time she was not afraid, even enjoyed the bumpiness of the descent through the clouds, daring the plane to crash with each air pocket… „Go on, crash! I dare you!“ she voiced silently, a solitary tear sliding down her cheek as she stared numbly out of the window. She thought of the line in the Alanis Morissette song „..and as the plane crashed down, he thought: Well isn´t this nice“. How ironic it would be indeed, if she were to die at this very moment. But dare as she might, fate was not on her side – or perhaps it was, depending on how you looked at it. Perhaps it was the stifling, choking heat of the city she had just left which contorted and twisted her thoughts, or the cheap airplane booze, or the horrors of the months passed, but in her desperation at that moment, having given up all hope of an airplane carnage as they landed gently in Schiphol, she made up her mind to seek him out upon her return. She would turn up unannounced, as she had before on the high tide of her emotions. She would throw stones at his window and confront him. And then she would take her trusted friend from her pocket, so small but so sharp, and draw blood from her wrists, cutting clean and deep, right there and then in front of him, release it once and for all, so he would know.. so he could see. So he would realise.

11. gowl dit :

    01/04/2017 à 20:58

    I just sold a photo to a dude, an IT programmer, full price, no discussion, printed on metal, alu Dibbon + awesome custom frame. He lives alone in a big east-side Berlin architect-like new penthouse + private garden. When I arrived, Alicia Keys was played on the Hi-Fi. He offers me a beer. We drank the beer. Suddenly, he started the robot who’s in charge of mawing the lawns. The robot moved straight and left and right. We talked a bit about gentrification, boats and neighboors who through their cigarettes away on his grass. I finished the beer. I took some pictures. I left. I think he’s still there…
    … in his gigantic paradise…

12. Laurent Jeaneau dit :

    27/08/2017 à 22:33

    let me tell u the story of a guy whose passion was to collect sausages, he dedicated his life to it, went everywhere he thought he could get the most original sausages in the world and he did, and gathered an incredible diversity of sausages unknown to his original sausage culture. he gathered so many sausages that he wished other people would also appreciate, he started to sell rare sausages, in order to promote his collection of sausages he showed them around and was even invited to talk about his knowledge of rare sausages, he started to have a name and even made money, he offered small samples of the best sausages he had to strangers, assuming they were going to eat it straight away, but instead the strangers discreetly put the sausage samples in their pockets and once at home they would eat it wrapped with strange ingredients, adding blue cheese, mustard, and mayonnaise. and chocolate.
    but the original sausages collector had no idea that was happening, too busy to travel around to purchase more exotic sausages, one day he had enough and thought he would go back to where he belongs and he developed his small sausages collection business and even started to innovate with small experimental sandwiches that would add something but try to keep the original flavor of the rare sausage, and he was happy about it, but gradually he realized that people had already tried this strange kind of sausage, but that they were actually a bit confused cause most of them had only tried the rare sausage with blue cheese, mustard, and mayonnaise. and chocolate together, the sausage collector was asked here and there if they could use the name of his sausages for a new sandwich with blue cheese, mustard, and mayonnaise. and chocolate ( ingredients the sausage collector never liked), the sausage collector who was getting old, laughed and thought that young people had strange taste ! when he refused they would be offended and tried to explain to the sausage collector that blue cheese and chocolate were very respectful ingredients of rare sausage and that more people would want to eat it that way, the sausage collector was sad !
    then later on he realized that his rare sausages were being eaten in different countries, but systematically with blue cheese, mustard, and mayonnaise. and chocolate, and that people were actually consuming mostly the version of blue cheese, mustard, and mayonnaise and chocolate + little bits of rare sausages…

    story to be continued…