"Splendor and Lassitude of Captain Marion Déperrier"
I believe that there are men stirred, shaken by tremblings.
I think their bodies swaddle in contemplation of their excesses.
I think their word is discharged without ever encountering any resistance.
I believe that nothing can stop them.
I think they live and die because of floods.
I think they are enraged, and that rage is for them a poetic providential form.
I believe in the insatiable fury of their splendor and of their lassitude.
I think anyone is fooled of the incredible danger of these two words.
I think we must be mindful of the close relationship between fury and savagery.
I believe these men are true tragic hero, because too attentive to tie with the fate privileged and exemplary links.
I think there's nothing here that can relate to "nerves."
I believe that any attempt to psychiatric analyze is irrevocably fired.
I think that robbers will have nothing to take, because anything that affects the body comes over it in the same time.
I think these men live on battlefields where enemy exist only because he evades, where every breath is outburst and where every movement is only overlap of outburst, where all is necessarily EXTERNAL.
The fury of a man who falls condense into a precise point (which it is easy to confuse with the center of gravity of body mass), and then explode into successive waves where muscles and tendons break.
The body, who can no longer support, collapses, still shaken sometimes by the last traces that bounce against intestinal walls, weakening at each impact to finaly crystallize into inert white suspect lumps.
Then the man recures abandoned and empty.
They say he is dead.
And anyone who will approach his body will refuse to listen.
"Wooden leg in a field of roses"
I say that a dead man can still scream,
that you deed to pierce his throat with a diagonal net and deep injury, so that all his fury go out of him and are once for all discharged in the atmosphere.
I say that this should be done with the utmost application, that the operator must have engraved on his cheeks the blue marks of aplomb and lightness.
I say that all bad cuts disperse torn cries, whose brutal palpitations would make us become fearful and resigned insomniacs.
I say that you are here far from all ideas of religion, ecstasy or communion.
I say it is one more time about "nerves" and about their dirty jobs of folding and exile.
I say you can not weed a body, which makes obsolete any ascent.
I say that any death is a GROWTH.
Qu'est-ce qui est à l'origine de ce projet d'adaptation de Splendeur et lassitude du Capitaine Marion...
The Great War is a parenthesis in time. All marks fade gradually. During four years, millions of men have fought, died...