These stories, a few frames of reference on a journey of listening, from 1958 to 1978. Fragmented, remembered, reconstituted conversations…Fictitious accounts, faces and murmurings of a nearby imaginary, of a past-present that rebels against the intrusion of a new abstraction. I could say: “stories translated from…,” but from which language? From the Arabic? From colloquial Arabic or from feminine Arabic; one might just as well call it underground Arabic. I could have listened to these voices in no matter what language, nonwritten, nonrecorded, transmitted only by chains of echoes and sighs. Arabic sounds – Iranian, Afghan, Berger, or Bengali – and why not, but always feminine tones, uttered from lips beneath a mask. An excoriated language, from never having appeared in the sunlight, from having sometimes been intoned, declaimed, howled, dramatized, but always mouth and eyes in the dark. Today, how do I, as water dowser, craft words out of so many tones of voice still suspended in the silences of yesterday’s seraglio? Words of the veiled body, language that in turn has taken the veil for so long a time. Here, then, is a listening in, by means of which I try to grasp the traces of some ruptures that have reached their term. Where all that I could come close to where such voices as are groping with the challenge of beginning solitudes.
Posted on: Mon, 06 Oct 2014 12:04:45 +0000
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