Monday, February 7, 2011

Autobiography Of Robert R. Updegraff

Hips and Michon and de facto

King, Pierre Michon, wants a job oscillation between two bodies, the figure and the flesh, one draped in a "castoff" the other going "on carrion" between the writer as it ends up fantasizing and the writer as it should be somewhere. Michon's book also does not exercise it with admiration, nor attempt to dethrone but burglary. These take advantage of the gap, more or less generous, between the capital and vulnerable to enter the inter-body, to take his ease, including testing the atmosphere, experience other things. Say something Beckett, Flaubert, Hugo, of course, Faulkner is considered, but for that it must insert a finger into the wound and see if the language can survive-Michon, including produce something other than speech . And we must recognize that every time, Pierre Michon manages to slip almost casually into the gap in principle, taking advantage of the closure of a shutter (Beckett pictured), an early morning of July (Flaubert who completed the first part of Madame Bovary), a death in an uncertain place (Muhammed Ibn Mangla pending gyrfalcon fatal), a whiskey value Elephant (Faulkner in booze. What then Michon, once in place? While it pays homage to the masters of the place, because here he turns in the various saints of his literary pantheon. But deference is not the case Michon, he tries something else, fragments, bits of bone, perhaps a nugget. It then returns the book title: Body of the King. Not "the" king's body, or "the" king's body, but "king's body," one would say first to the ear tracings of English corduroy, velvet word that means, but very quickly turns into something rougher, more dry, which is beyond the senses. Attack. Once. Brilliance. And Michon, an archaeologist stubborn to find during its excavations this damage was not expected exogenous (and he pretended to discover when he had himself smuggled, that the has
planted, as they say in detective novels).
For Beckett, it will be the "shard of Job," shard that sculpts the face of the author of Molloy, but very fast (the text is short) becomes a decorative element, like a cuttlefish bone to a vanity anamorphic. We know the biblical allusion: and he took a potsherd to scrape away and sat in ashes. Here is Michon which recovers the shard, and leaves it on the page. And of course, suddenly, here, the shard is shining, we only see him because Michon has long polished its caress. For Flaubert, seems reluctant Michon, temptations are many. He works as a first step the image of the barefoot, which gives it a nice "barefoot brother", then it grinds a little "heavy heart", borrowed from Pasolini, he then proceeds to "mask", which It combines meat and cardboard, ventured briefly instinctively toward the Lama who "splits the guts" (there is a fault, and he returns), then one believes he has found, it will the "g" that Flaubert was watching on the covers of books because he knew what "g" to be that of Hugo before him who opens his name. Michon then starts again from zero, remake Flaubert demiurge intrigued, he gives the stimulus, and found, as by a miracle formula. Speaking of Emma Bovary, who would like a sign immemorial evoking grief and wounds, he wrote: "It's complicated slit the belly of tears." Unpublished statement, writhing entirely in the discovery of this "complicated", saying this time the body of the queen, rather than the king. Michon devotes only four pages to a gentleman of the guard of the Sultan, but he knows he will find again the formula. And it occurs at the end, after an incredible round of sleight difficult to explain, it happens, wonderful: "The neck breaks to Cairo," it is repeated in his head, as if chewing rocks, the direction s exfiltration, it works. Faulkner? Once again, the magician shows Michon accessories that were not there before his arrival and, of course, are not simple accessories. It spreads a few, "written by chic," "numnah", "panties small", and finally, because you have to pull the trigger, "Cofield triggers. Clickety-clack. The latest text, the, or rather the readings of Booz, is itself a carpet of flakes, bones strewn. The father is killed, buried Hugo, Mitterrand mimicked, imitated Faulkner, the book may end up in foreclosure when drunk Michon is forcibly thrown outside a restaurant, he is the king, the king that we were invited and they balance out. But the king finally fallen, can then, his body at peace, watching the sky, left by Hugo and others, this Baudelaire sky which is "a very great man", and probably also between castoff and carrion, king of the body, seated in ashes, a broken hand, a ceramic material that allows it, It will be understood, to write. ____________________
Pierre Michon, Body of King
, Editions Verdier, 2002, 8 euros (price in December 2002)


Post a Comment