27 FEB 06
We live in a fragmented society. We live in story fragments. And in spite of all, we recreate a coherence.
Along with Yesterday, At The Hotel Clarendon, I've also been reading Nicole Brossard: Essays on Her Works, edited by Louise H. Forsyth and including fragments of a conversation between Forsyth and Brossard:
I write to make a statement of presence in language. In order for the alive to win out.
I would say that writing brings into view landscapes, language structures that are infinitely attractive and mysteriously precise and that produce the desire to live, the desire to be both elsewhere and, paradoxically, to settle into the heart of the essential. Writing also secretes nostalgias, violences, lugubrious facades. It is living memory, incendiary memory.
I still write in order to explore and to understand. That is my primary motivation.
For me poetry is limitless, radical and plural, flexible, trying, moving... It goes to the source of tradition and our old reflex to sing of love and death. I think that it will continue to traverse this century, like other centuries, just as much and as long as we know appetite, suffering or vital impulse. It will traverse the language, imprinting bites and burns upon it, like so many acts of presence, like a little light of hope.
(Nicole Brossard, "Fragments of a Conversation," trans. Forsyth)
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