Or 249 pages of near-death rage, soulful howls and burning tears, in a fucking tenderness (that would like to be) almost still respectful, that murders and fucks the heart out. Insane. Sometimes you fall in love, and the expression is – I think – very well put, because sometimes you really fall. Tonight, Féroces has made me lose all my critical faculties, all potential for any remarks that might be made, all sense of reality. Robert Goolrick’s irrealistically autobiographical testimony should be on every chest of drawers, like a modern bible.
Or as the incredible opportunity to be whole and intact in the face of life. Before, during and after… The story of a tiny little boy in the ’50s, trying so hard to become – just about – grown-up in a universe of unlimited resources to fool his world. A precious jewel (and undoubtedly terribly expensive for its author) of contemporary American literature, translated by Marie de Prémonville with unparalleled brio. Something, and it’s the opposite – here – of nothing, that sucks you in and gobbles you up whole, pulling ants out of all four feet, uprooting those tears you didn’t even think about anymore. I won’t even go so far as to give you an extract – so reductive and out of touch – compared to the immensity of what’s there.
A song that rings a bell.
Thank you.
Elisa Palmer
Cette publication est également disponible en : Français (French)
