Nos sentiments, advance to a philosophe of Germany, are not found in anything, mais d'abord et surtout dans l'atmosphère qui nous enveloppe. C'est elle qui viendrait nous imposer son autorité affective, selon des lois synesthesiques qui la plupart du temps brouillent la source de notre émotion. On the other hand, volunteers are part of a series of motifs that also have vapors like “atmosphere” justement, or “ambiance”. Les Anglais dissent mood of its own., the Germans Tuning. Mais, à force que les canaux secrets par lesquels nous percevons acheminent chacun leurs signaux, comme une bande FM saturée qui ferait se tuiler sans cesse les ondes, on ne sait plus decipherer dans ce qui nous entoure autre chose qu'un vague mais intense « sentir ». Rares situations où se fait jour l'exigence littéraire comme domaine de compétences inaliénables, quand seule une mise en œuvre poussée des Moyens du langage peut venir à notre rescousse et dire ce fondu des choses, ouvrant le pluriel d'un vécu à l'inflorescence de ses Qualités, les nouant alors musicalement, dans le respect du tremblé qui les a fait naître. Mais un tel vœu ne s'exauce pas d'être seulement prononcé et l'écriture, dont on est si prompt à croire qu'elle ouvre et déplie la matière, nous savons also qu'elle en voile, gardienne postée devant la grande porte de la perception, souriant en mille formulas crispées, prêtes à l'emploi, et répétées machinalement au visiteur aventureux. Si souvent par example les ciels sont d'azur et les pavés luisants. If you don't know what you're looking for, you've chosen a great white coat? Nous sommes les otages du monde parlé, quand nos émotions si souvent naissent toutes langées dans leurs catachrèses. Reste donc, encore et toujours, à reprendre the grand combat: déchirer l'armure de ladite gardienne en la défiant avec ses propres armes, court-circuitant la grande partie de main chaude qui ne cesse d'encombrer une diction neuve des phénomènes – notre langue alors comme une vieille monnaie qu'on essaierait infiniment de désoxyder, cherchant à se souvenir de quelle réalité primordiale, de quelle vérité affective elle voudrait encore déterminer la valeur, tandis qu'elle n'en est plus depuis longtemps l'étalon-or mais plutôt la grande place boursière. Et depuis tout ce temps, elle a déclenché de telles tempêtes speculatives, on s'est tant payé de mots, qu'il est presque impossible d'en oublier les jeudis noirs. Tanguy Viel vivarium, Paris 2024
C'est presque étrange mais voila: when the soleil dégèle the campagne and frappe the longue façade en verre du supermarché, que tôt encore il rase the toit des premières voitures sur le parking with autour la brume encore, mettons, l'hiver quand la buée aussi sort de nos Bouches, that the same soleil ensemble s'emplafonner against a cell de cardboard, alors je ne sais pas, peut-être the sentiment d'être à l'ouverture du monde quand à mon tour je me gare là devant le grand hangar maquillé de vitres et d'enseignes lumineuses, et que je m'aprête à faire with courses. D'où survient donc la joie ? Do you respond to the glasses in the soleil récitant? Do you burn the caddy on the granular bitumen? Or how about you in the ordinary days? One part of the world can also be used by me to remember the grand parking: now in summer, written by William James, « de mysterious condensations ».
Our feelings, according to a German philosopher, are not only within us, but above all in the atmosphere that surrounds us. It is this atmosphere that imposes its affective authority upon us, according to synesthetic laws that mostly obscure the source of our emotions. This problem is often addressed with a series of words that are as fluid as they are fleeting, such as "atmosphère" or "ambiance." The English say mood of its own., the Germans TuningBut since the secret channels through which we perceive all emit their own signals, like a saturated FM band that repeatedly causes the waves to collapse, we can decipher nothing around us but a vague yet intense "feeling." There are few situations in which literary ambition appears as an inalienable competence, in which only an intensive use of linguistic means can help us describe this fusion of things, to open the plural of an experience to the blossoming of its qualities, and then to link them musically, with respect for the trembling that has produced it. But such a desire is not fulfilled merely by being expressed, and the writing that we so readily believe opens and unfolds matter—we also know what this writing conceals, like a guardian before the great gate of perception, smiling in a thousand strained, ready-made formulas, mechanically repeated to the adventurous visitor. How often, for example, is the sky azure blue and the cobblestones gleaming? When the snow falls, can it do anything other than spread its great white mantle before our eyes? We are hostages of the spoken world when our emotions are so often born in its faded metaphors. So all that remains is to take up the great battle again and again: to tear open the protective armor of said guardian by beating him with his own weapons, short-circuiting the large part of the warm hand that constantly hinders a new diction of phenomena. Our language is then like an old currency that one endlessly tries to de-rust in order to remember what original reality, what affective truth it still wants to define as value, while it is no longer the gold standard but rather the great stock market. And in all this time, it has triggered so many speculative storms, been talked about so much, that it is almost impossible to forget its Black Thursdays.
It's almost strange, but voilà: when the sun de-ices the landscape and strikes the long glass facade of the supermarket, when it still shaves the roofs of the first cars in the parking lot smooth and there's still fog around it, say, in winter, when the fog also comes from our mouths, when the same sun seems to brace itself against a cardboard sky, then, I don't know, perhaps the feeling of witnessing the overture of the world, when I too park there in front of the large hall, made up with glass and neon signs, about to do my shopping. So where does the joy come from? From the echo of the windowpanes in the reciting sun? From the sound of the shopping cart on the grainy asphalt? Or something that I have poured into the everyday life of these days? We are, as William James wrote, “mysterious condensations".
This article is written in German and can be found at https://rentree.de. Automatic translations into English and French are available. English, French.
