Pendant that je roulais avec the corps de mon frère, en train de se décomposer légèrement, two deux trimbalés sur l'autoroute, j'écoutais l'Incarnatus est de la plus belle des messes de Haydn. This little bout de musique chantée pretendait operar en quelques minutes un miracle: And homo factus is. Un homme? A woman? Un être humain prend corps devant nous. Et par paliers, ça s'incarne, c'est fait. Ça n'arrête pas de naître, des fleurs s'ouvrent en accéléré, the peau is constructed et les yeux s'ouvrent. This is a factory that is exactly what you want.
This is the don of the forces. There are three voices between the two entrelacées for reussir ce prodige. Surenchérir in the aigu, attaquer à l'ultrabasse on the flanc gauche, revenir au center pour se frayer a new chemin inédit. On dirait que la musique cherche une issue — comme l'eau qui s'insinue dans la mondre fente et profite de déclivités minuscules pour se transformer en petits torrents. À force d'explorations, elle touche successivement des points comme on le fait avec un corps que l'on soigne en le perçant d'aiguilles. On dirait qu'une zone a été isolée par les notes qui precèdent, comme si vous exploriez the ensemble d'un être en réservant un endroit — this zone finira par crier pour qu'on la touche.
Here.
Again !
Source obstination. La musique nous prend par la main. Elle execute son program les yeux fermés — elle, au moins, connaît sa fin. Elle s'accorde parfaitement with the paysage déroulé par la vitre. Elle says that they march all the time. C'est son métier.
The night, with a little entrainment, made me glisser in this scene without a lot of effort. J'y reviens à volonté. Je peux même emprunter mon corps d'avant ; il suffit de quelques points d'appui: the contact of the bois du cercueil, the chaleur extrême par la vitre abaissée, the blanche chemise aux manises relevées, the two men in black silence à l'avant — et this musique en boucle: And homo factus is. Un homme? A woman? Un être humain prend corps devant nous. Et par paliers, ça s'incarne, ça se compose, c'est fait.
Ça naît.
C'est le monde à l'envers, ça n'arrête pas de naître, des fleurs s'ouvrent en accéléré, la peau se construit et les yeux s'ouvrent. Ça recommendation.
Corn, deception. À la fin du morceau, notre enfant is déjà mort: et passus, et passus, ça y est, in a clin d'œil, the voilà déjà disparu. Fabrication is vite et pass In five minutes?
Il faut réécouter ça du début.
Pendant cinq cents kilometers, je revenais en arrière. J'avais heureusement l'appareil pour ça. And the premier walkman. La touche repeat n'existait pas encore — on ne pouvait pas sauter de plage en plage, ni susurrer un ordre pour envoyer le son. Survive a bande magnetic, mais réduite, devenue presque a toy si delicatement installé dans son coffret en plastic coloré. Nous voilà, next time, in a drôle de moment de l'histoire.
On devait se plier au rewind : I am introduced to this kind of manipulation that I am tombais, before it comes out, pile au début. À force de repair en arrière, on ne sait plus comment ça commence. Comment ça finit ? Ça naît et ça meurt, on se retrouve au milieu, c'est sans fin, c'est la vie — il semblerait que c'est ça. On ne savet plus qui était mort… et quand. Cela fasait comme un plateau, soudain, quand on est épuisé dans une pente, un moment de paix. À force les événements font masse. The melody is pose, independent, a machine for elle-même. Ouf, plus de responsabilité.
On respire.
Olivier Cadiot, General medicine (POL, 2021).
While I was driving with my brother's already slightly decomposing body, us both cruising along the highway, I heard the Incarnatus est From the most beautiful of all Haydn masses. This short piece of sung music purported to work a miracle in just a few minutes: Et homo factus est. A man? A woman? A human being takes shape before our very eyes. And in small steps, it embodies itself, it is made. It never ceases to be born; flowers open in fast-forward, skin forms, and eyes open. It comes into being, before our very eyes.
This gives me strength. It takes at least three intertwined voices to accomplish this miracle. They surpass each other in the high notes, attack with the ultra-deep bass on the left flank, return to the center to forge a completely new path. It seems as if the music is searching for a way out—like water seeping into the smallest crack and using tiny slopes to transform into small streams. Through these explorations, it gradually stimulates points, like pricking a body with needles. It's as if a zone has been isolated by the preceding notes, as if exploring an entire being by reserving an area—this zone will eventually cry out to be touched.
Here.
Not again!
What tenacity! The music takes us by the hand. It completes its program with its eyes closed—at least it knows its end. It adapts perfectly to the landscape that unfolds through the disc. It knows it will always succeed. That's its forte.
At night, with a little practice, I can slip into this scene without much effort. I return there when needed. I can even borrow my old body; all it takes are a few fixed points: the touch of the coffin wood, the excessive heat from the lowered window, the white shirt with the rolled-up sleeves, the two silent men in black in the foreground—and this music on an endless loop. Et homo factus est. A man? A woman? A human being takes shape before our eyes. And in small steps, it embodies itself, it is made.
It is born.
It's a reversed world; it never stops being born, flowers open in time-lapse, skin forms, and eyes open. It starts all over again.
But it's a disappointment. At the end of the sentence, our child is already dead: and has died. et passus, et passusIt's already happened, vanished in the blink of an eye. Created so quickly and gone in five minutes. pass?
You have to listen to that again from the beginning.
I rewound the clock for five hundred kilometers, again and again. Luckily, I had the device for it. One of the first Walkman. RepeatThere was no skip button yet—you couldn't jump from track to track or whisper a voice command to stream the sound. Magnetic tape still existed, but it was now miniaturized and almost toy-like, housed in a colorful plastic case. Here we are, as always, at a strange point in history.
One must face this Rewind Bending: I was so practiced at it that I almost always landed right at the beginning. When you keep jumping back, you lose track of how it starts. And how does it end? People are born and die, you're right in the middle of it, it's endless, it's life—or so it seems. You lost track of who had died when. It felt like a plateau, suddenly, when you're lying exhausted on the slope of the ascent, a moment of peace. Over time, the events become an unmanageable mass. The melody settles, independent, a machine unto itself. Phew, no more responsibility.
One breathes a sigh of relief. 1
This article is written in German and can be found at https://rentree.de. Automatic translations into English and French are available. English, French.
Notes- Three people have reached their limits. One, an ethnologist who spent thirty years in the rainforest, no longer understands the customs and traditions of her homeland; a highly gifted orphan living on the streets; and the narrator, a man who ignored his brother's advice and remains obsessed with religious questions. After numerous adventures, they find each other again. They understand one another because each carries a loss, each seeks a path to healing. They therefore decide to join forces and try to navigate their shared experiences. But how are they supposed to live together? Difficult in a remote area and an abandoned house. And by establishing strange rules, the narrator, who initiated this collective adventure, unintentionally creates a cult.
It's about healing together. Yes, but from what? What is the name of each person's ailment? Pierre, the orphan boy who memorizes everything, has perfect pitch. He will blossom at the piano. Mathilde, the ethnologist, is confronted with another forest, the forest of family archives, and must come to understand the extreme violence of her background. From these documents of grief, she will extract wonderful fragments of words and become a writer without even knowing it. The only one who will not heal is the narrator. What is his ailment? Who is treating him? It seems he has a great capacity for prophecy; he experiences everything in reality after he has dreamed it. Will this withdrawal from the world help him? What medicine can he hope for?
General medicine is a true novel, which at times also takes the form of a fairy tale. This is a turning point in Olivier Cadiot's work. Here, however, fiction serves to make reality visible. The three characters are perhaps only three ways in which the author himself is portrayed. The narrator ultimately joins the author. The ending is autobiographical.” (Translation of the publisher's announcement)>>>
