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La Rivière espérance
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Chansons Pour Ell...
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read in August, 2011
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"I have to confess to you that I have a fascination with lingerie. I find it difficult to pass the lingerie section of large department stores. I am drawn to the unusual or the erotic. My favourite set comprises of a peep hole black bra, a half cup..." Read more of this chapter »
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L'écroulement de la Baliverna by Dino Buzzati
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Pars vite et reviens tard by Fred Vargas
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La Rivière espérance by Christian Signol
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The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears by Dinaw Mengestu
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Coule la Seine by Fred Vargas
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Louise by Marie-Paul Armand
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Morts pour la France, Tome 3  by Max Gallo
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More of Dominique's books…
Paul Éluard
“We want to be, when we are young,
A little man.
I would like to be a big child,
Stronger and fairer than a man,
And more lucid than a child.”
Paul Éluard

“As soon as we exit our mother's womb, we are immigrating forever more ...”
Julos Beaucarne

Rosa Luxemburg
“Life is singing also in the sand crunching under the slow and heavy steps of the guards, when we know how to listen to it.”
Rosa Luxemburg

Galway Kinnell

I can feel she has got out of bed.
That means it is seven a.m.
I have been lying with eyes shut,
thinking, or possibly dreaming,
of how she might look if, at breakfast,
I spoke about the hidden place in her
which, to me, is like a soprano’s tremolo,
and right then, over toast and bramble jelly,
if such things are possible, she came.
I imagine she would show it while trying to conceal it.
I imagine her hair would fall about her face
and she would become apparently downcast,
as she does at a concert when she is moved.
The hypnopompic play passes, and I open my eyes
and there she is, next to the bed,
bending to a low drawer, picking over
various small smooth black, white,
and pink items of underwear. She bends
so low her back runs parallel to the earth,
but there is no sway in it, there is little burden, the day has hardly begun.
The two mounds of muscles for walking, leaping, lovemaking,
lift toward the east—what can I say?
Simile is useless; there is nothing like them on earth.
Her breasts fall full; the nipples
are deep pink in the glare shining up through the iron bars
of the gate under the earth where those who could not love
press, wanting to be born again.
I reach out and take her wrist
and she falls back into bed and at once starts unbuttoning my pajamas.
Later, when I open my eyes, there she is again,
rummaging in the same low drawer.
The clock shows eight. Hmmm.
With huge, silent effort of great,
mounded muscles the earth has been turning.
She takes a piece of silken cloth
from the drawer and stands up. Under the falls
of hair her face has become quiet and downcast,
as if she will be, all day among strangers,
looking down inside herself at our rapture.”
Galway Kinnell, A New Selected Poems

Christian Bobin
“ This morning, on the avenue, my death was walking next to me, under the plane-trees. I came back home, lied on the bed. My death looked tired as much as I was. A few minuts later, I woke up, made a coffee and opened a poems book. Some light came out from the book. I think it was at this moment that my death left the appartment, crossing the door, without noise. It was not her time, and perhaps she was depressed by the beauty of a few words, yes, perhaps the death doesn't support books and prefers the head ache maker television.”
Christian Bobin, Autoportrait Au Radiateur

PARIS 3 (Literature & Fiction)
1 chapters   —   updated Nov 28, 2011 03:32AM
Description: Short piece
PARIS 2 (Literature & Fiction)
1 chapters   —   updated Nov 17, 2011 09:28AM
Description: shortstory
PARIS 1 (Literature & Fiction)
1 chapters   —   updated Nov 16, 2011 08:10AM
Description: shortstory
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