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Archives de la joie
«C’est en songeant à la joie que j’éprouve lorsque je me retourne et que j’aperçois les quelques grandes constructions inébranlables de mon passé que j’ai écrit ce livre, qui n’est ni roman ni poésie, ni essai, ni journal ou récit autobiographique, mais, puisque les animaux y sont si présents, une sorte de bestiaire de la mémoire. On devrait cesser de répéter partout quʼil ne fait pas bon regarder en arrière, qu'il est impératif d’aller de l’avant, dʼavancer, toujours avancer. Je vais le dire carrément : je me suis tout de suite senti plus heureux quand jʼai commencé à aimer mon passé, à le fréquenter puis à sans cesse mʼy référer. […] C’est au fond ce que retracent les pages que voici. Une trajectoire, la courbe décrite par un objet en mouvement, une pierre lancée dans les vitres du temps et de la durée comme pour en laisser sortir quelque chose. Quoi au juste? Peut-être une certaine façon oubliée de voir le monde, et que les animaux, précisément, ont cherché à me remémorer.»
152 pages, Paperback
Published August 29, 2018
25 people are currently reading
438 people want to read
About the author
Jean-François Beauchemin
38 books14 followersJean-François Beauchemin a été tour à tour rédacteur, concepteur puis réalisateur à la Société Radio-Canada. Une première trilogie constituée de Comme enfant je suis cuit, Garage Molinari et Les Choses terrestres, s’inspirait de l’émouvante profondeur de l’enfance. Il s’est également adressé aux adolescents avec la parution en 2001 de Mon père est une chaise. Au secteur adulte, on lui doit aussi Le Petit Pont de la Louve et Turkana Boy. Le Hasard et la volonté s’inscrit dans la lignée des romans La Fabrication de l’aube (Prix des libraires 2007), Ceci est mon corps, Cette année s’envole ma jeunesse et Le Temps qui m’est donné. En 2013, il publie une édition en format compact du Jour des corneilles, roman d'abord paru chez les Allusifs et lauréat du prix France/Québec de l'année 2005
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Displaying 1 - 16 of 16 reviews
June 20, 2023
This one took me a long time to read. I was inclined to take one or two stories at a time, each night, to see what I would get from them. However, after a few weeks of this I realized it would take months to finish, and my impatience won out. I read as quickly as possible. In my devouring, I began to see patterns and themes I had not seen before. The illustrations were especially lovely. Needless to say, this little book of reflections intrigued me, transported me, and even gave me a little joy.
June 21, 2023
I became totally enchanted with this author's thought process, as he recounts in small bites, his experience of life at all different ages. Even in the womb. His writing is provocative, in that his words made me want to focus more clearly, and see beyond the obvious. Here is a quote from the last page of this beautiful book:
"In the sky something shifted, and the whole mechanism controlling the turning of night into day creaked a little, like a pulley. Over the house, three or four sparrows escorted a paling, departing dream."
"In the sky something shifted, and the whole mechanism controlling the turning of night into day creaked a little, like a pulley. Over the house, three or four sparrows escorted a paling, departing dream."
August 29, 2023
Archives of Joy by Jean-Francois Beauchemin is a short book of reflections on animals and the natural world.
“In the author’s note, he says, “This is not a novel, nor is it a collection of poetry. It is not an essay, a diary, or a work of autofiction. Rather, as animals feature so prominently, I like to think of this, as a bestiary of memory.”
And a bestiary of memories it is. Each memory is a short musing on nature and life and usually features an animal. Some memories are pulled from his childhood, and some current ones read like dreamlike nature diary entries. You read a passage and you feel like you are there in the memory alongside Jean-Francois. The writing is beautiful and poetic.
If you like nature writing, you’ll love this book! I have been spending my mornings with it, each day reading a short vignette and my mornings have been richer because of it. The author has lit a fire under me to get outside more, explore my backyard, and write about it in my nature journal.
“In the author’s note, he says, “This is not a novel, nor is it a collection of poetry. It is not an essay, a diary, or a work of autofiction. Rather, as animals feature so prominently, I like to think of this, as a bestiary of memory.”
And a bestiary of memories it is. Each memory is a short musing on nature and life and usually features an animal. Some memories are pulled from his childhood, and some current ones read like dreamlike nature diary entries. You read a passage and you feel like you are there in the memory alongside Jean-Francois. The writing is beautiful and poetic.
If you like nature writing, you’ll love this book! I have been spending my mornings with it, each day reading a short vignette and my mornings have been richer because of it. The author has lit a fire under me to get outside more, explore my backyard, and write about it in my nature journal.
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June 18, 2024I'm not sure of my opinion on this book. Some lines were so beautiful, though as a whole I think it was a bit congested. Certain vignettes were very good I especially liked how he spoke of his dog aging and growing into himself and the details of the memory of his dog brushing against his leg. Some moments were a bit pretentious (though if anyone deserves to write like that I feel like he does). I wish that I could relate to it a bit more, overall it was an interesting although slow read.
May 24, 2025
I would fall asleep thinking about the time and the place where I would be born, and I would remember that in order to subsist every human community needs a set of values that transcends the individuals and gives meaning to their collective existence.
I've realized that when words haven't come to me, it hasn't been that I've lacked vocabulary, it's that I've lacked poetry.
Knowing nothing about this author, but drawn to the title, I was a little disappointed, but there were a few gems. Many were just mundane observations of squirrels or cats without the poetry I thought he had found.
Through the entire summer of 1959, that is to say, the
time when I was not even in Mother's belly yet, every
day I went out at dawn into the countryside, stick in
hand, in search of my soul. I would never meet any-
one but I would hear, coming from some distant path,
the always somewhat hoarse voice of a news-crier, and
from farther away still, the muffled purring of farm
machines. My heart of course was not yet beating, but
there waiting, in the middle of my chest, was a small
and quite joyful yellow bird, who had flown from the
sun down a broad stream of warmth. All day long, I
would observe the sky passing right by, returning,
adjusting its course, to eventually hang over the der-
elict customs officers' barrier.
On the way back, I would notice as always, on
the crest of the hill, the faint glimmer of a still-open
inn, then that of a barn where farm animals watched
over one another. Later I would fall asleep thinking
about the time and the place where I would be born,
and I would remember that in order to subsist every
human community needs a set of values that tran-
scends the individuals and gives meaning to their
collective existence. And since this world I was pre-
paring to enter wasn't going in that direction, I would
muse that I, and others, would have to find a way to
encourage the sense of the sacred (but good grief, not
the religious), to foster a kind of civic thinking firmly
grounded in Human Rights, of course, but also embel-
lished by secular laws, by schools, and in particular
by the lessons of History.
By dint of being a writer, I've come to understand that
there are always words to say it all, even when it comes
to the most difficult of things to describe (death, or
time, or even some extreme forms that beauty takes
on). I've realized that when words haven't come to me,
it hasn't been that I've lacked vocabulary, it's that I've
lacked poetry. To talk about things, you have to notice
them. What does poetry do? It illuminates the part of
the world relegated to the shadows by the senses and
by ordinary reason. It's a lighting designer for the stage
of hidden realities. In my manuscripts, when I've had
enough of writing as if I were lining up jars on a shelf,
I try to offer my mind other perspectives than that of
my Cartesian pages and slip here and there between the
lines the odd troublemaker, such as a word borrowed
from a discipline other than literature. This is not
only beautifying but also adds an alluvial layer to the
ensemble, a sight that might spur literary archeologists
of the future to make two or three interesting discov-
eries.
I've realized that when words haven't come to me, it hasn't been that I've lacked vocabulary, it's that I've lacked poetry.
Knowing nothing about this author, but drawn to the title, I was a little disappointed, but there were a few gems. Many were just mundane observations of squirrels or cats without the poetry I thought he had found.
Through the entire summer of 1959, that is to say, the
time when I was not even in Mother's belly yet, every
day I went out at dawn into the countryside, stick in
hand, in search of my soul. I would never meet any-
one but I would hear, coming from some distant path,
the always somewhat hoarse voice of a news-crier, and
from farther away still, the muffled purring of farm
machines. My heart of course was not yet beating, but
there waiting, in the middle of my chest, was a small
and quite joyful yellow bird, who had flown from the
sun down a broad stream of warmth. All day long, I
would observe the sky passing right by, returning,
adjusting its course, to eventually hang over the der-
elict customs officers' barrier.
On the way back, I would notice as always, on
the crest of the hill, the faint glimmer of a still-open
inn, then that of a barn where farm animals watched
over one another. Later I would fall asleep thinking
about the time and the place where I would be born,
and I would remember that in order to subsist every
human community needs a set of values that tran-
scends the individuals and gives meaning to their
collective existence. And since this world I was pre-
paring to enter wasn't going in that direction, I would
muse that I, and others, would have to find a way to
encourage the sense of the sacred (but good grief, not
the religious), to foster a kind of civic thinking firmly
grounded in Human Rights, of course, but also embel-
lished by secular laws, by schools, and in particular
by the lessons of History.
By dint of being a writer, I've come to understand that
there are always words to say it all, even when it comes
to the most difficult of things to describe (death, or
time, or even some extreme forms that beauty takes
on). I've realized that when words haven't come to me,
it hasn't been that I've lacked vocabulary, it's that I've
lacked poetry. To talk about things, you have to notice
them. What does poetry do? It illuminates the part of
the world relegated to the shadows by the senses and
by ordinary reason. It's a lighting designer for the stage
of hidden realities. In my manuscripts, when I've had
enough of writing as if I were lining up jars on a shelf,
I try to offer my mind other perspectives than that of
my Cartesian pages and slip here and there between the
lines the odd troublemaker, such as a word borrowed
from a discipline other than literature. This is not
only beautifying but also adds an alluvial layer to the
ensemble, a sight that might spur literary archeologists
of the future to make two or three interesting discov-
eries.
January 26, 2025
What an apt title. I read an essay each morning and pondered them as I went about my days. The author's observations and lyrical style pleased me. I too am an observer of nature. I take great joy in tending my hens, observing local wildlife and spending time with my rascal of a dog.
June 8, 2023
Moving, contemplative, and gentle. A snapshot of the peace achievable via a lifetime of observing and loving the world around you.
November 4, 2023
Writing worth lingering over.
January 8, 2024
Another good pick to ease into the new year. A little gem.
January 23, 2024
A collection of musings most powerful in its unassuming nature. An absolute delight to read.
April 20, 2024
there is so much beauty in the mundane!!!! i love animals and their human personalities!!!!!
May 26, 2024
This quiet little book deals with man and nature and the ways in which our souls can be found by interacting with nature.
September 3, 2024
Shelved this book with poetry because of the intimate way the author brings to life his encounters with the natural world. There are not enough stars for this joyful book.
December 20, 2024
I didn’t always understand but I loved it anyway ❤️
March 7, 2023
J’ai adoré; cette lecture va m’habiter longtemps… à conserver et à relire … merci Jean-François Beauchemin
Displaying 1 - 16 of 16 reviews