<\/p>\n
\nUne immense \u00e9ten\u00addue \u00e0 l\u2019est du c\u0153ur\u2026
\nPhi\u00adlippe Jac\u00adcot\u00adtet, Sur le nom de Russie<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\nJe me demandais.
\nOu plu\u00adt\u00f4t c\u2019est ce visage qui.
\nDevant ce visage ce que je voyais exactement.
\nUne blon\u00addeur effa\u00adc\u00e9e. Un pays reve\u00adnu \u00e0 la surface.
\nLe visage comme question.
\nLe visage comme r\u00e9ponse.
\nEntre, une terre ancienne venue se glis\u00adser l\u00e0.
\nSous et dans la peau.
\nSous une terre gor\u00adg\u00e9e d\u2019eau, en d\u00e9b\u00e2cle.
\nUn visage de vieille femme russe, ai-je pens\u00e9.
\nEt repen\u00ads\u00e9 : ori\u00adgine, ter\u00adri\u00adtoire, fron\u00adti\u00e8re : rides.
\nLignes de la main, rives du visage : livres.<\/p>\n<\/div>\nSur un \u00e9cran de t\u00e9l\u00e9\u00adphone por\u00adtable on m\u2019a mon\u00adtr\u00e9 un visage, tr\u00e8s ancien, et que j\u2019avais connu jeune.<\/p>\n
Un visage qui m\u2019avait sou\u00adri, par\u00adl\u00e9, tenu en respect.
\nEt l\u00e0, effon\u00addr\u00e9 dans la ta\u00ef\u00adga des rides.
\nDans les ruines de l\u2019isba sous la neige.
\nJ\u2019ai ensuite regar\u00add\u00e9 mes mains. Puis mon visage.
\nMe deman\u00addant quel pays.
\nRevien\u00addrait \u00e0 la surface.
\nDe mon visage.
\nA la fin.<\/p>\n<\/div>\nOn me dit qu\u2019elle embrasse les mains de ses visiteurs.<\/p>\n
Petite m\u00e8re, dit l\u2019homme qui me parle d\u2019elle en fran\u00e7ais.
\nSa Rus\u00adsie lui remonte au visage comme un feu p\u00e2le et mal \u00e9teint.
\nLe ventre aus\u00adsi est un pays.
\nJe me demande ce qui est entr\u00e9 et sor\u00adti avec lui, l\u2019enfant, de ce pays, le ventre.
\nEt si un ventre est russe, suisse, ligure,
\npos\u00ads\u00e9\u00addant une langue int\u00e9\u00adrieure et v\u00e9cue au sang.
\nJe me demande encore.
\nCom\u00adment un pays quitt\u00e9.
\nRevient si fort au visage.
\nLe grand \u00e2ge venant.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/p>\n
L\u2019homme me dit encore.<\/p>\n
Qu\u2019il va voir la vieille dame russe.
\nEn cachette. Pourquoi.
\nIl ne peut pas trop par\u00adler de \u00e7a.
\nMais il rend visite \u00e0 sa petite m\u00e8re.
\nEncore. A un moment de leur vie.
\nIls \u00e9taient dans le m\u00eame corps.
\nEt puis. On existe s\u00e9par\u00e9s.
\nL\u2019un sans.
\nL\u2019autre.
\nLa Rus\u00adsie si loin\u00adtaine a effa\u00adc\u00e9 l\u2019autre visage.
\nLa langue dans la bouche presque effondr\u00e9e ?<\/p>\n<\/div>\nLa vieille femme pleure.<\/p>\n
Sou\u00advent, me dit l\u2019homme son fils.
\nIl va la voir en v\u00e9lo.
\nSans le dire \u00e0 sa compagne,
\nil rend visite \u00e0 sa petite m\u00e8re russe.
\nEt c\u2019est un long voyage de quelques kilom\u00e8tres.
\nDe France en Ukraine,
\npuis reve\u00adnant en France.
\nSa com\u00adpagne pense que c\u2019est inutile,
\nrendre visite \u00e0 une si vieille dame
\nentre\u00adprendre un tel voyage.
\nPresque folle. Per\u00addue dans sa m\u00e9moire.
\nAlors son fils fait du v\u00e9lo longtemps.
\nComme \u00e7a il peut allon\u00adger le chemin.
\nEt rendre visite \u00e0 sa m\u00e8re.
\nSans dire \u00e0 sa femme son secret.
\nJe me demande ce que sera sa r\u00e9ponse
\nquand elle lui deman\u00adde\u00adra pourquoi.<\/p>\n<\/div>\nPetit secret d\u2019un vieux gar\u00ad\u00e7on russe.
\nSur des livres d\u2019enfant, l\u2019ours est gentil.
\nSou\u00advent v\u00eatu d\u2019un gilet rouge brod\u00e9.
\nDans la ta\u00ef\u00adga, les ours sont des hommes.<\/p>\n<\/div>\nJe ne dis ni \u00e0 l\u2019ours ni au gar\u00ad\u00e7on le nom
\nde mon pre\u00admier train.
\nBlaise Cendrars.
\nPris \u00e0 Mar\u00adseille, gare saint Charles.
\nNous avons che\u00admi\u00adn\u00e9 entre des rives de d\u00e9solation
\net sommes reve\u00adnus \u00e0 destination,
\nl\u2019envers du d\u00e9cor,
\nl\u2019appartement mater\u00adnel minuscule,
\net au loin,
\nla blan\u00adcheur de la mer et la vieille m\u00e9moire.
\nArchi\u00adpel des \u00eeles Sokolov.
\n(Prose de la petite Jehanne de France.)<\/p>\n<\/div>\nLe livre \u00e9par\u00adpille au vent ses feuilles, une \u00e0 une.
\nEn cou\u00adleurs, gilet rouge et poils bruns, en noir et blanc, neige des chemins.
\nLa vieille dame a les ongles taill\u00e9s courts, c\u2019est pour l\u2019hygi\u00e8ne.
\nL\u2019ours gen\u00adtil a remis sa veste de four\u00adrure pour rega\u00adgner sa maison.
\nOn dit qu\u2019il vient \u00e0 v\u00e9lo depuis la Sib\u00e9\u00adrie, chu\u00adchotent les infirmi\u00e8res.
\nUn si \u00e9prou\u00advant voyage seule\u00adment pour voir sa m\u00e8re.
\nPer\u00adsonne ne lui demande pour\u00adquoi il fait \u00e7a.
\nEn cachette.<\/p>\n<\/div>\nJe n\u2019ai aucune famille.
\nAvant moi. Tous sont morts.
\nLes vivants sont des inconnus.
\nPas de vieille Rus\u00adsie au loin, \u00e0 creuser.
\nUn peu de Suisse \u00e9ga\u00adr\u00e9e au coin du lac d\u2019Yverdon,
\n\u00e0 essuyer l\u2019\u00e9cume blanche cer\u00adnant la com\u00admis\u00adsure des yeux.
\nUn peu de Ligu\u00adrie aus\u00adsi, mais sans ascen\u00adseur amoureux,
\nsans Capro\u00adni et sa jeune m\u00e8re \u00e0 bicyclette,
\nsans.
\nLui, le fils, \u00e0 v\u00e9lo tente de rame\u00adner la ta\u00ef\u00adga avec lui, mais c\u2019est un tra\u00advail p\u00e9nible.
\nA cause de la neige.
\nA cause du vent.
\nTout se dis\u00adperse, s\u2019ensevelit, dispara\u00eet.
\nM\u00eame le chien.
\nMort sous un figuier.<\/p>\n<\/div>\nJe me demande ce que \u00e7a veut dire, digni\u00adt\u00e9, mou\u00adrir dans la.
\nTableau de Cara\u00advage refu\u00ads\u00e9 : la mort de la Vierge.
\nSans digni\u00adt\u00e9. Un corps mort, gon\u00adfl\u00e9 d\u2019eau, perdu.
\nA mou\u00adrir ni mon p\u00e8re ni ma m\u00e8re.
\nSim\u00adple\u00adment une grande fai\u00adblesse les a pris.
\nDans une rue secr\u00e8te.
\nL\u2019un est tom\u00adb\u00e9, l\u2019autre a soupir\u00e9.
\nN\u2019ont pas cri\u00e9.
\nMais digni\u00adt\u00e9, non.
\nJe me demande \u00e7a veut dire sans plainte ?
\nLa Vierge sans digni\u00adt\u00e9 sur son lit
\nest \u00e9ten\u00addue toute gonfl\u00e9e.
\nSans.<\/p>\n<\/div>\nAutour de la ville de Kiev,
\nla vieille dame a \u00e9t\u00e9 jeune fille en fuite.
\nCorps blanc, souple et doux, che\u00adveux blonds.
\nSon fils la regarde.
\nElle avance dans l\u2019eau jusqu\u2019\u00e0 la taille
\net se fraye un che\u00admin entre les herbes.
\nSon fils est plus vieux qu\u2019elle.
\nElle, l\u2019\u00e9trang\u00e8re.
\nPas de r\u00e8gles pen\u00addant six mois,
\npas de sang, libre d\u2019aller mais sans.
\nPetite infir\u00admi\u00e8re des vivants,
\npays en guerre mais sans.<\/p>\n<\/div>\nEcrire
\npetitement
\n\u00e9critriturant
\nles pays de famille
\nla petite m\u00e8re
\nle pauvre enfant qui ment
\nle petit p\u00e8re allon\u00adg\u00e9 sur la rue
\n\u00e9crif\u00adfon\u00adnant dans petit car\u00adnet de moles\u00adkine bleu
\npour appeler
\nsa fille qui cherche la sortie
\nsans.
\nLui.
\nDignit\u00e9.
\nCourage.
\nSans.
\nG\u00e9ographie.<\/p>\n<\/div>\nCe sont tous mots \u00e0 dire.
\nPour que se voie sur le visage.
\nLa ruine de la Russie.
\nLa ruine de la Suisse.
\nLa ruine de toute g\u00e9ographie.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Une immense \u00e9ten\u00addue \u00e0 l\u2019est du c\u0153ur\u2026 Phi\u00adlippe Jac\u00adcot\u00adtet, Sur le nom de Rus\u00adsie Je me deman\u00addais. Ou plu\u00adt\u00f4t c\u2019est ce visage qui. Devant ce visage ce que je voyais exac\u00adte\u00adment. Une blon\u00addeur effa\u00adc\u00e9e. Un pays reve\u00adnu \u00e0 la sur\u00adface. Le visage comme ques\u00adtion. Le visage comme r\u00e9ponse. Entre, une terre ancienne venue se glis\u00adser l\u00e0. [\u2026]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"wp_typography_post_enhancements_disabled":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[406],"tags":[278],"coauthors":[405],"class_list":["post-2371","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-sylvie-durbec","tag-vers"],"yoast_head":"\n
Vieille g\u00e9ographie sans. (extraits ) - Ce qui reste<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/cequireste.fr\/?p=2371\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"fr_FR\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Vieille g\u00e9ographie sans. (extraits ) - Ce qui reste\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\" Une immense \u00e9ten\u00addue \u00e0 l\u2019est du c\u0153ur\u2026 Phi\u00adlippe Jac\u00adcot\u00adtet, Sur le nom de Russie Je me demandais. Ou plu\u00adt\u00f4t c\u2019est ce visage qui. Devant ce visage ce que je voyais exactement. Une blon\u00addeur effa\u00adc\u00e9e. Un pays reve\u00adnu \u00e0 la surface. Le visage comme question. Le visage comme r\u00e9ponse. Entre, une terre ancienne venue se glis\u00adser l\u00e0. 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