J'ai fini le bouquin de civi. Yay.
Faut maintenant relire les notes, fiches, apprendre les dates et faire au moins un sujet de dissert.
Pas yay.
J'ai voulu faire autre chose pour me détendre. Genre, de la trad'.
Voilà l'bousin :
That
fast now : tomorrow, and the railroad did run unbroken from Memphis to Carolina,
the light-wheeled bulb-stacked wood-burning engines shrieking among the swamps
and cane-brakes where bear and panther still lurkerd, and through the open
woods where browsing deer still drifted in pale bands like unwinded
smoke : because they – the wild animals, the beasts – remained , they coped,
they would endure ; a day, and they would flee, lumber, scuttle across the
clearings already overtaken and relinquished by the hawk-shaped shadows of mail
planes ; they would endure, only the wild men were gone ; indeed,
tomorrow, and there would be grown men in Jefferson who could not even remember
a drunken Indian in the jail ; another tomorrow – so quick, so rapid, so
fast – and not even a highwayman anymore of the old true sanguinary girt and
tradition of Hare and Mason and the mad Harpes ; even Murrell, their
thrice-compounded heir and apotheosis, who had taken his heritage of simple
rapacity and bloodlust and converted it into a bloody dream of outlaw-empire,
was gone, finished, as obsolete as Alexander, checkmated and stripped not even
by man but by Progress, by a pierceless front of middleclass morality, which
refused him even the dignity of execution as a felon, but instead merely
branded him on the hand like an Elizabethan pickpocket – until all remained of
the old days for the jail to incarcerate was the runaway slave, for his little
hour more, his little minute yet while the time, the land, the nation, the American
earth, whirled faster and faster toward the plunging precipice of its destiny.
That
fast, that rapid : a commodity in the land now which until now had dealt
first in Indians : then in acres and sections and boundaries : - an
economy : Cotton : a king : omnipotent and omnipresent : a
destiny of which (obvious now) the plow and the axe had been merely the
tools ; not plow and axe which had effaced the wilderness, but
Cotton : petty globules of Motion weightless and myriads even in the hand
of a child, incapable even of wadding a rifle, let alone of charging it, yet
potent enough to sever the very taproots of oak and hickory and gum, leaving
the acre-shading tops to winter and vanish in one single season beneath that
fierce minted glare ; not the rifle nor the plow which drove at last the
bear and deer and panther into the last jungle fastness of the river bottoms,
but Cotton ;
William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun.
Haha. Haha.
Ouais, deux phrases.
Ouais, deux phrases.
Mais deux tonnes de larmes.
En ce moment, tous les textes, version_thème, que je bosse, me donne cette impression d'impossibilité sadique et déprimante.
GRAHOUHMARRE.
Voilà.
