Choix de la langue



What can I say?  
I have become a sort of troglodyte that writes and writes and writes.  
And never leaves her cave.  
Or only to follow Chaussette.  
He only takes walks in my company.  
What is happening outside? In the real world.  
I don’t know.  
When I go out, I speak to the gulls and to the clouds. I pick up stones. I bathe. I mull over my ideas. And I return, quick, quick to write them down.  
Write, write.  
And otherwise…what else?  
Yes but…
Page 941!  
And it isn’t finished!


It gallops and gallops!  
Just a little more effort, Calamity, and you’ll cross the finish line.  
How much time? I don’t know. It’s like at sea. One thinks that in two strokes he is there, but the shoreline recedes incessantly.  

Thank you, thank you for your messages, which I receive each morning when I open my inbox. I hoot with joy and I mime the waltz, the polka, in my kitchen. It is dynamite!  I am blessed.  
So I laugh, I laugh, I kiss the old Chaussette who doesn’t understand a thing.  
Autumn points his nose with his heavy shoes and his frigidity. The waves are thick, white, green, patches of froth fluttering, the jacket has replaced the bathing suit, the seagulls have settled, immutable. They don’t care.  And nor do I, I write!

729 pages!

Ladidaladidee! I finished part three.

Ladidaladidee! I come up for air, leave my submarine, breathe.

Contemplate the big packet of pages. 729 hankering, disheveling, entertaining, moving, astonishing, astounding pages.


But for whom does this girl take herself?

For a girl who praises and aerates herself.

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825! 825! I no longer leave my desk. Just one splash the morning, and one in the evening in the blue sea, the green sea. And still…I continue to write while swimming, I wish I had a memo pad and pencil. I speak aloud so I don’t forget anything. Last night…It was eight thirty, the sun was setting. I ran to the sea and accompanied the solar star in its evening ceremony.  

I swam, swam, breaststroke, backstroke, breaststroke, backstroke again, I was clearing my head. And it was filling itself! The plot of the scene being written was rewriting itself, impeccable, implacable. I rejoiced in the water, saying, but yes, but of course, it’s obvious, it’s succulent, quickly return to my desk! The ocean has that sort of effect on me.  

I sail towards the end and it’s always the same. The characters scurry, they always want to tell their stories, to move in front and center, to take the others’ places, they shout “Pick me, Madame! Pick me!” and I am forced to conduct traffic, a whistle between my lips. But I shouldn’t really get ahead of myself! It could still take some time before everything is polished, finished, shining, ready to be taken out and devoured. A little present to console you during the final days of summer: a phrase by Rossellini, who was asked where he found inspiration for his films. In life, he responded, and added “Things are there, why invent them?” In life, and in the sea!

The pangs of the great Virginia

Virginia Woolf

I’m rowing and rowing and rowing…

Page 700 isn’t far, she’s blinking, she teases me, whispers ‘another effort’, old charm. 

So my writer friend (just as distraught as I am by beautiful phrases and words that ring) sent me this extract of a letter written by Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackwille-West, on March 16, 1926.

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