Readings.
Marguerite Waknine| N° d'inventaire | 23710 |
| Format | 16 x 21 |
| Détails | 64 p., notebook. |
| Publication | Angoulême, 2019 |
| Etat | Nine |
| ISBN | 9791094565537 |
Is there still any need to introduce Messrs. Schwob and Proust? Certainly not. Their works are among the most brilliant and admirable. Among the thousands of pages that these two immense authors were able to blacken, there are a few that bring them together, at least in terms of their theme. It is the book. This strange object, which has become quite banal, although it remains, like a casket, the confidant of the most burning secrets. What does a book contain?
To experience this mystery, it will be enough to contemplate, for a few moments, in the book of images accompanying the texts of Marcel Schwob and Proust, all these faces leaning over their books as if they were above mirrors. Mirrors? Or perhaps they could be wells, oceans or skies.
So here we will be talking about the book indeed, and even more precisely about reading understood as the most troubling and the most fertile of intimacies: this closed, silent world, a universe of withdrawal which undoubtedly invites the discovery of the most precious horizons, in the manner of long folds which would become welcomes, openings, as if the book which we read, into which we throw ourselves or fall, to which we give ourselves body and soul, to which we surrender, could dig mysterious passages towards the revelation of profoundly unsuspected and perfectly unsuspected territories, and secretly respond to the prodigious call of the most vivid adventures and lead to the rapture of great transports.
Is there still any need to introduce Messrs. Schwob and Proust? Certainly not. Their works are among the most brilliant and admirable. Among the thousands of pages that these two immense authors were able to blacken, there are a few that bring them together, at least in terms of their theme. It is the book. This strange object, which has become quite banal, although it remains, like a casket, the confidant of the most burning secrets. What does a book contain?
To experience this mystery, it will be enough to contemplate, for a few moments, in the book of images accompanying the texts of Marcel Schwob and Proust, all these faces leaning over their books as if they were above mirrors. Mirrors? Or perhaps they could be wells, oceans or skies.
So here we will be talking about the book indeed, and even more precisely about reading understood as the most troubling and the most fertile of intimacies: this closed, silent world, a universe of withdrawal which undoubtedly invites the discovery of the most precious horizons, in the manner of long folds which would become welcomes, openings, as if the book which we read, into which we throw ourselves or fall, to which we give ourselves body and soul, to which we surrender, could dig mysterious passages towards the revelation of profoundly unsuspected and perfectly unsuspected territories, and secretly respond to the prodigious call of the most vivid adventures and lead to the rapture of great transports.