Sahara Iroise.
Editions S'emmeller| N° d'inventaire | 23679 |
| Format | 16 x 23 |
| Détails | 64 p., paperback. |
| Publication | Brest, 2014 |
| Etat | Nine |
| ISBN | 9782919353026 |
It is the hour when the lighthouses of the Stiff, the Jument, the Nividic, the Kereon and the Créac'h come together and crush all the surrounding darkness to cross and then shear with a simple red, yellow or white blade walls of fog or dense rain. They cast the lights of their lanterns beyond the horizon line, far away, on either side of this invisible rail designed to guide the cargo ships, oil tankers and container ships coming or going, some from Panama or the China Sea, others from New York or Singapore. All have marked on their route sheet a quick stopover (loading/unloading) in the area, near the illuminated docks of Rotterdam, Hamburg or Valencia...
It's also the time when other lights flicker at water's edge, ricocheting off the first waves before disappearing into the waves of foam. Some say that these small braziers, their wicks so quickly extinguished, emerge from the piles of gnawed wood and scrap metal that line the island's perimeter. In their words, interspersed with long silences during which they drink a last glass or relight a cigarette butt that lasts, there are names of the departed, near or far, who, according to them, return from the depths of the sea to twist in their own way the porous memory of those who failed by not taking the trouble to untie a dinghy to lower, in their honor, a weighted pot, including a basket of oysters accompanied by a liter of Muscadet de Sèvres et Maine, to the very place where, in the eddies and contrary currents, their boat capsized and then sank, in heavy weather, ten, twenty or a hundred years ago.
It is the hour when the lighthouses of the Stiff, the Jument, the Nividic, the Kereon and the Créac'h come together and crush all the surrounding darkness to cross and then shear with a simple red, yellow or white blade walls of fog or dense rain. They cast the lights of their lanterns beyond the horizon line, far away, on either side of this invisible rail designed to guide the cargo ships, oil tankers and container ships coming or going, some from Panama or the China Sea, others from New York or Singapore. All have marked on their route sheet a quick stopover (loading/unloading) in the area, near the illuminated docks of Rotterdam, Hamburg or Valencia...
It's also the time when other lights flicker at water's edge, ricocheting off the first waves before disappearing into the waves of foam. Some say that these small braziers, their wicks so quickly extinguished, emerge from the piles of gnawed wood and scrap metal that line the island's perimeter. In their words, interspersed with long silences during which they drink a last glass or relight a cigarette butt that lasts, there are names of the departed, near or far, who, according to them, return from the depths of the sea to twist in their own way the porous memory of those who failed by not taking the trouble to untie a dinghy to lower, in their honor, a weighted pot, including a basket of oysters accompanied by a liter of Muscadet de Sèvres et Maine, to the very place where, in the eddies and contrary currents, their boat capsized and then sank, in heavy weather, ten, twenty or a hundred years ago.