Category: Literature

Antigone, rebellious and intimate (6/7. The vocation)

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So many stories about identity! The word does not appear in Greek epic or tragedy. Identity at the time of Antigone is based on lineage and belonging to a city. Identity was impregnated with rootedness. The family and the city brought together under a virtual banner all of what the other was to know about himself during a first meeting. During antiquity, no one proclaimed his identity or promulgated it, and no one decided on his identity. It wasn't about putting on a costume. Men depended on their identity. Identity was like a charge, we had to be worthy of it. It established being and becoming. The modern era has made it an issue, because it has transformed identity into having, a sort of asset which one can dress up or discard. In its modern fantasy of believing that we can choose everything all the time, the modern era has relentlessly replaced being with having. Yet this logic, this ideology has its limits: some things cannot be acquired, among them: otherness. Living one's identity, being what one is, inhabiting one's name , allowing intimacy and therefore knowledge and deepening of one's being, these are the sine qua non conditions for an encounter with the other. The first difference between Creon and Antigone is located in this precise place, the ground on which the fight is built, Antigone preserves anchored in her this gift of the elders, of the gods, this rootedness which defines the authority to which she leans for stand up to this man, his relative, the king, who espouses the will to power and finds himself blinded by it to the point of hearing only his own voice, its echo. Continue reading “Antigone, rebellious and intimate (6/7. The vocation)” →

Based on the values

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Authority has lost its letters of nobility along with humility. Authority has become synonymous with implacable order, reckless force, tyranny. What an inversion of values! While authority according to Antigone prevented tyranny! The modern age has this impression of authority because it has been trampled on by men who have used it; while serving authority. But has authority been damaged by these disastrous experiences? A value cannot be damaged by a man. Fidelity unfolds above Saint Peter without his being able to do so. Loyalty unfolds above betrayal because it encompasses it. Loyalty asserts itself in betrayal. Betrayal carries with it no meaning except its own satisfaction. Any value also speaks of indecision and uncertainty within man. All value is a guardian and a shelter. No need to choose, value adapts to our weakness since it precedes our uncertainties. The modern world confuses authority and power by making them bear the same wounds and the same pains. God had to be taken out of everything. Neither the ancients nor the contemporary would understand, but that didn't matter, they counted for nothing now. If ever God did not leave, he would have to be killed. The 20th century wanted to be the time of the death of God. He will have killed only the death of his idea. Above all, he will have created a new anthropology based on suicide.

Unamuno on his quixotic quest

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My work – I was going to say my mission – is to break the faith of each other, and even of a third party: faith in affirmation, faith in negation and faith in abstention; and that by faith in faith itself. It is to fight all those who resign themselves, either to Catholicism or to agnosticism. It is to make everyone live worried and oppressed.

Will it be effective? But did Don Quixote believe in the immediate, apparent efficacy of his work? It is very doubtful...

Antigone, rebellious and intimate (3/7. Destiny)

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3rd part: destiny

The man comes down from the tree. Man, like the tree, is defined both by its roots and by its fruits. Man, like the tree, depends on external and internal elements to reach maturity. Man resembles this trunk sculpted by hardship, leaning on its roots and bearing more or less beautiful, more or less good fruit… The resemblances between the plant world and man are endless. From the water that nourishes the roots, to the sun watering the fruits, to the oxygen exuded by the leaves, all this life that rushes in and circulates reminds us in an irremissible way of the human condition. The tree is a metaphor for the family. From the seedling to the fruits and leaves, a metaphor for the history of man and the family develops. Which evil fairies presided over the birth of the Labdacides family from which Antigone descends? Any fine conscience these days would see it as a calamity and a pathological explanation for Antigone's decisions. How does this little Antigone become this heroic fruit by being born on a trunk so full of stigmata and bruises? Destiny blows and guides this family in an uninterrupted and obtuse way and, suddenly, Antigone frees herself from this straitjacket, frees her whole family from this straitjacket, she undoes the straitjacket, and completes the dismissal of destiny. What a miracle! From a distance, clinging to their branch, two leaves always seem identical, yet you just have to approach to see how much they differ. Continue reading “Antigone, rebellious and intimate (3/7. Destiny)” →

Antigone, rebellious and intimate (2/7. The funeral)

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Part 2: The funeral

“ My dear Ismene. I come this morning to tell you that I took care of everything. I took the same undertakers for our two brothers. I couldn't choose and since our brothers didn't leave any last wishes, I took matters into my own hands to get it sorted out as soon as possible. I still ordered embalming so that they are presentable. If you want to go see them, they'll be ready around 3 p.m. You do not have to. Well, if you can take ten minutes, that might be fine. It may be better to keep an image of them happy, children for example. I took the same urn model for both. A priest will come to the funeral home and give a short speech before the cremation. I ordered him to come to the funeral home. You see, I took care of everything. Eteocles will be buried in the cemetery which is located about thirty minutes from Thebes by taking the national. For Polynice, it is more complicated with the law of our uncle, Creon. I decided to scatter his ashes on the battlefield as the king does not want him buried. Makes sense, right? Tell me what you think, I'm not stopped on this point. This portrait of Antigone living in the 21st century delivering the remains of her brothers to the funeral director summarizes the rite of funerals today. The family has since the Industrial Revolution been rendered unproductive. Funerals are no longer part of the family tradition. The modern world is reassured by using the formula make sense , as the translation of the Anglo-Saxon expression is heard today, and as it is so comforting to repeat it to oneself without it really having any… sense, because what what are these mini-senses found on the ground almost by chance, what are these skin-deep that invite themselves in almost without our being there for nothing, if not the residues of a past sense, a common sense, a good sense sculpted by the centuries? Through the destruction of the family, transmission between generations is lacking, the meaning of our actions is lost, so we have to invent meaning, create meaning, we have to give ourselves the illusion of still living, of not not have totally given up. Deceit is backed up by ignorance, and on this point too, trickery is not new. The meaning given by death within the family, this meaning almost completely forgotten nowadays, is recalled by Antigone in Sophocles' play where she stands as a guardian of the values ​​that liberate, because they protect man from death. 'animal. Antigone reaffirms what man can and cannot; it takes hold of a force destined to protect us from our will to power and to teach us the time of responsibility; a time nowadays entrusted to specialists replacing the family, the people who compose it and the tenuous links woven between them over time.

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Antigone, rebellious and intimate (1/7. The family)

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1st part: the family

From the first reading of Antigone, an ambiguity settles in the mind of the reader. Does Antigone embody action or reaction? What moves Antigone? The reaction never exists by itself whereas the action needs no one, it legitimizes itself in the act. Action always inaugurates something. Contrary to what is often said or believed, Antigone does not wait for Creon to be Antigone. Like Electra for revenge, Nausicaa for hospitality, Penelope for fidelity, Antigone embodies duty. It is action, because it serves: it is accomplished in duty. It is accomplished in servitude (are we pretending to forget that servitude means “to be a slave”?). Contrary to what is often said or believed, Antigone is never an individual. She never stands alone. If the law of Creon pushes it to action, and if this one can seem a reaction, it is only on the surface, by simple chronology.

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The meeting of Péguy and Lonsdale – Between heaven and earth

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Between heaven and earth

It's a little marvel to which Michael Lonsdale invites us with the show Entre Ciel et Terre . A delight. Such nuggets always deserve to be given space. You have to make room in the tumult, in the oppressed heart, in the life that you dream of and forget to live. Live every moment, live in the consciousness of life. It's so hard. It is also the first step on the hushed path of love.

Pierre Fesquet, who shares the poster with Michael Lonsdale, created a poetic montage from the book Between Heaven and Earth , the book that Michael Lonsdale dedicated to Charles Péguy. Lonsdale has an activity as a writer, a cantor of beauty, as important as his activity as an actor. Lonsdale thrives on the word of God. We can say of him that he carries out an artistic apostolate and there is something rare enough in the contemporary world of culture for it to be noted… and encouraged and praised.

By listening to the beautiful voice of Michael Lonsdale, but also by observing Pierre Fesquet who mixes with the reading, increases it with his enthusiasm, his generosity and above all, above all, his ingenuity, the show gives the possibility of entering in the world of Péguy.
But I could say otherwise. I could say that by letting oneself be penetrated by the metaphysics of Michael Lonsdale, the bewitchment of the language of Péguy torments us. By letting ourselves be surprised by the way Pierre Fesquet has of embracing us, of forcing us to wrestle with the text and its permanent surprise, we appropriate every word of Péguy, but perhaps more importantly, we feel the wind blowing in our ears, woodchips falling on the ground, bullets whistling nearby, Hope taking our hands and the Virgin Mary encouraging us to docility. Grace is there just waiting for our conversion, and this show participates in it in a beautiful way. It's at the Théâtre de Poche. And this is not unusual. In this very small room, we are at our ease to receive a divine message.

Extension from March 29 to April 19. Please note that this extension is at 7 p.m. and not 9 p.m. as the first presentation of this poetic show.

Théâtre de Poche – Montparnasse
75 bd du Montparnasse, 75006 Paris
Reservations: 01 45 44 50 21
Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday from 2 p.m. to 6 p.m.
Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.

The Poche bar offers light meals and its selection of wines before and after each show.

In memoriam Alvaro Mutis

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It was a year ago. Alvaro Mutis joined the sky. The immense Colombian writer deserves to be read and re-read. This sparkling monarchist projected a bridge between old Europe and South America. His poems, his stories, his novels carry and carry our history through the figure of Maqroll el Gaviero, solitary sailor, disillusioned, dreaming of the Empire of Byzantium or the reign of Saint-Louis aboard old tubs close to sinking.

Read the tribute article

Letter to my friend Alvaro Mutis

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One day in the 1990s, we were walking down the street, we were leaving the Hôtel des Saints-Pères, and Alvaro Mutis 1 stopped short. We were almost at the corner of the rue de Grenelle, and he said to me: “Emmanuel, I have the impression that we walked like this together a long time ago in a street in Cadiz. And we were having the same discussion. I confess that I no longer remember our remarks. I am certain that if Alvaro Mutis were still alive, he would remember it.

Alvaro Mutis had a special relationship with life. He lived by handling memory and immediate reality. He always put one foot in one and one foot in the other. With him, these two worlds never left each other, they were close, went hand in hand, like conjoined twins, like a one-way life, for the better. Alvaro Mutis was living his life and other lives, lives he had lived before, or would live later. Above all, Alvaro Mutis lived, at all times, accompanied by a young boy, this still child was called Alvarito, he was always with us. Carmen, Alvaro's wife, accepted his presence even though it was not her son. I have never met someone like Alvaro Mutis. I mean there was something terrifying and intriguing about his presence, his presence as a child next to the same middle-aged adult. I told him that often. I told him that Bernanos, whom he loved, also had to live like this with the incarnated afterglow of a young self by his side.

I come here to tell what I know of Alvaro Mutis, Maqroll el Gaviero and a few others… These last years have been slow and long. We corresponded much less. He no longer wrote. He hadn't written for so long. The tremors had taken over. A certain emptiness too. Everything was doomed to disappear like the stump of a dead tree that disappeared in a week in the damp furnace of the Amsud. Everything had to pass, and this spectacle of life in action never ceased to amaze Alvaro Mutis throughout the ninety years he spent on this earth.

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