C’était fête au pays des parleux, hier soir. Parqués, trois par trois, derrière leurs moignons d’iceberg en plastique, ils attendaient leur tour – l’œil vide et le sourire crispé. Enfin, la caméra n’en avait que pour eux et ils débitaient leur tranche « d’éléments de langage ». La souveraine de la « bravitude », par exemple, se réjouissait de ce passage du témoinderelaishochet « à la jeunesse », s’extasiait d’avoir contribué au dynamitage  du parti lui ayant offert toutes ses chances (nul doute que « la jeunesse » trouvera à la caser de façon avantageuse). Les autres parleux débitaient leur lot d’inepties convenues – puis la caméra passait à la mer de drapeaux tricolores s’agitant devant le Louvre. On avait l’impression de voir une foule de figurants recevant leurs ordres par mégaphone : « plus d’enthousiasme ! Une agitation plus frénétique ! » Mais, même au pays de la téléréalité, on ne contrôle pas tout.

Et au pays des parleux, les taiseux n’en pensent pas moins.

Un poème pour marquer ce lundi, lendemain de la veille ? Oui, mais en anglais, désolée, j’ai deux langues maternelles plus une troisième non déclarée qui, elle, m’accompagne sans titre de séjour aucun.

Le poème, donc. Il est de Wendell Berry et il s’intitule* :

The Timbered Choir

Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling,

for I saw the last known landscape destroyed for the sake

of the objective, the soil bludgeoned, the rock blasted.

Those who had wanted to go home would never get there now.

 

I visited the offices where for the sake of the objective the planners planned

at blank desks set in rows. I visited the loud factories

where the machines were made that would drive ever forward

toward the objective. I saw the forest reduced to stumps and gullies; I saw

the poisoned river, the mountain cast into the valley;

I came to the city that nobody recognized because it looked like every other city.

I saw the passages worn by the unnumbered

footfalls of those whose eyes were fixed upon the objective.

 

Their passing had obliterated the graves and the monuments

of those who had died in pursuit of the objective

and who had long ago forever been forgotten, according

to the inevitable rule that those who have forgotten forget

that they have forgotten. Men, women, and children now pursued the objective

as if nobody ever had pursued it before.

 

The races and the sexes now intermingled perfectly in pursuit of the objective.

the once-enslaved, the once-oppressed were now free

to sell themselves to the highest bidder

and to enter the best paying prisons

in pursuit of the objective, which was the destruction of all enemies,

which was the destruction of all obstacles, which was the destruction of all objects,

which was to clear the way to victory, which was to clear the way to promotion, to salvation, to progress,

to the completed sale, to the signature

on the contract, which was to clear the way

to self-realization, to self-creation, from which nobody who ever wanted to go home

would ever get there now, for every remembered place

had been displaced; the signposts had been bent to the ground and covered over.

 

Every place had been displaced, every love

unloved, every vow unsworn, every word unmeant

to make way for the passage of the crowd

of the individuated, the autonomous, the self-actuated, the homeless

with their many eyes opened toward the objective

which they did not yet perceive in the far distance,

having never known where they were going,

having never known where they came from.

Wendell Berry

*Néanmoins, on ne lâche rien, bien sûr. Car même nez en moins, on n’est pas encore décérébrés.

(En illustration: une carte postale de chez Plonk & Replonk)

***

Objective

It was party time in blabber country last night. Parked, three by three, behind their plastic iceberg stumps, they waited their turn – empty-eyed and with tight smiles. At long last, the camera was for no one but them and they churned out their slice of “language elements”. For instance, the queen of   « bravitude » rejoiced in the passage of the relaybatonrattle “to youth”, and turned ecstatic over her contribution to the blowing up of the Party that gave her all her chances (“youth” will find her a cozy arrangement, no doubt).  The other blabbers spouted their lot of pre-arranged rubbish – and the camera moved on to the sea of red-white-blue flags waving in front of the Louvre. The impression was of a bunch of extras receiving their orders by megaphone: “More enthusiasm! More frenzied agitation!” But even in the land of reality TV, you can’t control everything.

And in blabber country, the close-mouthed go on thinking nonetheless.

A poem to mark this Monday, day after the previous? In English since I have two mother tongues plus a third, undeclared, that travels with me without any residency permit whatsoever.

The poem, then. It’s by Wendell Berry and it’s titled* :

The Timbered Choir

Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling,

for I saw the last known landscape destroyed for the sake

of the objective, the soil bludgeoned, the rock blasted.

Those who had wanted to go home would never get there now.

I visited the offices where for the sake of the objective the planners planned

at blank desks set in rows. I visited the loud factories

where the machines were made that would drive ever forward

toward the objective. I saw the forest reduced to stumps and gullies; I saw

the poisoned river, the mountain cast into the valley;

I came to the city that nobody recognized because it looked like every other city.

I saw the passages worn by the unnumbered

footfalls of those whose eyes were fixed upon the objective.

Their passing had obliterated the graves and the monuments

of those who had died in pursuit of the objective

and who had long ago forever been forgotten, according

to the inevitable rule that those who have forgotten forget

that they have forgotten. Men, women, and children now pursued the objective

as if nobody ever had pursued it before.

The races and the sexes now intermingled perfectly in pursuit of the objective.

the once-enslaved, the once-oppressed were now free

to sell themselves to the highest bidder

and to enter the best paying prisons

in pursuit of the objective, which was the destruction of all enemies,

which was the destruction of all obstacles, which was the destruction of all objects,

which was to clear the way to victory, which was to clear the way to promotion, to salvation, to progress,

to the completed sale, to the signature

on the contract, which was to clear the way

to self-realization, to self-creation, from which nobody who ever wanted to go home

would ever get there now, for every remembered place

had been displaced; the signposts had been bent to the ground and covered over.

Every place had been displaced, every love

unloved, every vow unsworn, every word unmeant

to make way for the passage of the crowd

of the individuated, the autonomous, the self-actuated, the homeless

with their many eyes opened toward the objective

which they did not yet perceive in the far distance,

having never known where they were going,

having never known where they came from.

Wendell Berry

*Nonetheless, we don’t give up, of course. For, even noseless, we’re not decebrated yet (this is a pun in French. Not as effective in English).

Illustration: a Plonk & Replonk postcard showing the ancient seasonal craft: the re-sizing of wooden words at election time