Dans le temps du rêve, la nuit dernière, j’étais prise d’un tel accès de rage que j’en arrachais les meubles fixés aux murs. La rage dont parle Dylan Thomas à la fin de son poème Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, le vers récurrent en étant “Rage rage against the dying of the light”.

À nouveau, le sentiment d’être plus authentique dans le temps du rêve que dans le temps d’éveil. À nouveau, l’espoir de parvenir à produire pareil niveau d’intensité en écriture. Non pas de créer un personnage aussi enragé (quoique…) mais de me libérer de certains des “c’est ainsi parce que c’est ainsi” inutiles, qui tournent à vide dans un monde qui a grand besoin d’autres choses que des dictons d’école religieuse. Les monstres se déchaînent. Et quelle que soit la paix que je trouve dans mon coeur, elle ne m’empêche pas de hurler à la lune, du moins en rêve. Et si cela se traduit par des écrits “pour le tiroir”, l’essentiel est de les écrire.

Hier, les Ukrainiens commémoraient la grande famine, Holodomor, imposée par Staline en 1932-1933. Les chiffres varient – de 5,5 à 7 millions de morts. Pendant ce temps, le Kremlin ordonne des bombardements sans relâche sur les descendants, détruisant des villages complets pour créer le “lebensraum” dans lequel ils installeraient des Russes appelés à ‘remplacer’ ces Ukrainiens obstinés.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

*

In dreamtime last night, I was seized by a rage such that I tore furniture from the walls. The rage Dylan Thomas speaks of in his poem Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, the recurring verse being “Rage rage against the dying of the light.” 

Once again, the feeling of being more authentic in dream time than when awake. Again, the hope of managing to produce a similar level of intensity in writing. Not in order to create a character so enraged (although…) but so as to break free from some of the useless  “it is so because it is so”  churning away at a time of great need calling for other than Sunday School vacuities. The monsters have unleashed themselves. And whatever peace may lie in my heart, it doe not keep me from baying at the moon, at least in dreamtime. And if that translates into writing ‘for the desk drawer’, the essential part is in the writing itself.

Yesterday, Ukrainians commemorated the great famine, Holodomor, imposed by Stalin in 1932-33. The figures vary: some say 5,5 others, 7 million dead of hunger. Meanwhile, the Kremlin orders ceaseless bombing against their descendants, destroying entire villages in order to create the “lebensraum” in which they will settle Russians meant to “replace” those obstinate Ukrainians.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas