By Deshays, Elizabeth; Michon, Pierre; Gladding, Jody
Small Lives (Vies minuscules), Pierre Michon’s first novel, gained the Prix France tradition. Michon explains that he wrote it "to keep my very own pores and skin. I felt in my physique that my existence was once turning round. This ebook born in an charisma of inexpressible pleasure and catharsis rescued me extra successfully than my aborted analysis." Le Monde calls it "his chef d’oeuvre. A bolt of lightening." In Small Lives, Michon paints photographs of 8 participants, whose tales span centuries in his local quarter of los angeles Creuse. within the strategy of exploring their lives, he explores the act of writing and his emotional connection to either. the search to track and bear in mind those interconnected lives seared into his reminiscence finally turns into a quest to know his personal humanity and detect his personal voice
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They went home; Fiéfié brought up another bottle from the cellar, sat down, drifted off; the mother, shapeless and always moaning under the ruined citadel of black underskirts, muttered, prepared who knows what, was not there; and between them, the old man, who did not drink or moan, entranced perhaps, nostalgic or self-assured, the old man, it seemed, spoke. About this time, in the cafés of Chatelus, Saint-Goussaud, Mourioux, in the talk born of wine and increased by fatigue, in the endless gossip of the day laborers, and from there into the houses where men report back in that necessity for quarrelsome, combative conversation with their wives, backward-looking and inescapable on drunken evenings, Antoine rose from the dead.
Beginning in November, in the grip of January, and until the March muds, early each morning the child brings his log, settles into the odor of the cassock and the mangy odor of the village children, year after year learns bits and pieces: that words are vast, that they are uncertain; that beggars’ grass is also called la clématite, that the five herbs of Saint John, from which you make crosses to nail over cowshed doors, and the herbs of Saint Roch, Saint Martin, Saint Barbe and Saint Fiacre, are also called molène, scabieuse, and cirse; that patois is not coextensive with the universe, and neither is French; that Latin is not only the violin of angels: that it bears presences, names the joy one feels in sleeping and the joy one tastes at waking, gives rise to the tree and the edge of the forest as much as the wounds of the Savior, and is itself insufficient; finally – and perhaps this is the same 36 thing – that other objects are gold besides the ciboria, wedding rings, and old coins.
There is – and at this moment, small creatures blindly gnaw at it, owls indistinct in the night cover it with droppings – there is, I say, stored away in Les Cards, a tin box that Elise called “the Le Châtain box” and there rest the meager remains of the House of Peluchet: among the Shepherds’ Almanacs, a few wedding menus and old bills registering receipt of barrels or coffins, and other odds and ends, three books are my witness, three books, incongruous and marvelously right, in which the universe is almost contained in its entirety, three improbable books that bear the clumsy initials of Antoine Peluchet, too legible, right in the middle of the page.