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Fuchet, Serge-René
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" Of the grey summit of the snowy hill

We contemplated the immense white area

Of the valley of the big fleshless poplars

And high sloping roofs in the white tiles

 

Impressed by the hard rigor of the winter

You blotissais you under your thick white coat

And you assailed me with your soft bitter glance

Soft glance become oblique and attractive

 

Numb by the cold we advanced

Slowly the one towards the other one and frankly

The senses(directions) in narrow complicity of souls

 

Well then the winter was not any more really the winter

We forgot to look at the world

To console us with the coolness of the winter

 

 Coucher-de-soleil.jpg

 

 

I copied out this poem which you sent me last autumn, in answer to my letter. I may not hide you the pleasure which gets me our epistolary reunion. I know pertinently that you composed it in November, at the approach of the new season, and that you imagine that one yourself in my company. Can  you intend to mean staying at Aubel? You will see me delighted.

By the way, why I say to you "you"? After all, it is going to make on almost one year that we did not see each other any more and you will have crossed only a single night to me. Well, thus I decide to say vous you again. Your poetry seduced me and I tried some difficulty resuming some distance with regard to your text.

You so implied me there that I try some fear. For what do you thus expect from me? What are your intentions? You love me, I do not doubt it. But why did you leave so abruptly, without saying to me even goodbye?

 

Feel reassured, I am not irritated with it. However, to avoid some risky speculation by the truychement of such a platonic relation, I deeply prefer that you mean seeing me to Aubel. You know my address. I see no inconvenience you meaning visiting me. I am going to stay all winter long to me; so you no fear have of having; you will not find the door closed. Looking forward to meeting you very soon, I kiss you. "

I am very sad after this correspondence to understand the logic of these events which were linked of season in season, my dear Espéranza. After I told you her little common disappearance in the last spring, I wonder to announce you sincerely how this exchange. It is not the fact of making you display of our physical then virtual relations that gets me some embarrassment. Those do not prevent our friendship, naturally. And when I resumed my newspaper, the day before yesterday, to report you all which arrived at me since I met Elise Clermont in the last spring, I really understand why I made the effort to look back us on our adventure on this desert island, this summer.

Ah! The summer! The summer! What a season! Openly, I always think that the winter makes very weak face(figure) in comparison! Here is a very inferior paradox you will say to me, but it is necessary to face the evidence that it is about a season very difficult there to live. My God! I do not dare to imagine what would have been able to arrive at you over there in winter, only, lost on this island. Fortunately that the smugglers returned to it and found you, waiting in the heat of a big campfire, alone on the beach. What a jopie to know you safe! It is a real happiness! I feel a real pleasure.

Openly, I am happy to have found you both there this end of year. It is necessary to admit that these two adventures will really have been little commonplace. And what coincidences! Finally, to know you living beings comforts me, even if you are far from me. Madrid, Aubel: I wonder in this century when we live how you could indeed meet both! Anyway, you know Aubel only of name, and it is far!

 

   Hiver.jpg

 

Things being what they are, I did not still clear up the mystery of claimed disappearance of Elise Clermont. She wrote me just like that, as if nothing had taken place. Besides, she( wonders of what it took for a hasty departure. It is a very strange paradox. Openly(frankly), you will consider at me a little intoxicated, dear Espéranza, but I have difficulty in conceiving still the absurd situation that I lived with her in the last spring. However, it is bizarre, I do not dare to tell her my story. I smell good that there was been mistaken my part at some point, but it, I regret it, exceed my understanding.
Yes, I wonder when I think again about it if I do not become crazy. Fortunately that she wrote me! I tried a pleasant sensation of reassurance. But the mystery, I regret it, whole rest. I am very going to return soon to Aubel, as she proposed it to me. Then I can try to reconstitute the story in the public garden in its presence. Go, dear Espéranza, I wish you a happy New Year and good-safe a merry christmas. Bye for now!

 

autres-campagne-france-1248665233-1226946   

 

Mrs here is now on the road of Flanders, in carriage. The journey is long but tomorrow morning we shall not be any more very far from Aubel. I wrote one month ago to Espéranza and I did not see spending time. Tomorrow evening, it is safe, I shall belong to Aubel in spite of the small snowflakes which begin to fall. I am simply afraid that there is too much fog. By the way, the coachman just said to me right now that the travelers were not still safe on this road. There are naturally traffic accidents, but worse, since the beginning of the winter occurred several attacks of diligences. It is disturbing but it is necessary to exorcise the evil spell and to hope that we shall not be the next victims of these exactions so dreaded, especially in winter.


Serge-René Fuchet
Writer

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Things being what they are, as I have the honor
To say it to you, I go, sir,
In language of real
Contesse, to try to put to sleep you
By the end of this one. You
You will thus remember, if it you
The surprise of the druid pleases,
When he lives the extraordinary bridge
That we avoit built on the riviere.

But before passing besides, it is
Good to warn you, that in the respect
Of the width of this riviere and of
The length of the bridge(deck), one you
Lied of seven or eight hundred leagues,
Both for the rarity of the fact and
For the convenience of the rhymes, and
That the Lord of Herbay, far
To be as well huge as you could
To imagine him(it) to you, étoit everything
In most that once so big and
Once so foolish as our friend S.

 

autres-campagne-france-1248665233-1226946.jpg

The druid, who to put sound
Castle and his daughter outside insult,
Avoit surrounded with a wide
Ditch full of water, was only surprised
When he lives the effect of a delight
Against his;
He believed to have enough to laugh
Of all the bridges and all
Giants of the world; he was only
Embarrassed to guess who could
Be the author of this bridge.

Estimating
Not enough his neighbor d'Herbay for
Consider it charming,
He hastily runs to go through his books
To clear up of the fact, and
To knock down the bridge less
Of tems that he had raised:
But when all the books that he
Opened taught him nothing, it  was
In a big embarrassment; embarrassment
Which is converted in a sadness
Strange, when he lives that he cherchoit
Pointlessly the one who contenoit
All the secrets of his art.
It  defended the reading in his
Girl, to whom he never had anything
Defended that it, and some soûmise
That she had always be in her
Wills, he was afraid that the curiosity
For a matter expressly
Forbidden, had taken him
On his obedience. It was in
These allarmes that he found her as is
That we left her.

He awakened her
Quickly to ask her
Short stories of this book
If need be her intentions: but
It was to teach it to her indeed
Others than she spoke. Of
The maniere of which she came of
Fall asleep, I would have sworn that in sound
Awakening she went address in
Druid, by saying to him: big commander
Believer but
Her distraction changed object,
And throwing in her foot : my father,
She says, I lost him, and if you
Return it to me, you will see me
Die from despair, because it is
More tems to hide my foiblesse,
Nor to hide my murder. Yes
I lost it . what! Exclaimed
Druid, not only, Girl,
You broke me: but you
Lost what was me most
Dear to the world after you!

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Serge-René Fuchet
Trilogie of the civil war
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Native of Maribor in Slovenia, been born in 1969 and dismissed in Letters, Serge-René Fuchet is a writer author of two collections of news (short stories), Life rainbow in 1992 and Polymorphic Life in 2001. The Slovenian author shows himself playwright in 2008 with his third publication, Trilogy of the civil war. In 2009 adorned Places and romantic characters. Serge-René Fuchet is since 2005 a chief editor of Nouvelle Lecture Française in Andorra, and now in England. He throws(launches) besides solo, in 2010, his New adventures of Rouletabille on the web site of Nouvelle Lecture Française.

     Trilogy of the civil war by Serge-René Fuchet


The action(share) takes place in the Balkans, with for backcloth fallen Belgrade, over which reigns Pyros, éperdu of love for Andreja, widow of Nestor, mother of Andrejcek, child whose Slovenes, through Orégon, demand the head … The argument is familiar, takes root in a culture inherited from the Antiquity(Antique). Already, you recognize behind these characters of the faces(figures) of our literary Pantheon: Pyrrhus and Andromaque, Hermione and Oreste … Already, you guess under the Serbian city the ramparts of Ilion in ashes where are formed the plots, enkystent the immaîtrisées passions, aggravate the tensions, deceive the manipulations for the love and the power … Here you are then entered a triple contemporary variation around the tragedies arisen from the troyen cycle …

Triptych inspired by the racinienne tragedy, the Trilogy of the civil war would have been able to be only a stylistic composition, even a theatrical stammering. By transposing the main actors of Andromaque or Iphigénie into the Balkans and on the banks of the Adriatic, Serge-René Fuchet imposes nevertheless his imprint on narratives which, in spite of their age(seniority), continue not less(nevertheless) of to speak to us about us all: men and women, lovers and enemies, mothers and widows … And the playwright to make us rediscover, under its pejorative rags, the notion of classic … More than levies, three rooms(parts,plays) which reinvent the sublime.
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Vie Polymorphe

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Fuchet, Serge-René
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Autumn, 1869, October: I three times went to the toilet for this morning of October 4th, 1869. I do not know what arrives at me but I have the impression that there is not season anymore since I am locked into this room in walls papered with books. I am more than a week in search of a text which would have been written by the father of Elise Clermont: he would explain his mysterious disappearance to the public garden of Aubel. I may not refrain from keeping rehearsing the little common event which I lived over there in the last spring. I have a headache and I have a great deal of difficulty in admitting still my presence between these four walls of the library of professor Stévenard. Why this stubbornness to be tried to find the theoretical explanation of a fact certainly little common but on the whole rather harmless.

Go, I have to regain self-control. I am not all the same going to spend one week more to go and to come between this library and my place of residence, situated two floors above the apartment of the professor. When I rethink about it, this disappearance seems to me finally so absurd as I wonder if it is not about a pretext for my unconscious, always in search of the shape of its body, its hair so soft, its bosoms so ripe, its triangle so attractive there. Here is more than seven months than I did not see again her any more and I still wish it. More than her being, it is the ecstasy of the senses that it gets me which misses me a lot, in the point to understand this strange and sneaky coalition of the physical and moral pains which torment me.

 

    images5.jpg

 

I have just discovered a very former work on of distant expeditions in the Pacific Ocean. The book is very damaged, so that we cannot find the date of publication there. But he has to date the last century. He has to involve a very dark edition. But the work interests me because it evokes among others Tarawa, Aurorae. Yes, but I can hardly hope of explanation as for this mysterious ilôt on which we failed, Espéranza and I, last summer. It is low there that I lost her. I lost her, for ever.

 

Fortunately that a boat will have accosted a few days after its disappearance in this jungle there. It is thanks to these misled smugglers that I was able to get back to India. Certainly, I shall have made everything to find her. It will have been very difficult to me to explain to these unkind sailors the reason of my stubbornness to retain them on the island. I used some gold louis which still stayed in me of our wreck to buy their expectation. But they refused of entreprendre searches with me. So I shall not hardly have been able to make more than to switch on a big fire on the beach, and to maintain it during almost two whole days. In any logic, Espéranza should have gone raised on the rocky headland, which down from the clearing dominated almost all the island. Then, forced to climb it at the moment or to the other one, she would necessarily have seen the noiret smoke turning, she would have understood that she came from the beach!

 

 

    le-palais-de-westminster-de-nuit_mini.jpg

 

 

 

 But not, I shall have crossed about two days to maintain the fire(light), to shout each one more than the other, to try fast and adventurous excursions in this endless mess of coconut palms and gigantic vegetation, and I was able only to make me obviously the most painful: Espéranza had disappeared. Moreover, it is the leader of the smugglers who will have put out the fire himself. Heprovoked me in duel with the cutting weapon, then persuaded that my story had no sense and that I made him waste his time. Not thinking more than of saving my skin, I had to wipe a bad stab which will have plunged me into a comatose state. However they will not have abandoned me because they put to sleep me for all the crossing: then I woke up first morning from the autumn on a quay of Calcutta, in India. There was not more than to return to Europe. As the smugglers had deprived me of all the gold which stayed in me, I understood that they had had to leave not enough time.

 

I went out for some minutes. I believe that I am going to stop this stupid research; she taught nothing to me. I shall have gone through several works on the islands of the Pacific, I shall have leafed down encyclopediae, among which that of Diderot, but it was of use to nothing. It is not certainly with the treaty at the time or the reflections on the space that I am going to succeed in discovering the truth as for the strange disappearance of Elise Clermont to Aubel. However, I understood that I continue to reflect about it, at the moment even where I look at the dead leaves which sprinkle the path of the park, behind the building. The weather is rainy. The sky darkens again and I cannot linger any more. I decide to abandon the library of the professor and to return at home.

 

    images-1.jpg

 

 As usual, I get back my mail in the mailbox at the ground floor then borrow the staircase which leads to my third floor. I open automatically the front door, put my mail, my documents. Suddenly, I remain motionless, eyes riveted on an address written in the back of the white envelope which I just got back right now. This writing says to me something. Then, stuns, I read the address: " Elise Clermont, square Albert I °, 4880 Aubel ". Taken by a sudden passion, I nearly cut the index with the paper knife. Very fast, the reading of some written sentences hastily make me resume consciousness of the reality.

" Dear Nestor,

While maintaining month I did not write to you any more and you have to find that time passes slowly since our

Meeting to Aubel. I was surprised with your hasty departure. I tried some regret.

But as we knew recently, I supposed that you are not any more interested in me and that you had not thus made the effort to leave.

However, I found your address on a former(ancient) pad. As the autumn season leaves me the time, I write you these some words, in the hope of you to see again maybe a day. "

 

 

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Often, to have fun, the people of crew
Take albatross, vast birds of seas,
Which follow, painless travelling companions,
The ship sliding on the bitter abysses.

 

Hardly they put down them on boards,
That these kings of the azure, awkward and shameful,
Leave pathetically their big white wings
As oars be lying about in quoted by them.

 

Grand albatros sur son nid, devant l'île de l'Est à Crozet. Photo CA Bost.

This winged traveler, as it is left awkward and veule!
He, formerly so beautiful, as it)is funny and ugly!
The one annoys its beak with one burn mouth,
Other one mimes, by limping, counter which flew!

 

Poête is similar to the prince of thick clouds
Which haunts the storm and laughs at the archer;
Exiled on the ground in the middle of boos,
Its giant's wings prevent it from walking.

 

 

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Serge-René Fuchet
Trilogie of the civil war
 25,00 Euro
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Native of Maribor in Slovenia, been born in 1969 and dismissed in Letters, Serge-René Fuchet is a writer author of two collections of news (short stories), Life rainbow in 1992 and Polymorphic Life in 2001. The Slovenian author shows himself playwright in 2008 with his third publication, Trilogy of the civil war. In 2009 adorned Places and romantic characters. Serge-René Fuchet is since 2005 a chief editor of Nouvelle Lecture Française in Andorra, and now in England. He throws(launches) besides solo, in 2010, his New adventures of Rouletabille on the web site of Nouvelle Lecture Française.

   


Trilogy of the civil war by Serge-René Fuchet


The action(share) takes place in the Balkans, with for backcloth fallen Belgrade, over which reigns Pyros, éperdu of love for Andreja, widow of Nestor, mother of Andrejcek, child whose Slovenes, through Orégon, demand the head … The argument is familiar, takes root in a culture inherited from the Antiquity(Antique). Already, you recognize behind these characters of the faces(figures) of our literary Pantheon: Pyrrhus and Andromaque, Hermione and Oreste … Already, you guess under the Serbian city the ramparts of Ilion in ashes where are formed the plots, enkystent the immaîtrisées passions, aggravate the tensions, deceive the manipulations for the love and the power … Here you are then entered a triple contemporary variation around the tragedies arisen from the troyen cycle …

Triptych inspired by the racinienne tragedy, the Trilogy of the civil war would have been able to be only a stylistic composition, even a theatrical stammering. By transposing the main actors of Andromaque or Iphigénie into the Balkans and on the banks of the Adriatic, Serge-René Fuchet imposes nevertheless his imprint on narratives which, in spite of their age(seniority), continue not less(nevertheless) of to speak to us about us all: men and women, lovers and enemies, mothers and widows … And the playwright to make us rediscover, under its pejorative rags, the notion of classic … More than levies, three rooms(parts,plays) which reinvent the sublime.

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Vie Polymorphe
Very good State
Fuchet, Serge-René
Binding: BrochéFormat: ln-8 = Size(Format) pupil's small exercise book: 20 in 25 cms Limited edition polymorphic Life, by Serge-René Fuchet, is appeared to the publishing(editions) of the Pantheon, to the Paris in 2001.

 

 

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We were lengthened on the sand. Our arms seemed flasks, our dead bodies. The salt water licked our feet and ventured up to the thigh. The sky seemed clear. An impressive silence reigned over this beach.

Suddenly, a crawling insect risked beginning a gratitude on its body. I woke up slowly, moved by the pleasant vision of the shape of its feminine body. I tried to get up but a pain stopped me. I had a headache, I was thirsty. So much salt water and no drinkable drop! How had I arrived there? Why was not I in the bungalow? Then the memory returned to me.

We had left for an aimless expedition really precise. The storm. Yes, I still remembered these atrocious minutes. I was wrinkled on the vermoulu wood. The hull had split. Then, we had caught a branch of tree resulting out of nowhere. We had had to strike a rock. But how we did not have been able to see this island while she.

 

    2007-0701_s2_.jpg

 

I got up, manage to stand me. I made some steps. The map, the fisherman. The authorities of Tarawa had also been formal. There was no island, no atoll from Aurorae, it on a distance far too important to have been crossed(gone through) in three quarters of an hour! I believed to penetrate into the unreal, the dream.

How this island, because it was one, did she have been able to escape the geography? No, it was not possible. Nevertheless, this offshore journey, this expedition on the speedboat, I had made it. Unless... No, it was inconceivable. We were too much far from Aurorae. My throat was formed.

The voice of my friend came to put an end to my breathlessness of fear. Espéranza was there, next to me. We exchanged a glance. Espéranza looked at her watch: she had resisted. It was the proof that we had not really had to be far from the island.

 

    port7-copiew_s2_.jpg

 

I showed the gigantic coconut palms which surrounded the beach. We advanced unanimously and penetrated a kind of very narrow path trained by ramparts of interlaced plants. A clearing opened abruptly to us. Being afraid of misleading us, we turned back. The island was big, immense. Here is who still added to the unreal of the situation.

When we had returned on the beach, we had to face the evidence: the island was uninhabited by the man. There was certain number of animal species but no track of human presence, not the slightest construction of fortune. The island was completely subjected to the nature.

We so spent our first hours of solitude based on the warm sand, in front of the sea. That one held(retained) us prisoners. What a strange situation! However, we were not the only ones to have disappeared offshore. Although disturbing, ours would amaze hardly our contemporaries, moreover more worried by the current events

 

    tower-bridge_mini-copie-1.jpg

 

I struck the sand with rabies and resentment. My foot struck some pebble, then bled. I sat down again, looked for my handkerchief. I noticed at the same time as I had no more my knife. Then, I crawled up to the salt water and dipped the foot there. I sentai the salt be tormented the wound, to penetrate in the depths of the flesh. But my grandmother always said to me that it was a good healing product. However, I so had pain. Besides, I had lost my knife. I was plunged into the biggest confusion. Espéranza says word. She understood.

Suddenly, the young woman got up, made some steps, then decided to try only a new gratitude(recognition) in the surroundings. From my part, I had found nothing better than to look at the sea. I had this strange impression(printing) that a hostile atmosphere began to get free of these more and more shaken streams. It had been a long time since Espéranza had left. The love which I began to feel for her made quaiguiser this deaf person frightens.

 

I scrutinized of a worried eye impenetrable rampart of coconut palms and interlaced lianas. Suddenly, I perceived some smoke which escaped from the greenish mass. Then, I feared the worst. Decided, I advanced so-so in this sort of jungle. Guided by the volutes of smoke outlines of which became clearer little by little, I reached a source having hesitated for a long time between two paths. She made sink a crystal clear water. I could not resist to the temptation to drink some mouthfuls, so much I was thirsty. Then straightening me, I scrutinized the surroundings of an eye sharpened by the strange atmosphere which reigned at this precise moment.

 

    wp19d5643f.jpg

 

Suddenly, my glance returning on rocks, I gave a cry of bewilderment. In the hollow of a cavity in the stone was my knife put on a small silk material scarlet. It was some blood, some dried blood, and there was a lot. My emotion was for its height. I felt an unspeakable fear. This pût-il whether it is the blood of my friend? I had then the bizarre feeling to live the loss of this blood. If it was good his, as I anticipated him(it), it was little as if it was mine which had poured. At the same time as the pain became more marked increased my love for my princess become the prey of some dark force and malefic.

I seize the knife with precaution then tried to estimate the distance which separated the cavity of the summit. I climbed the rock face with precaution, raised myself up to the summit, then looked, eyes were bothered by the sun. An immense luxuriant area of trees and creepers occupied the quasi-totality of the surface. But the rock was not high all the same enough so that I am capable of distinguishing the precise limits of this small plant empire. I wanted to distinguish again this smoke that I had just seen right now but there was nothing more. It is necessary to say that with the incident of the knife, I had lost a lot of time.

I got down again. I scrutinized the sky of a worried eye, being afraid that the sun not already couchät. But the day star always spread its heat. His(her,its) light produced reflections of emerald on the wave-like water. I had no more notion of time. And I met alone. No piece of short story of Espéranza and the sunset was not any more going to delay now.

 

    images3.jpg

 

Would they be condemned to live here? No, thought Espéranza, no. It was necessary to regain self-control, not to be allowed abandon(give up) in the discouragement or in the laziness which watches for everything to be isolated by the world. The risk of marginalization that would make them run(roam) in a inexorable way the passivity in front of an insoluble problem was too heavy. No, you should not resign itself, it was necessary to take out from there. But how? The night was already fallen, weakly lit by a small crescent moon.
 She( remained, based, sluggish there, knowing how to only make. She remembered itself these hours crossed to try to find this endless path with which " expedition of gratitude ", and then this source, and brutally this panic fear had begun his(her,its) who seized her. She began roaming, running, and stopped only out of breath, exhausted itself, plunged into the deepest exhaustion, holding out the hand towards her rescuer, whom she believed to see, such a hallucination. But I was not there and my absence was only increasing her love in the pain.

I released(left) a sigh, put my head on my knees, then observed the merry-go-round of some carrier insects of microscopic food. I remembered myself the moment of our meeting, in Europe, around of London. Very common, that one had nevertheless left in my memory an unforgettable memory. We had not confided our love yet, but the meeting had brought us to decide on this journey for the Pacific. Originally, I would have preferred that we stop in India, in Bombay. Moreover, we stayed there one week. But as we had time, she preferred to pursue our pleasant very far journey, up to the islands of the Pacific, there where the French colonists have some counters. I thus followed her, doubting me that its tourist interest was not deprived of some love for me.


    prochester1_s2_.jpg

 

Everything was quiet and dark. What arrived at me with my new friend called back me practically since her absence bothered me the disappearance of Elise Clermont in the last spring, in a public garden to Aubel. I did not see again her any more since, the door of its apartment of the placeAlbert I ° remaining irreparably closed in each of my attempts of visit. At the time of embarking for Bombay, the wearing tide was always without piece of short story of this reported missing person.

No, no, it was impossible that the fate is such as I vécusse a new disappearance without being able to make whatever it is. I had to put an end to the feelings which assailed me. I had no more notion of time but I knew that the night would soon be ended. I was a little going to sleep and from the sunrise, I would go back up on the rock to scrutinize the horizon. Espéranza would have certainly the idea to light a fire. I could so turn. Well then I shall find her.

 

 

Serge-René Fuchet

Writer

 

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A green mouse
Which ran in the grass
I catch it by the tail
I show it to these sirs
These sirs say to me
Dip it into the oil
Dip it into the water
That will become a snail
Any warmth
I put it in my handkerchief
She says that it makes too black
I put it in my hat
She says that it is too much warm
I put it in my panties
She makes it three small dropping.

Constance d'Herbay

Poétesse

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Serge-René Fuchet
Trilogie of the civil war
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Native of Maribor in Slovenia, been born in 1969 and dismissed in Letters, Serge-René Fuchet is a writer author of two collections of news (short stories), Life rainbow in 1992 and Polymorphic Life in 2001. The Slovenian author shows himself playwright in 2008 with his third publication, Trilogy of the civil war. In 2009 adorned Places and romantic characters. Serge-René Fuchet is since 2005 a chief editor of Nouvelle Lecture Française in Andorra, and now in England. He throws(launches) besides solo, in 2010, his New adventures of Rouletabille on the web site of Nouvelle Lecture Française.

   


Trilogy of the civil war by Serge-René Fuchet


The action(share) takes place in the Balkans, with for backcloth fallen Belgrade, over which reigns Pyros, éperdu of love for Andreja, widow of Nestor, mother of Andrejcek, child whose Slovenes, through Orégon, demand the head … The argument is familiar, takes root in a culture inherited from the Antiquity(Antique). Already, you recognize behind these characters of the faces(figures) of our literary Pantheon: Pyrrhus and Andromaque, Hermione and Oreste … Already, you guess under the Serbian city the ramparts of Ilion in ashes where are formed the plots, enkystent the immaîtrisées passions, aggravate the tensions, deceive the manipulations for the love and the power … Here you are then entered a triple contemporary variation around the tragedies arisen from the troyen cycle …

Triptych inspired by the racinienne tragedy, the Trilogy of the civil war would have been able to be only a stylistic composition, even a theatrical stammering. By transposing the main actors of Andromaque or Iphigénie into the Balkans and on the banks of the Adriatic, Serge-René Fuchet imposes nevertheless his imprint on narratives which, in spite of their age(seniority), continue not less(nevertheless) of to speak to us about us all: men and women, lovers and enemies, mothers and widows … And the playwright to make us rediscover, under its pejorative rags, the notion of classic … More than levies, three rooms(parts,plays) which reinvent the sublime.

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1 janvier 2010 5 01 /01 /janvier /2010 15:25

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Everybody knows that almond trees bloom in spring. Some know that the revolutions are about born in this period of the year. But who knows in this city what arrived at Elise Clermont? Imbecile question I said myself. Nevertheless, to think about it well, I have the impression that the parallel is not ridiculous when I keep rehearsing these memories which haunted my nights of teenager, before I leave to the war to forget everything.


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This memory nevertheless turned out in time immortal and I realize by writing you that I always saw inside my being the same strange, unusual sensations. I do not manage to forget what arrived at Elise Clermont to spring, 1869. It seems to me even so improbable as I wonder why and how I am well to be able to tell you what took place in its apartment of the square Albert Ier to Aubel, on April 15th, 1869.

This morning there, she had got up very early and had had breakfast only, letting me sleep in her guest room. She had then made a walk along the public garden, still closed at the present time there. The street was deserted and darkened by the sky, which the brightness of the rare streetlights succeeded hardly in qualifying. She had since the railings of the garden open then she had gone to sit down on a bench, in the shade of a troop of almond trees in flowers.


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The garden was still abandoned and Elise Clermont was allowed rock by some dark musing. She felt rather good when I approached him. She realized my presence on the bench, next to her, only having heard a shot which made her go out of its bliss. She snuggles up to me, her senses on the alert, the misled glance. There seemed be still nobody in this garden and the sound had nevertheless been so close. I did not dare to get up, thinking of protecting Elise who well needed it.

Suddenly, she got up with some strange violence which left me stunned. She ran in the direction of the small pond, in the middle of the garden, so that she could not be seen by whoever. I did not understand her reaction, obviously. Release itself from what she could conceive as my influence could get. But to rush so to the danger seemed to me unreasonable. Openly, I was very afraid for her. Who says that the shot had not been pulled inside the public garden?

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Naturally, I did not remain for a long time sat, and I rushed in my tour to the pond, thinking only of saving the one that I estimated to be my future soul mate. However, same mid-term step, I already felt a pleasant reassurance, understanding that nothing took place, because I heard nothing. It had to make now one quarter of an hour which the shot had rung. If he resulted from the outside from the garden, as I suppose it, maybe it was the fact of some walker at a loose end, or then somebody will have fired through an opened window.

It is a fact that there was a moment when we had not heard any more shot in the district since constabulary had intervened to release a young man taken hostage by a bandit. But I put practically at once a term in my deductions to face the evidence: Elise was not there. I sat down then at the edge of the pond, embarrassed by the contradictory feelings which had invaded my spirit.

I began crying. Why had Elise left as it? All right, there had been a shot, it had not been very pleasant and even if a symbol of the war can have something romantic, it did not please me. Not openly, this morning there, with Elise Clermont, I wanted to spend an intimate moment, quite printed by sweetness and by delicacy, my hand caressing slowly the fold of its silk dress, touching the skin up to the breast, with the aim of embracing her and feeling her body squeezing up against mine.

I liked too much Elise Clermont's fragrance to forget it. And even after the war I still remember it myself. It got me an unforgettable sensation of exoticism, little as an unknown flower which my eyes could not discern within the plethora of floral species which I had been able to see to there. Really, more than her fragrance , I loved Elise Clermont. I was desperately in love with it, and it since the beginning of this spring, 1869.

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Ten minutes had just passed by since I had noticed her improbable disappearance. She had gone well and truly to the pond, in the middle of the public garden. I had seen her. No, she had not taken the direction of the unique exit that the railings of the garden offered to the users. Maybe she was hidden behind a tree, or a copse. But it was not all the same any more a kid. She was not either of the genre to climb on trees or to climb the fence. No, if she had wanted to go out, she would naturally have taken the direction of railings, which she knew opened. Anyway, she knew too well the public garden and could not make a mistake about direction.

But now, it was almost ten o'clock, it was daylight and some curious onlookers approached me. I had the bizarre impression that these people there wanted me something but I did not know them: I had never met them. They stopped a few meters away from me, as to stare at me. It got me a real sensation of embarrassment and the sensual pleasure which I had felt in the thought of Elise right now had completely disappeared. But fortunately, these people boldly resumed their route, which I did not miss to wish them unpleasant.

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However Elise Clermont was absent. I was now certain that she was not in the public garden at the moment when I observed the perspective of trees aligned on both sides by the path leading to railings. Seeing the walkers becoming more and more numerous, I decided to leave the place and to turn to the apartment of the square Albert Ier. Then returned in me the desire of her body, sound to be which spread so much my senses. I remember myself too much first day of this spring, 1869 when I met her.

The meeting took place in the same public garden, on the same bench where we sat at the very beginning of the morning. She was calmed by some musing when I approached it, attracted by her soft fragrance printed by exoticism. I sit next to her and we stayed there ten minutes silently. She did not look at me and I did not dare to look at her. Suddenly, she asked me for the hour, with a small accent of the South of France which was not to displease me. I gave her happy of the pretext that it was given to me to engage with her a small conversation.

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But curiously, she seemed not to want to go farther, even not thanking me. However, she remained sat next to me. I did not dare to get up. It was not the punishment because I had to make nothing this morning there. No, I did not want to leave. She was, next to me, immovable and silent there. Nevertheless, the sky made threatening. I indeed saw smoothing some black clouds. I had perceived in front of the bench a small roaming cat the leg behind the head. It is harmless but it seems that cats so behave when it is going to rain. The thunderstorm announced and I shivered with it of fear.

The atmosphere had become lugubrious. I decided to leave when the hand of the girl held(retained) me by the arm, so that I was obliged to sit down again. I say word and was allowed make, the hand beginning to caress me slowly, with discretion, everything in delicacy. The more the thunderstorm made threatening, the more the pressure of her body against mine became intensified. An intense pleasure invaded my whole etre. My senses on the alert had entered communion with his. We had forgotten everything around us and the first rainy gouts did not succeed in breaking the carnal link which united us. It is only when the first thunderclaps rang that we decided to leave the place. And it is arm in arm that we gained her apartment of the square Albert Ier.

Serge-René Fuchet
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  • Serge-René Fuchet
  • Docteur ès Lettres, Serge-René Fuchet est l'auteur de deux recueils de nouvelles parus en 1992 et 2001 aux Editions du Panthéon. Il se révèle dramaturge en 2008 avec Trilogie de la guerre civile ...
  • Docteur ès Lettres, Serge-René Fuchet est l'auteur de deux recueils de nouvelles parus en 1992 et 2001 aux Editions du Panthéon. Il se révèle dramaturge en 2008 avec Trilogie de la guerre civile ...

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