NEW PATCHWORK 16 / POLYMORPHIC LIFE IN AUTUMN

7,95 €

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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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.

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!

 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.

 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. "