Heremenegilde Chiasson’s marvellous book,
—Beatitudes, begins like this:
“those who raise their heads in astonishment at the raucous cry of birds,
those who await the end of twilight,
those who ceaselessly leaf through catalogues and order nothing from life,”
—and continues, in incomplete single sentences of a few, or few hundred, words, leading us on and on to an (incomplete) image of ourselves: funny, sad, beautiful, unsettling, always true.
“those who are euphoric about the mystery of snow crystals, delicately carrying home their unique fragility on woollen mittens,”
“those who scribble graffiti on their bodies with lead pencils, engraving their story in the secret depths of their skin, scratching themselves until they bleed, making a lie of pen and paper,”
“those who pull off their gloves with their teeth,”
118 pages of ‘those’…
Who would have thought the universe was big enough, that there were so many nuances…needs…differences…samenesses…things that unite us, tell us who we think we are, who we don’t want to become, who we may already be.
This book is a celebration of what it is to be human, a meditation, and a mirror.
5 thoughts on “c’est us, n’est pas?”
Your last sentence captures the book quite well. I’ve linked your review to mine, I hope that’s okay.
Delighted to be linked. As I recall, it was a search for reviews on ‘Beatitudes’ that led me to The Book Mine Set in the first place. Funny old world.