Aerea in the Forests of Manhattan by Emmanuel Hocquard

By Emmanuel Hocquard

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Hocquard's fiction Aerea dans les forets de ny (1997) reinforces the poet's curiosity in augural house and in derivation, articulated in "Il rien" and in "La Ligne claire" respectively. classified a "novel," Aerea dans les forets de ny is a prose piece produced from seven sections that includes a number of characters in varied destinations: ny, the Mississippi Delta, Istanbul, the Bosporus, and particularly, a small, unnamed island. instead of contributing to an built-in unit that's probably whole in itself, the characters emerge when it comes to a number of others after which fade from awareness, as though their complete explanation for showing within the novel was once so as to add information and phonemic style. "David, Zachary, Jessica, Sokrat. June. Medea. Montalban. Virginia, Remedios. Juan, Rosita," writes the narrator, "the interlaced letters in their names retain the fires of an alphabet that mirrors that which bums below the signal of Aerea, goddess of the woods, of searching, and of fishing."26 including clone of Louis Cranach's Eve putting within the narrator's workspace, the conversing voice, Adam, indications an knowledge of legend and origins.

But the point of interest of this narrative is in different places, for in it Hocquard elaborates on his idea of fiction. He observes that while fiction comes from the surface -from the ocean- the closeness and transparency of the island resists fiction: "The island, from each facet, turns its again at the sea. It's a petrified abstraction and correctly discouraging for somebody who likes analogies." If via its density and colour the island resists fiction, the distance of fiction (perhaps its "aerea") is located now not in a Baudelairian woodland of symbols that testify to a few hidden fact yet within the disorienting reflections forged from multivalent pictures. The woodland the following, is big apple, and the narrator takes pains to disassociate legend and tale from the dense assemblage of constituent components of the wooded area: "Each department, copse, ditch, stump, piece of earth, fern, useless wooden, moss, rut, course, tracks, footprints, animal cry or birdsong every thing is fastened. yet to this fixity, not anything should be hooked up, no tale, no character.... every one tree is a reflect, every one rock and echo. every little thing that's felt there, is obvious there, or is heard there's already identified and but, new."

Like the wooded area defined right here, the big apple of Aerea is itself a woodland, one produced from brick and mortar, metal, and glass. and prefer the timber and rocks of the wooded area, the angles. and surfaces of the skyscrapers, spires, and home windows remember one another in an unending association of mirrored image, exemplified in an account of a stroll via Wall road on a vacation: "Around and above us," we learn, "Wall highway was once remoted in its personal silence. by way of the sport of reflections the guts of big apple used to be pierced by way of its personal fake reminiscence: reflections of skyscrapers in puddles of water, reflections of facades in facades. the newest development buildings, all in blue or black glass walls, duplicated via reflect results the photographs of former construction projects."

If because the narrator claims, fiction is known as coming from with out, then this fiction is of a unique nature, one Hocquard describes in "Il rien" as a narrative that "draws its pertinence now not from an out of doors yet from the distance it inaugurates" (PT. 56). even if or not it's the small island, self-sufficient and impervious to the skin, or the wooded area - that's an analogous and but ever new - or the island of long island, developing its lifestyles from limitless angles and reflections, for Hocquard tale and fiction come up as an augural house in a site of letters, phrases, and photographs. finally for Hocquard, the topic of a narrative isn't an event, an intrigue, or a few socially generated worth. As Hocquard states explicitly in "La Mercury bleu pale," the topic should be discovered "in the succession of pages, by way of two," as "the juxtaposition of scenes" (PT, 17). The literary textual content, we're reminded, is given in a deviation of which means and language (PT, 53). And lest we fail to remember, this deviation is that which creates fiction.


Emmanuel Hocquard is one in every of France's top post-68 poets. He served because the editor of the small press Orange Export Ltd. as well as over 30 books of poetry, he has released serious articles, a unique, and a movie. He has additionally translated works through Charles Reznikoff, Michael Palmer, Paul Auster, and others, and is the founder and director of "Un Bureau sur l'Atlantique," a company that fosters French-American poetic trade. along side the Abbaye de Royaumont, he ran a sequence of team translation seminars during the eighties and nineties. a number of volumes were translated into English, and his paintings seems to be on-line at PennSound, the digital Poetry heart, and Raised in Tangier, he lives and works within the south of France.


Lydia Davis (born July 15, 1947) is an American author famous for her brief tales. Davis can also be a novelist, essayist, and translator from French and different languages, and has produced a number of new translations of French literary classics, together with Proust's Swann’s approach and Flaubert's Madame Bovary.

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Yes, first it was that, the smell of the myrtle, still green, the smell of Venus's shrub, that tore apart the mist, vibrating in the air like a powerful chord of brasses; immediately after, but only then, the very high, very pale pink curve in the diaphanous sky, the gentle concave line of the first bundle of metal cables. Such was, as I walked through the mist, my first sight of the bridge. "Adam," said Aerea as she cleared the table where we had had our breakfast, "I wouldn't mind knowing something about your life before we met.

H i s eyes lowered behind his shining glasses, Sokrat studied the game of goose set out between us. We were alone on the terrace of the open-air cafe, face to face at a table under the spring leaves. We were alone at that hour, still morning, occupied by our daily match under the trees with their newly limed trunks, away from the bursts of voices from the streets and the din of the cars. "I've noticed that you don't change, Adam. You remain a prisoner of your images. " Below our cafe under the trees, on the slopes of the uncultivated land sheets were drying in the wind, and from the Golden Horn plumes of black smoke rose into the sky.

The shadow of the smokestack lay along the deck. When the ship heeled to one side, it swept through space like a dark projector and the light shifted onto other white surfaces, onto other windowed walls, overexposed and bleached like old daguerrotypes, while the spraying of the water under the bow accompanied, in a parallel, sonorous way, the regular swaying of the bulwark handrail in front of the horizon line. "June," I murmured, leaning over her and stroking her hair, "what we lack is the vocabulary of navigation.

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