je suis l’incommode
je suis celle qui énerve
je ne sais même pas faire la cuisine
même recuisiner je ne sais pas le faire
Nos petits déjeuners rien
n’a changé depuis vingt ans
depuis trente ans rien
nous tartinons depuis trente ans
la même chose sur le même pain
et nous buvons le même thé en plus
tu ne trouves pas
que nous devrions nous suicider
uniquement à cause de se fait
et ensuite le chantage norvégien
la cabane en rondins soi-disant projet contre lui-même
Fétichisme des toilettes d’été
il me l’a jeté à la figure
I think it is clear that the relation of poetry to truth, which is a question of domain, not of medium, haunts all great Romantic art, which had rejected the more modest role of existing “to divert and to amuse.” Poets like Wordsworth launched a powerful claim to truth through a complicated poetic argument that adjusted mind to nature in the medium of the image, while poets like Keats split “truth” from “value” and lined up poetry on the side of “value,” giving this new domain of truthless value the name Imagination.
“Prose” is the name for a kind of notational style. It’s a way of making language look responsible. You’ve got justified margins, capital letters to begin graphemic strings which, when they are concluded by periods, are called sentences, indented sentences that mark off blocks of sentences that you call paragraphs. This notational apparatus is intended to add probity to that wildly irresponsible, occasionally illuminating and usually playful system called language. Novels may be written in “prose;” but in the beginning no books were written in prose, they were printed in prose, because “prose” conveys an illusion of a commonsensical logical order. It’s as appropriate to the novel as ketchup to a hamburger, which is to say, it’s not very good but the hamburger wouldn’t go far without it.