Bernard Vargaftig. Que ne disent pas les paysages

Bernard Vargaftig.Que ne disent pas les paysages.Laon : La Porte, 2007. 4 euros.I 11 oet of dlip'" .ndromp.etn,",.of,", ;mm,d;.tothtllit;ng of "If P and reader into the dizzying 'thrownness' of being, as Heidegger might term it, Bernard Vargaftig neither gives us an easy ride, nor does he disappoint.For, ifhe may be said to be equally a poet of 'unknowing', with a profound sense of his own incapaciry to write into the experience of being a coherency, a firm and graspable logic, he remains that poet who ever obliges us to immerse ourselves in the honesry of an unending tussle whereby language may be felt to be ever on the cusp of seizure, yet ever slipping away from the attainment and certainry we may be, at times, tempted to credit it with providing, and knowing it to, at least, desire.'Qu'il y a de hate / Comment le consentement berce / Un nom une plongee une dispersion / Ou en moi I'horizon continue': such is a characteristic articulation of Que ne disent pas ies paysages, an articulation that disarticulates as it leads forth the content of the mind's hesitancies and intuitions, its exclamations, its queryings, its purely substantive, but unsubstantiatable statements, its openness upon its own uncontextualised declarations.But, then, what other context do we imagine there is other than that of our beingness and a language seeking to cling to it, describe it, fathom its meaning?'Que prolonge l'explosion, we read as we open this most brief and condensed of books, Eparpillement et recifs se forment / Que ne disent pas les paysages / Que I'interiorite dechire'.Shattering, resulting scatteredness, a terrestrial, more, ontic, landscape not rendered whole by some inner contemplation: hardly Novalis' broken paradise, though there is no reason to believe the observed, the lived might not have been paradisiacal, were an inner sense of boundness, unifiedness available for Vargaftig.Nor should we imagine that 'gratitude' does not exist, even freedom: but the latter, floating free, adrift as it were upon a sea of 'beance', gaping beingness, may seem more of a handicap than a blessing, provoking 'vacillement', a 'belonging repeat[ing] / The vacillation of a precipice'.Vargaftig's world often remains, yet, on its surface, one of precise presence, fragrances and birds calling across the earth's distances, but there is a nakedness, a minimalness, an ephemeralness everywhere lived, that restore to the experience of presence a silence that does not reassure.If a Pinsonian 'poethical' atmosphere hovers about Vargaftig's work, wrestling with language, unsatisfied with its offerings, seeking yet ever by means of it to attain to some relational worth with self and world, it does not thereby achieve -other than via a pure potentialiry, in the form of some residual Comptes rendus .:.

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