“The bookseller who employs me opened in his middle “La Naissance de la phrase”, by Jean-Christophe Bailly”
I work in a bookstore for a few months. My tasks are multiple and then there is the dust. Very quickly the mission is entrusted to me and the bookseller hands me a cloth. Should I start this spring cleaning in alphabetical order or dusting backwards? How to maintain the exact order of the books during their transport? I decide to attack with French literature.
I grab the last letters of the alphabet and place them on the novelties table. Spray, wipe, rest the works. Certain titles hold me back, authors I don't know. I clean up, open a book of footnotes, The Forbidden, by Wajcman (We, 2002). I go back little by little, linger, discover Workshop 62by Martine Sonnet (The Weather, 2008), the notebooks Day by day, by Paul de Roux (Le Temps qu'il fait, 1986) and surprises me that it is stored away from its particle. The light declines, I accelerate.
I just go out and put books away. Boredom overtakes me. The bookseller then leaves his back room and joins my effort. I'm not far from Aragon when he details his own technique. After emptying a shelf, he grabs the first book from the pile and opens it in the middle, Birth of the sentenceby Jean-Christophe Bailly (Nous, 2020), he reads, "however small-[le poème], however far removed from any will to overhang it may be, it draws on the awakening of language to itself, it is the form made visible and audible of this awakening. Such is its strictly political role (…) ».
The dust does not press. It only serves to seize the works for a moment, a pile of thirty pounds up to the forehead. Dust is the middleman. At the end of the month, when I have cleaned out the last shelf of the last section, literary criticism, then everything will have to start over.
Claire Baglin's first novel, " Indoors "was recently published (Midnight).
Get read! Claire Baglin is the guest of a meeting of the "World", with Yves Harté, Sunday October 2 at 3 p.m., Paul-Scarron Theater.
“My father sticking me in my hands “Dalva”, by Jim Harrison”
I lived in the suburbs of Paris. A small bourgeois and peaceful town, Vincennes. Not far from the house has opened a tiny bookstore with the boat name, but well chosen, Millepages. It was on the corner with rue Raymond-du-Temple, after the creperie, opposite the wine merchant. We loved sneaking around, my sister and I, between the cramped shelves. We chose our children's books there. We were in love with the bookseller, who had rather long hair, but that was a secret. Our parents no longer took off from the store. There they met friends, neighbors, parents of friends. Together, they chattered, commenting on the novelties laid out on the table. The longer it lasted, the more comics we could devour, like so many pages stolen from the attention of booksellers who, in reality, didn't care to see us read without paying.
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