When, at the moment of her last rites, the priest asked my great-grandmother if she was afraid of death, she answered, “Death, Father, I have seen it 17 times.”
Nature has no secret plan. Nature is not a kind organizer. Nature doesn’t give a shit. She does her thing. Drops us through the hole, then waits.
Deslauriers’ work often focuses on adolescence, that fragile, fumbling period when “we are tightrope walkers. Anything can tip us over.”
Marc Séguin vividly describes the mundane but germane moments of being that make up a life.
I’m a saboteur of futures… kind of like being a hitman, except without the bodies.
Writing is demanding, difficult… We can no longer live as before. Our writings remain, our memory spread out before us, our entire life this tangle of writings.
We’d embed ourselves in the Canadian Forces like undercover journalists…beat them at their own game and come out with first-hand knowledge.
La porte du ciel is a bright patchwork. We follow “two little girls under the Louisiana sun, one brown as tea, the other white as milk,” through childhood, adolescence, and the American Civil War.
I was twenty years old when I met Ueno Takami, the Japanese poet. Some said he was a monk, others that he had a wife and two children, still others that he was the president of a large Japanese importing firm.
At the time I didn’t know what the truth was.