Disparue le 13 octobre 2023, encore trop peu connue en France malgré un prix Nobel de littérature en 2020, Louise Glück poursuivait son chemin solitaire en poésie, n'appartenant à aucune école et aucune mode.
Tout en retenue, son style est néanmoins de plus en plus narratif. En témoignent ces quinze recettes qui, tantôt sur le mode de la fable, tantôt sur le mode de la bribe autobiographique, racontent la fin d'une vie et les souvenirs qui remontent d'un passeport oublié à un bonsaï qu'on taille.
L'avis des critiques :
Pour Anne Dujin, rédactrice en chef de la revue Esprit, la voix de Louise Glück ne se laisse pas cataloguer, à la fois très retenue et très lyrique, intimiste et réflexive. Par ailleurs, Anne Dujin évoque la présence d'un “je” poétique dispersé, avec des passages entiers qui semblent biographiques, mais dans lesquels le doute s'instille.
le documentariste et auteur Romain de Becdelièvre a beaucoup apprécié l'aspect collectif de cette poésie qui se fait et s'écoute à plusieurs, là où selon lui la poésie est souvent de l'ordre de la solitude et du solipsisme. En outre, il s'est dit touché par “l'hommage rendu à des ancêtres fantasmatiques et imaginaires” dans ce recueil.
#poesie #louisegluck #littérature
__________________
Livres, films, jeux vidéo, spectacles : nos critiques passent au crible les dernières sorties culturelles par ici https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLKpTasoeXDrosjQHaDUfeIvpobt1n0rGe&si=ReFxnhThn6_inAcG
une émission à podcaster aussi par ici https://www.radiofrance.fr/franceculture/podcasts/les-midis-de-culture
Suivez France Culture sur :
Facebook : https://fr-fr.facebook.com/franceculture
Twitter : https://twitter.com/franceculture
Instagram : https://www.instagram.com/franceculture
TikTok : https://www.tiktok.com/@franceculture
Twitch : https://www.twitch.tv/franceculture
Louise Glück/5
3 notes
Résumé :
A ruthlessly probing family portrait in verse, Gluck's sixth poetry collection confronts, with devastating irony, her father's hollow life and her mother's inability to express emotion. This might seem like a daughter's belated rebellion, except that these fierce, rock-strong, deeply felt lyrics are steeled by love and understanding.
étiquettes
Ajouter des étiquettes
Que lire après AraratVoir plus
Citations et extraits (6)
Voir plus
Ajouter une citation
WIDOWS
My mother’s playing cards with my aunt,
Spite and Malice, the family pastime, the game
my grandmother taught all her daughters.
Midsummer: too hot to go out.
Today, my aunt’s ahead; she’s getting the good cards.
My mother’s dragging, having trouble with her concentration.
She can’t get used to her own bed this summer.
She had no trouble last summer,
getting used to the floor. She learned to sleep there
to be near my father.
He was dying; he got a special bed.
My aunt doesn’t give an inch, doesn’t make
allowance for my mother’s weariness.
It’s how they were raised: you show respect by fighting.
To let up insults the opponent.
Each player has one pile to the left, five cards in the hand.
It’s good to stay inside on days like this,
to stay where it’s cool.
And this is better than other games, better than solitaire.
My grandmother thought ahead; she prepared her daughters.
They have cards; they have each other.
They don’t need any more companionship.
All afternoon the game goes on but the sun doesn’t move.
It just keeps beating down, turning the grass yellow.
That’s how it must seem to my mother.
And then, suddenly, something is over.
My aunt’s been at it longer; maybe that’s why she’s playing better.
Her cards evaporate: that’s what you want, that’s the object: in the end,
the one who has nothing wins.
My mother’s playing cards with my aunt,
Spite and Malice, the family pastime, the game
my grandmother taught all her daughters.
Midsummer: too hot to go out.
Today, my aunt’s ahead; she’s getting the good cards.
My mother’s dragging, having trouble with her concentration.
She can’t get used to her own bed this summer.
She had no trouble last summer,
getting used to the floor. She learned to sleep there
to be near my father.
He was dying; he got a special bed.
My aunt doesn’t give an inch, doesn’t make
allowance for my mother’s weariness.
It’s how they were raised: you show respect by fighting.
To let up insults the opponent.
Each player has one pile to the left, five cards in the hand.
It’s good to stay inside on days like this,
to stay where it’s cool.
And this is better than other games, better than solitaire.
My grandmother thought ahead; she prepared her daughters.
They have cards; they have each other.
They don’t need any more companionship.
All afternoon the game goes on but the sun doesn’t move.
It just keeps beating down, turning the grass yellow.
That’s how it must seem to my mother.
And then, suddenly, something is over.
My aunt’s been at it longer; maybe that’s why she’s playing better.
Her cards evaporate: that’s what you want, that’s the object: in the end,
the one who has nothing wins.
BROWN CIRCLE
My mother wants to know
why, if I hate
family so much,
I went ahead and
had one. I don’t
answer my mother.
What I hated
was being a child,
having no choice about
what people I loved.
I don’t love my son
the way I meant to love him.
I thought I’d be
the lover of orchids who finds
red trillium growing
in the pine shade, and doesn’t
touch it, doesn’t need
to possess it. What I am
is the scientist,
who comes to that flower
with a magnifying glass
and doesn’t leave, though
the sun burns a brown
circle of grass around
the flower. Which is
more or less the way
my mother loved me.
I must learn
to forgive my mother,
now that I’m helpless
to spare my son.
My mother wants to know
why, if I hate
family so much,
I went ahead and
had one. I don’t
answer my mother.
What I hated
was being a child,
having no choice about
what people I loved.
I don’t love my son
the way I meant to love him.
I thought I’d be
the lover of orchids who finds
red trillium growing
in the pine shade, and doesn’t
touch it, doesn’t need
to possess it. What I am
is the scientist,
who comes to that flower
with a magnifying glass
and doesn’t leave, though
the sun burns a brown
circle of grass around
the flower. Which is
more or less the way
my mother loved me.
I must learn
to forgive my mother,
now that I’m helpless
to spare my son.
A FANTASY
I’ll tell you something: every day
people are dying. And that’s just the beginning.
Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
trying to decide about this new life.
Then they’re in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They’re frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,
tells them what to do next, which might mean
saying a few words, sometimes
throwing dirt in the open grave.
And after that, everyone goes back to the house,
which is suddenly full of visitors.
The widow sits on the couch, very stately,
so people line up to approach her,
sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her.
She finds something to say to everybody,
thanks them, thanks them for coming.
In her heart, she wants them to go away.
She wants to be back in the cemetery,
back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows
it isn’t possible. But it’s her only hope,
the wish to move backward. And just a little,
not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.
I’ll tell you something: every day
people are dying. And that’s just the beginning.
Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
trying to decide about this new life.
Then they’re in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They’re frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,
tells them what to do next, which might mean
saying a few words, sometimes
throwing dirt in the open grave.
And after that, everyone goes back to the house,
which is suddenly full of visitors.
The widow sits on the couch, very stately,
so people line up to approach her,
sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her.
She finds something to say to everybody,
thanks them, thanks them for coming.
In her heart, she wants them to go away.
She wants to be back in the cemetery,
back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows
it isn’t possible. But it’s her only hope,
the wish to move backward. And just a little,
not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.
CONFESSION
To say I’m without fear—
it wouldn’t be true.
I’m afraid of sickness, humiliation.
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
But I’ve learned to hide them,
to protect myself
from fulfillment: all happiness
attracts the Fates’ anger.
They are sisters, savages—
in the end, they have
no emotion but envy.
To say I’m without fear—
it wouldn’t be true.
I’m afraid of sickness, humiliation.
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
But I’ve learned to hide them,
to protect myself
from fulfillment: all happiness
attracts the Fates’ anger.
They are sisters, savages—
in the end, they have
no emotion but envy.
this, this, is the meaning of
“a fortunate life”: it means
to exist in the present.
“a fortunate life”: it means
to exist in the present.
Videos de Louise Glück (6)
Voir plusAjouter une vidéo
Les plus populaires : Littérature étrangère
Voir plus
Les Dernières Actualités
Voir plus
Autres livres de Louise Glück (17)
Voir plus
Quiz
Voir plus
Freud et les autres...
Combien y a-t-il de leçons sur la psychanalyse selon Freud ?
3
4
5
6
10 questions
434 lecteurs ont répondu
Thèmes :
psychologie
, psychanalyse
, sciences humainesCréer un quiz sur ce livre434 lecteurs ont répondu