La Panne

Le Regard Libre N° 41 - Thierry Fivaz

I was stunned when my friend and editor-in-chief of this magazine reminded me that I had to write a column for him in this month's issue. An exercise that would normally have delighted me, but which, frankly, left me deeply embarrassed. Sea air has always had a soothing, almost anaesthetic effect on me. And in the three weeks I've been inhaling it in high doses, I've been transformed into a calm, serene being. In other words: insipid, uninteresting and particularly boring.

Having no doubt misplaced any original ideas in one of those little red-and-white cabins that dot the beaches, I was faced with the following problem: what on earth could I possibly write about? It's always surprising how, when life is good and the bad days are far away, we seem to find it impossible to come up with anything interesting to write about. How, then, to captivate the reader of these pages who, with an expert and discerning eye, will lay eyes on this chronicle? That was my problem. How could I get rid of it, how could I find a subject that would both set me apart and be fun to write about? I had to admit the obvious: I'd run out of ideas.

Fortunately, as usual, life worked mysteriously but totally reliably in my favor and brought me, on a silver platter, the subject I had been looking for. It's not for me to imagine that the subjects and other incredible stories that fill the pages of books and newspapers just fall from the sky. Anyone who says otherwise would simply be a liar, an inconsistent person or a vile scoundrel; for most of the time, not to say systematically, the origin of a good story lies outside the mind.

Jumping at the chance, the Pointilleux is sure to ask a crucial question: if good ideas are external to the mind, does this mean that we discover these ideas as Christopher Columbus once discovered America? In short," he quips, "does this mean that ideas are hovering above our heads, and that we come here and there to pick them up at random, rather like a fisherman sniffing out a good line? Naturally, as you'd expect, Le Pointilleux will be reprimanded for going too far and deliberately ignoring the metaphorical aspect of the situation in order to surreptitiously introduce a debate that we have no intention of taking part in here.

Luckily, the Poet will immediately grasp what we mean by this. How many times has he tried it himself? The seasoned poet knows it all too well, and sometimes even tires of it. As for the novice poet, it's always with emotion that he recounts this curious and particularly exhilarating sensation. The one that comes when, with his mind on the alert, he finally catches that idea, his idea. Often too brief, this fleeting, jubilant moment is for many poets synonymous with wonder. Here he is, a mere mortal, becoming for a fraction of a second God's violin.

That said, the Curious and the Impatient reading this review will soon be wondering, after all, what such a wonderful subject life, in its constant unpredictability, would have served me up on a silver platter. The promise did indeed seem promising. To this, I would reply that they might hold my famous subject in their hands. «What an idiot,» they'd say. Yes, that's right, an idiot. A broken-down idiot.

Write to the author : thierry.fivaz@leregardlibre.com