Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Advice to be an avant-garde Christmas tree

If you want to be an avant-garde Christmas tree and set up on your own, be on the right place just before everyone and don't forget to write a beautiful date everywhere : 

*** The Twenty-third of December, 2014 ***
Merry Christmas and happy new year!

Tuesday, December 9, 2014


All these dreams that are going close to us and that we are letting through.

Sunday, November 9, 2014


Les plaisirs nous suivront désormais ;
Nous allons voir nos désirs satisfaits.
Vivons sans alarmes,
Vivons tous en paix.
Revenez, reprenez tous vos charmes,
Jeux innocents, revenez pour jamais.
Il est temps que l'aurore vermeille
Cède au soleil, qui marche sur ses pas ;
Tout brille ici-bas.
Il est temps que chacun se réveille ;
L'amour ne dort pas,
Tout sent ses appas.
L'aimable Zéphire
Pour Flore soupire ;
Dans un si beau jour,
Tout parle d'amour.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Emile Zola

The sad, solemn atmosphere, which he had breathed from childhood, gave Silvere a strong heart, in which gathered every form of enthusiasm. He early became a serious, thoughtful little man, seeking instruction with a kind of stubbornness. He only learnt a little spelling and arithmetic at the school of the Christian Brothers, which he was compelled to leave when he was but twelve years old, on account of his apprenticeship. He never acquired the first rudiments of knowledge. However, he read all the odd volumes which fell into his hands, and thus provided himself with strange equipment; he had some notions of a multitude of subjects, ill-digested notions, which he could never classify distinctly in his head. When he was quite young, he had been in the habit of playing in the workshop of a master wheelwright, a worthy man named Vian, who lived at the entrance of the blind-alley in front of the Aire Saint-Mittre where he stored his timber. Silvere used to jump up on the wheels of the tilted carts undergoing repair, and amuse himself by dragging about the heavy tools which his tiny hands could scarcely lift. One of his greatest pleasures, too, was to assist the workmen by holding some piece of wood for them, or bringing them the iron-work which they required. When he had grown older he naturally became apprenticed to Vian. The latter had taken a liking to the little fellow who was always kicking about his heels, and asked Adelaide to let him come, refusing to take anything for his board and lodging. Silvere eagerly accepted, already foreseeing the time when he would be able to make his poor aunt Dide some return for all she had spent upon him.

In a short time he became an excellent workman. He cherished, however, much higher ambitions. Having once seen, at a coachbuilder's at Plassans, a fine new carriage, shining with varnish, he vowed that he would one day build carriages himself. He remembered this carriage as a rare and unique work of art, an ideal towards which his aspirations should tend. The tilted carts at which he worked in Vian's shop, those carts which he had lovingly cherished, now seemed unworthy of his affections. He began to attend the local drawing-school, where he formed a connection with a youngster who had left college, and who lent him an old treatise on geometry. He plunged into this study without a guide, racking his brains for weeks together in order to grasp the simplest problem in the world. In this matter he gradually became one of those learned workmen who can hardly sign their name and yet talk about algebra as though it were an intimate friend.

Nothing unsettles the mind so much as this desultory kind of education, which reposes on no firm basis. Most frequently such scraps of knowledge convey an absolutely false idea of the highest truths, and render persons of limited intellect insufferably stupid. In Silvere's case, however, his scraps of stolen knowledge only augmented his liberal aspirations. He was conscious of horizons which at present remained closed to him. He formed for himself divine conceptions of things beyond his reach, and lived on, regarding in a deep, innocent, religious way the noble thoughts and grand conceptions towards which he was raising himself, but which he could not as yet comprehend. He was one of the simple-minded, one whose simplicity was divine, and who had remained on the threshold of the temple, kneeling before the tapers which from a distance he took for stars.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Edith Carnavalis

Tu as des milliers de choses à faire, et tu ne fais rien. Laver, ranger, acheter à manger, dormir à des heures raisonnables, ne pas fumer avant 21h. Ne pas rester sur une seule idée. Considérer la vie comme un exercice.

Écrire, écrire, écrire.

Take a drag and go ahead.

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Béatrix Beck

Les zobs secs, c'est triste, je n'en veux pas.
Je me dis "Cesse donc d'être insignifiante." Ma taupe est triste, je n'en ai qu'une et je veux la sauver. Ma mort radote, je n'écoute que mon courage mais ne comprends pas son langage.
J'appelle un chat un chat et un mort un macchabée. D'une main sûre il (le romancier ? Dieu ?) conduit ses personnages à la mort. Vie, salle d'attente angoissée.
J'ai aimé le pain, l'eau et le sel. Je serai froide mais n'aurai jamais froid. Je brûlerai et ne sentirai rien.
Suis-je un seul dieu comme l'affirme le catéchisme, ou plusieurs ? L'embryon rêve au sein de la princesse, le fœtus vogue au sein de la drôlesse. J'ai sucé l'unique sein de l'amazone.
Un enfant est déclaré, comme une maladie ou une guerre.
Le calendrier est un autre temps, lequel choisir ?
J'ai l'âge de la pierre polie, courtoise même.
Je n'ai pas de sexe pourtant je ne suis pas un ange. Les zobs secs de qui ?
Ils peuvent me mettre une robe, un pantalon, une djellaba, une camisole de force, une robe de cendres comme pour une pomme de terre, un rien m'habille.
Seule comme le ver solitaire. Créée par génération spontanée. Par scissiparité.
Dormant dans les bras des statues, buvant la pluie, mangeant le pain des cygnes.
Je pleus, je brume, je neige. Suis un bonhomme de neige éternel.
Les deux pieds sur terre, ou les quatre pattes, comme un petit enfant.
Je suis sœur siamoise, découplée au cadavre de ma semblable.
Ne sont pas faciles à dresser toutes ces dames qui s'occupaient de moi, elles n'avaient rien de mieux à faire.


Monday, September 8, 2014

The Start of The New Writing Era

What is writing today at the Time of Perfect Virtuality and at the Edge of Artificial Intelligence?

Are we the last humans or the first robots?

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Julien Gracq

Il y a dans notre vie des matins privilégiés où l’avertissement nous parvient, où dès l’éveil résonne pour nous, à travers une flânerie désœuvrée qui se prolonge, une note grave, comme on s’attarde, le cœur brouillé, à manier un à un les objets familiers de sa chambre à l’instant d’un grand départ. Quelque chose comme une alerte lointaine se glisse jusqu’à nous dans ce vide clair du matin plus rempli de présages que les songes ; c’est peut-être le bruit d’un pas isolé sur le pavé des rues, ou le premier cri d’un oiseau parvenu faiblement à travers le denier sommeil ; mais ce bruit de pas éveille dans l’âme une résonance de cathédrale vide, ce cri passe comme sur les espaces du large, et l’oreille se tend dans le silence sur un vide en nous qui soudain n’a pas plus d’écho que la mer. Notre âme s’est purgée de ses rumeurs et du brouhaha de foule qui l’habite ; une note fondamentale se réjouit en elle qui en éveille l’exacte capacité. Dans la mesure intime de la vie qui nous est rendue, nous renaissons à notre force et à notre joie, mais parfois cette note est grave et nous surprend comme le pas d’un promeneur qui fait résonner une caverne : c’est qu’une brèche s’est ouverte pendant notre sommeil, qu’une paroi nouvelle s’est effondrée sous la poussée de nos songes, et qu’il nous faudra vivre maintenant pour de longs jours comme dans un chambre familière dont la porte battrait inopinément sur une grotte.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Ghost In The Phone - Episode Two

A thunder was growing at the edge of the fifty thousand feet of darkness. His first meeting was at 9:00 am. It was what he called his favorite assistant working pastime. All of the assistants were having a weekly meeting just to share with everybody how advanced were their individual projects. Yes, he was working on it. No, she was waiting for a back call from an impolite person. Crap. Good luck. Two hours. These two hours were floating around him. Inside, outside. Very far memories were coming to him as ancient pictures. He played with them answering just to the yes or no questions, and sometimes by inaudible waitings for and workings on. Each of the answers were right. So he could essentially listen and if something was missing in a professional process he always was asking what was wrong, why people who had to do something had missed this, or this, or this important job step. That made him feeling more steady to be perfectionist and alarmist. It was like his old building sets. A game.

He sat down before his computer which was put on the table and waiting to be switched on. Five or six bells were telling him that a hail of unread emails would have been to be read; but before reading them he had to send all of the answers he made during the night when nobody sends any mail because nobody has to know that someone is writing emails at 4:00 am instead of sleeping. 7:30 am was a better time. Sleeping before sending. He checked again how he had organized the list of his contacts and remembered again his own rules. Friends : women before, in alphabetical order of nicknames. Alissia, lolA, Zelda, and two or three one more. Work : women before, in alphabetical order of names. Rosa, Rosae, Rosam, and the rest of a kind of specific list. Formal Network : women before, the one above the other. Witches, Director 1, Director 2, Senior managers, Dwarfs. Social Network : in order of coming. Someone, Someone else. A world of (wo)men. Sending mails, drinking coffee, staring at the sky through the dusty window where a new Moon was arising, continuing sharing news from the World, drinking coffee, drinking coffee. Drinking coffee.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

Régine Detambel

Un démon a une activité frénétique et passe son temps en bondissements. Toujours là pour les hommes, à l'arrivée comme au départ. Les défunts, ça ne fait pas une carrière mais, puisqu'il faut des noms, je suis, si j'ai bonne mémoire, et entre des millions d'autres, le démon familier des restes méconnaissables de Pépin le Bref, d'Innocent II (j'ai toujours éprouvé une vraie joie à foutre en l'air des papes), d'Isabeau de Bavière (cette conne piriforme), de Paracelse, farouche avec son collier de barbe fauve, et mort à la fois d'un cancer et d'une fracture de l'os temporal, de dom Pierre Pérignon (j'ai champagnisé son âme, quel grand moment ce fut), d'André Grétry, de quelques autres singes parlants et petits malins, du samouraï Takamori Saigo, des quatre-vingt-huit témoins de Jéhovah qui ont brûlé ce jeudi-là dans les fours nazis, de Françoise Sagan, d'André Gorz (un samouraï, lui aussi), de Nelly Arcan (la pauvre petite, dire que j'en ai tiré satisfaction serait forcer la vérité), sans préjudice de tous les agonisants du sida et du tréponème pâle, avec lesquels on peut d'ores et déjà converser sur Facebook, réseau social pour les morts.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

Gertrude Stein

You always have in your writing the resistance outside of you and inside of you, a shadow upon you, and the thing which you must express. In the beginning of your writing, the struggle is so tremendous that the result is ugly; and that is the reason why the followers are always accepted before the person who made the revolution. The person who has made the fight probably makes it seem ugly, although the struggle has the much greater beauty. But the followers die out; and the man who made the struggle and the quality of beauty remains in the intensity of the fight. Eventually it comes out all right, and so you have this queer situation which always happens with the followers: the original person has to have in him a certain element of ugliness. You know that is what happens over and over again: the statement made that it is ugly — the statement made against me for the last twenty years. And they are quite right, because it is ugly. But the essence of that ugliness is the thing which will always make it beautiful. I myself think it is much more interesting when it seems ugly, because in it you see the element of the fight. 

Monday, February 10, 2014

The Factory - [MAP] Rights 01

You have the right to share, to analyze, to comment, to try, to write.
You have the right.
To publish.

In the freedom of your will.
In the respect of our needs.

Everybody becomes the same rights.

Friday, February 7, 2014

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

The Factory - [MAP] foundation

A member is one of the members' plenary assembly [MAP].
Each of them becomes one vote for all of the Structural questions concerning [MAP].
Each of them becomes the right to be informed.
Each of them becomes the right to be opposed.
Each of them becomes the right to be represented.
Each of them becomes the right.

To read.

His rights.

Everybody becomes the same right.

To read.

His rights.

<= STOP =>

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Ghost In The Phone — Episode One

A Beautiful Opening Day

Day ON.

His first emotion as he opened his eyes was that the current day was the most beautiful one of his entire life. Yesterday was a draft. As a code, he sang for himself a kind of Josephine Baker’s J’ai deux amours, and he opened the day as he opened a door, widely ready to live something new with a very inspiring and a very hopeful smile. C’qui m’ensorcelle, c’est Paris, c'est Paris tout entier. Thirty seconds after he got up he was already reading his program on his phone. Colors were telling him what kinds of deadlines were coming. Spearmint for his working task. Orange for his assistant work. Purple for his friends. Red for his own project. Grey for his own deadlines. He needed first assimilating his four mugs of coffee. The Coffee-machine’s self operating program was set up at 6:00 am for a long day, and at 7:00 am for normal days. Today was a normal day. Five minutes before the time, he was here, in waiting, waiting for the program to begin. It was time to look at all of the papers and books, left in front of the Coffee-machine just to be read during these five minutes. They could be news from friends, news from the World, exercises of memorization. Sometimes just the memories of reviving facts, events, yesterdays. Boys. Friends. He needed to remember his past life to ensure himself that he could bear his coming life, and needed to drink quietly a just-a-little-bit-moistened first mug of coffee. Quietly, just after having been a little bit moistened. So, he was waiting for the program to begin. The radio was broadcasting his first morning scandals. Today, the favorite player of a favorite football team was found dead, and nobody was able to tell what happened during the day before, on The Twenty-second of January, 2014. It could just be a suicide, but it wasn't really understanding. He looked at his colored daily program on his phone, and he knew now if he would have or not the teleorganic time to give to his headache a chance to disappear. Yes. One pill. No. Two pills.

Episode Two

Monday, January 27, 2014

@rycholiver.org — copyright 2014

@rycholiver.org is a free web publishing program whose goals are to spread the to-day French literature in English and in French.

His first FlyIng series has been created on a very beautiful date : The Twenty-second of January, 2014.

The series is directed by OLIVER @rycholiver.org.

Friday, January 24, 2014

The Factory - ideas

We are just selling Acts of Intelligence.
Orders for Creations.
All of them are just considering our needs.
1. Time for practicing.
2. Time for writing.

1. 2. 3. Time for sharing.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Hélène Bessette

I'm not coming for seeing.
What everybody is coming to see.
From lakes of tears I didn't have seen anything in the first evening.
I'm not coming for spending the riviera yachting and cordiera long holidays.
I will not pitch my tent in the hauteur. From the faraway glaciers I will not see anything.
If it's raining. While a train is speeding.
In the shadow.
At the edge of lakes of tears. In the evening
when I arrived.
From the arrival time.
From my rain color eyes.
I see the World through his fog.
The big tourism with bad flash light.
It bad light the way.
In a singular lighting.
I am sad.
That's why.
Because perhaps it isn't raining. I'm fabulating. Dull mood.
Sulky glows.
The slow train with faded colors.
The insipid lights of unknown stations.
Why am I here?
I couldn't tell it.
If I will. It will be useless.
Could you understand it?
You will not believe me. Even if I would tell it.
Therefore I don't tell.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

The Factory

The Factory is perfect.
His structure has never been destabilized.
One rule : Equality.

You will enter in the Factory through the same way as everybody else: searching, because searching is the only way of Equality.

Second rule : no unvoted profits.
Third rule : no advertisement.

The Factory is a perfect democracy.
His structure has never been destabilized.
One rule : Equality.

<= STOP =>