Philippe Claudel

Why did I, like thousands of others, have to carry a cross I hadn't chosen, a cross which was not made for my shoulders and which didn't concern me? Who decided to come rummaging around in my obscure existence, invade my gray anonymity, my meager tranquility, and bowl me like a little ball in a great game of skittles? God? Well, in that case, if He exists, if He really exists, let Him hide His face. Let Him put His two hands on His head, and let Him bow down. It may be, as Peiper used to teach us, that many men are unworthy of Him, but now I know that He, too, is unworthy of most of us, and that if the creature is capable of producing horror, it's solely because his Creator has slipped him the recipe for it.

They shall arrive in a murmurAnd shall disappear into fog and earth

It's always been difficult for me to speak and express my innermost thoughts. I prefer to write. When I sit down and write, words grow very docile, they come and feed out of my hand like little birds, and I can do almost what I want with them; whereas when I try to marshal them in open air, they fly away from me.

Την ε_ομένη δεν κο_νήθηκα, _λη μέ_α αναμα_ο__α _ι_ _κέ_ει_ μο_. Σκε___μο_ν _ην ___ο_ία, με κε_αλαία, και _η δική μο_ ι__ο_ία, _η δική μα_. ___οί _ο_ γ_ά_ο_ν _ην ____η γν__ίζο_ν _η δε__ε_η; ___ η μνήμη κά_οι_ν __γκ_α_εί α___ _ο_ άλλοι έ_ο_ν ξε_ά_ει ή δεν _ο είδαν _ο_έ; _οιο_ έ_ει δίκιο, α____ _ο_ είναι α_ο_α_ι_μένο_ να μην εγκα_αλεί_ει __ο _κο_άδι _ο _α_ελθ_ν ή α____ _ο_ _ε_άει __η λήθη _,_ι δεν _ον βολε_ει; _ή___, για να ζή_ει_, για να __νε_ί_ει_ να ζει_, ί___ __έ_ει ν_ α_ο_α_ί_ει_ __ι η __αγμα_ικ__η_α δεν είναι α_ολ____ αληθινή ή μή___ __έ_ει να ε_ιλέξει_ μιαν άλλη __αγμα_ικ__η_α __αν α__ή _ο_ έ_ει_ βι__ει _ο_ είναι δ__βά__α__η; _λλ___ε α___ δεν έκανα __ο ___α___εδο; _εν ε_έλεξα να ζή__ με _ην ανάμνη_η και _ην __ο_δοκία _η_ _μέλια, _ε__ν_α_ _ην καθημε_ιν__η_ά μο_ __ην εξ___αγμα_ικ__η_α _ο_ ε_ιάλ_η; _ή___ η ___ο_ία είναι η μέγι__η αλήθεια __α_μένη α__ εκα_ομμ__ια ξε___ι__ά _έμα_α, ____ οι _αλιέ_ κο_βέ__ε_ _ο_ έ__ια_νε η Φεν_ο_ίν για να μα_ θ_έ_ει __αν ήμο_ν _αιδί και _αίνον_αν καινο__ιε_ και _ανέμο__ε_ μέ_α __ο ο__άνιο __ξο __ν ___μά__ν _ο__, εν_ α_ο_ελο_ν_αν α__ κο__έλια, ανομοιογενή __ήμα_α, μαλλιά αμ_ίβολη_ _οι__η_α_ κι άγν___η_ __οέλε__η_;

...In the end, there's no sort of difference between dying from ignorance and dying under the feet of thousands of men who have regained their freedom. You close your eyes, and then there's nothing anymore. And death is never difficult. It requires neither a hero nor a slave. It eats what it's served.

Saintliness is very odd. When people encounter it, they often take it for something else, something completely unlike it: indifference, mockery, scheming, coldness, insolence, perhaps even contempt. But they're mistaken, and that makes them furious. They commit an awful crime. This is doubtless the reason why most saints end up as martyrs.

Oh little Poupchette, some may tell you that you are nobody's child, a child of defilement, a child begotten in fear and horror. Some may tell you that you are a child of abomination conceived in abomination, a tainted child, a child polluted long before you were born. Do not pay attention to them, my little sweetheart, please do not listen to them; listen to me. I say you are my child and I love you. I sometimes say that out of horror, beauty and purity and grace are born. I say I am your father for ever. I say the loveliest rose can bloom in contaminated soil. I say you are the dawn, the light of all my tomorrows, and the only thing that matters is the promise you represent. I say you are my luck and my forgiveness. My darling Poupchette, I say you are my whole life.