As much as possible, I escape the chattering and blotting bonds. I prefer the trees of the forests to the noise of the cities, they make me invisible. The birds are not very talkative, they are content to punctuate the sky. I listen to the waves trembling and sometimes barking as they hit the breakwaters... Why speak, indeed, when everything already speaks in speaking words? Spoken words are born of the imagination, they are a matter of management and communication, and consequently they lie. Its society voraciously swallows words that make noise. The reign of the quantity of words is the eternal present of the spectacle, the programmed and very often encouraged death. We have forgotten that all our passions can only be sensual, they should occupy the place of exception. They make silence heard and watch over secrets. If desire separates, the distance must be maintained so that words, which themselves are distances, can be heard. Failing to symbolize – to make absence bearable – the addiction to transparency through the inflation of communication, it denies the chain of Time and its necessary markers. Our era constructs nothing, it deconstructs speech, which becomes a speech without speech, a speech without self-awareness. Conversely, poetry is like the sea: the dwelling and endless narration of a silence that is not silence. Publication date: June 2, 2025 Order

By a strange twist of fate, a budding writer finds himself thrust into 1920s Paris, where he meets his idol Marcel Proust… François Audouy invites us on a journey into the past, the past of the Belle Époque, but also our own, the most intimate and truest. L'Amour de Proust au Temps du Covid is not a critical essay on Proust, but a tribute through the prism of fiction. The author shares his love of In Search of Lost Time and literature in general, the kind that imprints itself on reality to the point of altering our perceptions. He includes several layers of narratives and literary history as well as references to popular culture, which he cross-references and superimposes to create a new voice. A book about reminiscence cannot be written from the outside. The narrator resurrects his lost years, echoing Proust's memories, using In Search of Lost Time as a guide that illuminates our lives with new meaning. Even if certain moments remain "suspended in the air like unfinished novels", if we no longer take certain "train lines of memories", it is the quest for lost paradises, for the books we are writing, which pushes us forward and keeps us in transit - in Time. Publication date: April 1, 2025 Order

Au début était le mot, et à la fin aussi est le mot.

Ce récit poétique, entre autofiction, journal et anticipation, traque une mémoire fugitive, amoureuse, humaine et artistique, celle d’un passé au futur, advenu de 1995 à 2105. Vrais et faux souvenirs défient les années. Plaisirs ? Angoisses ? De ce vécu subjectif, du je au tu, de ce nous, que reste-t-il ? Les voix semblent répondre à un appel de résistance sereine, à l’instance de ces beautés éphémères, face à une tyrannie sociétale ou technologique. Quel narrateur ou lecteur, résoudra l’énigme de l’avenir et de la planète Terre ? Sommes-nous en train de créer les archives mortifères du monde de demain ? Ici, l’auteur égraine les mots, ou les déploie sur le long fil d’une résonance coïncidence, tel un dessin, possible dessein, à inscrire contre l’amnésie. Îlots et fragments d’existence jalonnent cette narration et tentent une réflexion sur l’être vivant. Face au vertige du néant, quand, donc, et comment, se résoudre au mot fin ?

I begin "I will only speak in the presence of my writing" with the evocation of an "accident" that must occur, in order to trigger this rain of meanings that the poem allows. (I am thinking of Epicurus' clinamen). This evocation is that of a body "struck" by the desire of another body whose blood will stain the plane trees of words. Poetry is an enterprise of rehabilitation of the reality hidden by "too much reality" according to Annie Le Brun's formula; a poem can only be explained by its unreasonable reading, just as we look at a wall, a tree, or a door. The reason for the assembly of words that compose it will become clear when the reader reads it within himself "in all good faith." What we call readability is often what remains in the agreed sense of what must be seen, without reading within oneself the content of one's sight. Once the writing is underway, she chases high above that something that intrigues her, ruffled like a partridge. In partridge there is loss, and what is gained in this rapprochement is the poem. Gilbert Bourson Publication date: December 1, 2023 Order

Mégaligraphies ? S’agirait-il de mégalographies avec des personnages grandeur nature comme ceux de la frise des Mystères de Dionysos à Pompéi, ou bien de figures plus petites comme celles du cubiculum (chambre de repos ou à coucher) qui précède dans la maison antique le fameux salon privé, avec Ménade la prêtresse et Satyre ?  Jacques Satyre s’accompagne ici de la ménade Mégaly homonyme de l’héroïne des Écrits corsetés de John Litter... Mégaly, ivre de mots & de lettres, dont on sait seulement qu’« elle est très haut quand danse la beauté (et que) la nuit fait bien le corps », et qu’elle fait partie du bleu (des Méditerranéennes). Pour le reste, les Mégaligraphies se présentent sur fond de velours alto basso orné d’un motif de couronne surmontée d’une fleur de Tarbes. Qu’on se le dise !

What does our expectation say, when it burns, stripped bare, of finding itself on the edge of a flickering hope, when "we no longer have nights within us"? If being flickers, this in-between is not that of a dark night: the nuances dug, chiseled by the force of words work to mend our tears, working to touch the inflammable to better approach the edifying fervor of consent to the love that leaves us. As much as the drawings of the painter Corine Pagny leave traces of silhouettes/bodies of ourselves on the edge, capsized at the edge, sucked into the center of what remains; as much as the words of the poet challenge us at the tipping point where existence places us to see us return from "disarmament" to "the cut grass that still sings" when it "hems the world to be built". From this composition emerges an atmosphere that Pérémarti had hinted at in his previous publications. This book constitutes a call to our thirst/our hunger for life. Publication: 01/06/2023 >> Order

Roman initiatique aux frontières de l’enquête judiciaire et de la quête psychologique, Framboise exquise pose son regard, dans une écriture fluide et alerte, sur les blessures du cœur et sur les failles post-traumatiques de l’enfance parfois si douloureuse qu’elle en devient amnésique. Les personnages attachants de cette intrigue, Alex le psychologue et Léna en recherche d’elle-même, nous emportent dans leurs investigations par la grâce palpitante d’un récit rondement mené, aussi vertigineux que peut être exquise la framboise...

These few pages recount, day by day, an intimate experience, that of the confinement imposed by the Covid 19 epidemic in March, April, May 2020. I did not want to act as a literary writer, a diarist, or a journalist of the intimate. These are simple chronicles, sometimes funny, sometimes acerbic, sometimes moving, that I posted every day on Facebook. They do not obey any project other than that of finding something to say, while nothing was our daily life. No unity of style or form. That was not my intention. Besides, how can we talk about coherence when what we were experiencing was bordering on the most disheveled absurdity. So I wrote almost for fun, to make my time pass more quickly. DF >> Order

If I write to you tonight from Vienna, I would like you to understand... sang Barbara. In the singer of Minuit, the zinzins often recall letters. It is perhaps this particular, intimate spirit of correspondence that will have touched Louise and Dorine. Letter or song, the two brush against each other to deepen the scope of a message - he who sings of his sorrow is consoled. Power of the letter or power of the song: what matters is perhaps to be met? Hours pass and seasons slip by, the two women write to each other without seeing each other anymore. A year where the mysteries of daily journeys, infatuations, songs, too, and then books are exchanged, in short: anything that can give a little light and let the wild flowers live. zinzins: songs >> Order