Novel A pretty May, in the time of the lilacs
This is not a tale. As for the content, a novel, but passed through the mill of the one who was looking for “time gold”. A novel again, in accordance with the definition that we find over these singular pages which are linked together musically. As for the form, the fictional diary of a contemporary writer and literary critic.
Obviously, “I” is an “other”, and the one who expresses himself in these pages in a direct style goes underground in more ways than one, for an escape, or rather a runaway, to Venice.
In a song by Dick Annegarn, “Paris neurosis” oppose in one “cruel duel” a “Brussels asshole”. Here, the once “light” city contrasts with the “serene” Venice, superlatively, the scene takes place over a fraction of spring.
A new spring is first of all the meeting of the author of this diary with an unexpected love that one sees through bribes and whose name alone, Lila, evokes the season. It is then and above all an ode to literature dressed against devotees and inquisitors of all times, always more or less tartuffes. To this literature which assumes, beyond the spirit of “didactic” regimentation, the “cathartic” and “alethic” function of art, that which recalls its “four truths” to an era and to its readers.
A few demonstrations par l’absurde with Homer and Joyce are thrown into the fray against the current flood of morality in certain sectors of criticism and writing. The imaginary author, who unfortunately remained in Venice, is angry with the “society” identified in an excessively one-sided way with a city where the heart “no longer beats”. Spring is obvious! O May!