The great French writer Christian Bobin left us last November. To announce his death, his publisher, Antoine Gallimard, wrote: “Let’s read Bobin, he cures us of sadness. I agree with this idea that his writing, focused on the wonders of everyday life, was good. It warmed up, just like a hot drink, but without a marshmallow.
I discovered this author via a literature teacher at Cégep de Saint-Laurent. When the death of Bobin, this man of joy, was announced, I naturally reopened his books, and in particular the one that was my gateway to his work: Self-Portrait at the Radiator, a diary where he collects his distresses, but above all his enchantments. And in the ray of wonders, there is one that I have never forgotten. Bobin describes a man with bowling who does nothing but scuppers, and who laughs at his clumsiness with overwhelming joy. A prince of bad students. “His gaiety follows me long after in the evening: paradise must resemble this scene of frivolous life. Paradise must be made of this mixture, exactly: childish joy and awkwardness, with, in the distance, eternal truths like serene, unshakable bowling pins. When I was 18, when I read these words, I was entering adulthood and I said to myself: I want to become this man capable of admiring the miracle of living. And this miracle includes all the scuppers in the world. I turned 40 this year and my wonder is doing well. Thank you, Bobin; seeing my balls deviate in the trenches often brings me a lot of laughs.
It was also at 18 that I started highlighting in my books with blue marker, and today I like to hear from what has affected me in the past. Reread by highlighting in another color to measure my human evolution. What touched me at the time sometimes bypasses me now, whereas what seemed banal to me often takes on its full meaning today. A passage was doubly underlined – by the Simon that I am and the one that I was: “In the kitchen, two roses are deep in conversation, leaning on each other. When I leave the apartment, I look at them and I have the feeling of leaving leaving the light. »
I look in a glass at a dried rose monologue in front of me, somewhere in my library. This flower, although decrepit, represents the most beautiful of my year and my era.
Flashback : two months ago, I went to see JS Tenderness at Place des Arts, a show that gave chills. I was treated to a vocal potpourri of the most beautiful tessitura of my childhood: Martine St-Clair, Marie Carmen, Marie Denise Pelletier, Johanne Blouin, Joe Bocan… At a certain moment, during the performance, the flamboyant Joe threw roses in the audience. I was far from my profit, but my heart was happy, in the rows further back.
After the show, in the lobby, a man smiled at me, excited to recognize me from the TV. I saw him whisper something in his wife’s ear, take back the rose he had probably grabbed and offered to her, after she nodded knowingly. He then came towards me, handing me the flower, then said to me: “I love you very much. I don’t know if it’s done, that a man gives a rose to another man, but I’m tempted. I answered him: “It can be certain. His wife, in the distance, waved her hand at me, proud of her husband’s gesture. I levitated out of the theater like a helium rose.
Later, in the subway, on the way to my station, a young man, visibly drunk, his chin curled up against his girlfriend’s head, was staring at me and my rose. So much that I felt uncomfortable. Stealthily, I had a vision that he was going to get up and beat me up. A rose in your hands is no size armor. Nor a serious weapon. The young man ended up talking to me. “Do you have a date a night ? Are you going to give this to a girl? he asked me, amused. And I decided to answer honestly: “No, a man just gave it to me. »
In my head, worries collided like bingo balls in an abacus: why didn’t you lie? He will certainly pull me by the collar. Push me to the ground. Snatch my rose. Despise me. But instead, he answered, all smiles: “Wow! Even better ! Lucky, man! Lucky, yes.
When I got home, I had already decided that this rose would have an extended life beyond its withering. This flower, even crumpled, monologues in her glass with her quavering voice of an elderly person. But the important thing is there: his sight, like Bobin’s books, cures me of the ambient sadness.