There is the son, the mother. Always in italics. And there is the priest, a father, a child. A village called Fond du Puits. Cécile Coulon (A beast in paradise) thus gives, from the outset, the keys to The language of hidden things, those of a tale. Timeless, as it should be; lyrical, as she knows how to do; and bathed in a completely “Caravagian” darkness. The language in question, the son learned it from the mother, that which heals, soothes or accompanies (in) death. Today, he will put it into practice. He hits the road, loaded with doubts and knowledge about men who roar and women who cry. In his A little praise for running, Cécile Coulon said “write while running”. She would have written this book “in a hypnotic, bubbling, feverish state”. This is exactly what we feel when reading this. We enter this short text as we reach the second wind. We arrive at our destination lost (in the forest of stories) and enchanted (by the music of words).
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