By Simon Charles
C’est dur de faire l’épicerie quand on a envie de rien. Ça le fait exprès : tout goûte le métal et quelqu’un nous dit d’écrire sur le bonheur. Quelqu’un d’autre nous dit d’écrire ce qu’on veut et on se retrouve sur un banc de parc; comme si les plus belles filles allaient arriver toutes seules. Crisse d’achalants. Faut lire du Asimov de temps en temps.
Au départ, c’était une histoire classique. Peine d’amour, remise en query, dépression, bref, toute une gamme de sentiments déjà vus, déjà lus. C’est là que Simon Charles intervient : l’auteur, en alliant versification, narration et jeux langagiers, remet à neuf le récit sentimental dans une forme certain et dépouillée qui frappe et émeut. Aussi réconfortant que stimulant, le livre de Charles vous fera (enfin) redécouvrir les joies d’une histoire d’amour avortée.
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My arm collapsed at my side as the stupid black box landed on the floor with a thump. “What kind of virus do I have? ” His lush, kissable lips dipped into a frown as he bent to pick up the box. ” he asked, ignoring my questions. ” Someone I’ve been in contact with…Ohmygod! I sucked in a breath. Sherridan. And my dad. Had my dad contracted this horrible, probably-going-to-kill-me disease? —days ago. He’d seemed fine, but with his weak heart he wouldn’t be able to fight off an infection this strong.
Bang. Bang. The sound reverberated in my ears. My mouth fell open. He had hit a solid object—a solid object I couldn’t see. An invisible wall? No, not invisible, I realized in the next instant, my shock increasing. The air had somehow solidified, become dappled; opalescent waves rolled through it, rippling, sparkling with dust. That wasn’t possible. That simply wasn’t possible. As I watched, the man threw his shoulder against…whatever it was, rattling its very foundation. What. The. Hell? I’d never seen anything like it, never heard of anything like it.
A stiff, uncomfortable step stool I liked to call the Naughty Chair. File cabinets pressed close on both sides of me, making me feel pinned. I studied Ron. He had thin lips, and right now those lips were pressed tightly together, barely visible slashes of pink in the contours of his rotund face. His sandy hair stood on end, as if he’d plowed his fingers through it one too many times. Lines of tension bracketed his eyes, and his brow was furrowed. Ron had been pissed at me a lot these last few weeks, but he’d never radiated such disgruntled irritation.
Les plus belles filles lisent du Asimov by Simon Charles