{"id":2977,"date":"2020-05-14T16:55:00","date_gmt":"2020-05-14T14:55:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.villagillet.net\/entrez-dans-la-villa\/?p=2977"},"modified":"2020-11-09T10:44:41","modified_gmt":"2020-11-09T09:44:41","slug":"maytime-par-kevin-barry","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.villagillet.net\/entrez-dans-la-villa\/maytime-par-kevin-barry\/","title":{"rendered":"“Maytime”, par Kevin Barry"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\/ version fran\u00e7aise<\/div><\/div>
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\/ version originale<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>\n
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Traduit de l’anglais (Irlande) par Carine Chichereau <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Le printemps se montre lent, froid, parano\u00efaque, pourtant sur les flancs des collines de Curlew, dans le comt\u00e9 de Sligo, les aub\u00e9pines sont en fleurs aujourd\u2019hui, et les hirondelles fusent et virent au-dessus de l\u2019\u00e9tendue grise et immobile du Lough Arrow. Le coucou est de retour dans le champ, de l\u2019autre c\u00f4t\u00e9 de la route. Une rumeur de soleil appara\u00eet au-del\u00e0 des nuages bas, peut-\u00eatre un peu plus tard en ce samedi apr\u00e8s-midi gagnera-t-elle le reste du ciel. On a beaucoup \u00e9crit dans notre folklore au sujet des fleurs d\u2019aub\u00e9pine. On consid\u00e8re que \u00e7a porte malheur de les faire entrer dans les maisons, mais quand on les voit comme \u00e7a, ce drap\u00e9 extravagant qui s\u2019\u00e9tend sur les coteaux leur donne un air bienveillant, comme un enchantement. Il semble avoir sur la campagne l\u2019effet d\u2019un sortil\u00e8ge, et l\u2019\u00e9clat blanc fantomatique qui se r\u00e9pand \u00e0 travers les haies nous annonce plus que tout autre signe que la magie ancienne de l\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9 va bient\u00f4t se manifester.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

C\u2019est la premi\u00e8re semaine o\u00f9 je n\u2019ai pas besoin d\u2019allumer un feu dans ma cellule. Je vis dans un ancien commissariat de police, et mon bureau \u00e9tait autrefois une cellule, sur l\u2019arri\u00e8re-cour. Depuis le d\u00e9but du confinement, je n\u2019ai pas le droit de m\u2019\u00e9loigner de plus de deux kilom\u00e8tres de chez moi, et jamais je ne me suis senti autant en harmonie avec les lieux. Cette partie du monde est belle, tranquille, parfois m\u00e9lancolique \u2013 collines basses, lacs solennels, cieux toujours changeants \u2013 et nos humeurs sont aussi capricieuses que le temps qui nous vient de l\u2019Atlantique. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Les changements quotidiens qui se produisent \u00e0 travers la campagne paraissent minuscules, mais au fil de la semaine, c\u2019est une v\u00e9ritable transformation : le printemps bascule vers l\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9, jusqu\u2019\u00e0 ce qu\u2019ind\u00e9niablement il soit l\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9. Dans le lointain, l\u2019autoroute fait souvent office de couloir de silence ne menant nulle part. On entend les oiseaux chanter, les insectes bruisser, sans oublier le grondement sourd d\u2019un tracteur dans une ferme, et parfois, tard dans la nuit, le jappement \u00e9rotique et sauvage d\u2019une renarde en chaleur. Mais la plupart du temps, c\u2019est si calme ici, \u00e0 pr\u00e9sent, et quand le monde devient aussi tranquille, ce que vous entendez vraiment, alors, c\u2019est vous-m\u00eame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ce qui peut \u00eatre d\u00e9concertant. Quand vous remisez l\u2019armure habituelle de votre travail et de vos ambitions, vos routines et h\u00e2tes quotidiennes, il ne vous reste qu\u2019un mat\u00e9riau cru : vous vous voyez nu, alors vous essayez de comprendre comment vous \u00eates devenu la personne que vous \u00eates. Tout ce que nous tenions pour certain a \u00e9t\u00e9 balay\u00e9, et si vite, et il para\u00eet naturel maintenant de nous examiner sous cette lumi\u00e8re nouvelle, crue et r\u00e9v\u00e9latrice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

En m\u2019y pr\u00eatant moi-m\u00eame, je suis frapp\u00e9 par un \u00e9trange sentiment de nostalgie. Je reviens trente ans en arri\u00e8re, quand j\u2019avais vingt, trente ans, quand la version adulte de moi-m\u00eame \u00e9tait encore embryonnaire. Je vois bien que les traits qui allaient dicter les tons et les notes des ann\u00e9es \u00e0 venir \u00e9taient d\u00e9j\u00e0 l\u00e0. J\u2019avais beau \u00eatre alors agit\u00e9, ne sachant que faire de mes ambitions d\u00e9mesur\u00e9es, j\u2019\u00e9tais d\u2019une obstination utile, dou\u00e9 d\u2019une volont\u00e9 inflexible : je savais que je travaillerais autant qu\u2019il le faudrait, et c\u2019est cela, ainsi que la n\u00e9cessaire mesure de talent naturel, qui m\u2019a permis au bout du compte de devenir \u00e9crivain. Je constate aussi, en y r\u00e9fl\u00e9chissant, qu\u2019il n\u2019y a rien de myst\u00e9rieux dans le style d\u2019un \u00e9crivain : il s\u2019agit de sa personnalit\u00e9 projet\u00e9e directement sur la page, et \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e2ge de vingt ans, il n\u2019y a d\u00e9j\u00e0 plus grand chose \u00e0 y faire. Voil\u00e0 pourquoi la fiction ne peut pas mentir : tout est l\u00e0, sur la page. \u00c9crire de la fiction vous donne aussi l\u2019\u00e9trange illusion que vous pouvez pr\u00e9voir les choses : c\u2019est presque comme si votre \u0153uvre future attendait l\u00e0, comme si elle existait d\u00e9j\u00e0 dans l\u2019avenir. Il vous reste juste \u00e0 d\u00e9terrer les histoires tandis que vous cheminez \u00e0 travers la vie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mais en cette saison, je me laisse distraire de mon travail par les choses les plus infimes, une araign\u00e9e qui tisse patiemment sa toile sur le toit de ma cellule, la rumeur que la brise emporte par-dessus les champs de roseaux qui m\u00e8nent jusqu\u2019au lac. Un \u00e9crivain travaille \u00e0 partir de son inconscient \u2013 la fiction na\u00eet au m\u00eame endroit que les r\u00eaves \u2013, mais il est clair que l\u2019inconscient est infest\u00e9 par le virus. Nous faisons tous des r\u00eaves si vifs et si \u00e9tranges. Il n\u2019y a rien d\u2019\u00e9tonnant \u00e0 ce que le travail s\u2019op\u00e8re si lentement, avec tant de difficult\u00e9s. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Les \u00e9crivains, par nature, sont pers\u00e9v\u00e9rants. L\u2019\u0153uvre se con\u00e7oit rarement dans la facilit\u00e9, et la plupart des \u00e9crivains se montrent \u00e0 juste titre suspicieux quand c\u2019est le cas. Nous \u00e9crivons non pas parce que c\u2019est amusant, mais parce que nous en \u00e9prouvons le besoin. Nous \u00e9crivons pour devenir des \u00eatres complets, et l\u2019\u00e9criture est avant tout une forme d\u2019\u00e9coute ; c\u2019est un moyen d\u2019entendre les bruits des royaumes futurs au moment m\u00eame o\u00f9 ils se forment. Ainsi pouvons-nous peut-\u00eatre aller jusqu\u2019\u00e0 pr\u00e9tendre que nous voyons l\u2019avenir. Et il est une chose que nous pouvons affirmer avec certitude :<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tout ceci trouvera sa fin. <\/p>\n\n<\/div>

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The springtime has been slow and paranoid and cold but on the flanks of the Curlew hills in County Sligo now the whitethorn trees are coming into blossom and the swallows are darting and turning above the grey stillness of Lough Arrow. The cuckoo is back in the field across the road. There is a rumour of sunlight just beyond the low cloudbank and maybe later this Saturday afternoon it will break through. Much has been written in our folklore about the whitethorn blossom. It is considered bad luck to bring its flowers into the house but when it is seen like this, draped extravagantly across the sides of the hills, it gives a benevolent feeling, like an occult charm. It seems to work on the countryside a kind of witch\u2019s spell, and the ghostly white gleaming that spills across the hedgerows lets us know more than anything else that summer\u2019s old magic is about to push through again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s the first week that I haven\u2019t had to light a fire in the holding cell. I live in an old police barracks here, and my work-room was once a cell out in the back yards. In lockdown, I have been confined to within two kilometres of the barracks, and I have never been so attuned to the place before. It\u2019s a quiet, lovely, sometimes melancholy part of the world \u2013 low hills, solemn lakes, ever-changing skies \u2013 and our moods are as capricious as the weather that comes in from the Atlantic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 The daily changes to the countryside seem minute but inside a week they are transforming \u2013 the springtime tilts at summer until unquestionably it has become it. In the distance, the motorway is as often as not a silent passage to nowhere. We hear the birdsong and even the insect life and the occasional low grumbling of a tractor from one of the farms and maybe, late at night, the mad erotic screeching of a vixen in heat. But mostly it is so quiet here now, and when the world grows as quiet as this what you can really hear is yourself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

       This can be disconcerting. When you strip away the usual armour of your work and your ambition, your routines and your daily hustle, you are left with the raw material \u2013 you see yourself in bareness, and you try to figure out how you became the person you are. All that we held certain has been swept aside, and so swiftly, and it feels like a natural thing now to examine ourselves in this new, harsh and revealing light. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I do so myself, I have been struck by an odd sense of nostalgia. I keep thinking back thirty years, to when I was 20 or so, when the adult version of myself was still in embryo almost. I can see that the traits that would dictate the tones and notes of the ensuing years were already in place. Even if I was very skittish back then, and uncertain what to do with or what to make of my vaulting ambition, I had a useful stubborn streak, a sense of dogged resolve; I knew that I would always put the work in, and it was this, along with the neccessary measure of natural ability, that would allow me to eventually make my way as a writer. I can see also, as I think back, that there is nothing at all mysterious about a writer\u2019s prose style \u2013 it is merely the personality projected directly and unerringly onto the page, and by the age of 20, there is already nothing much you can do about your personality. This is the reason you cannot lie in fiction: it all comes out on the page. Writing fiction also gives the strange illusion that you can foresee things \u2013 it\u2019s almost as if your future work is out there waiting, as if it is fixed in future time. You just have to unearth the stories as you go along through life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

       But I am distracted from my work this season by the smallest of things, by a spider patiently from the roof of the holding cell spinning its web, by the gossip of breeze across the reed fields that lead down to the lake. A writer makes his work from the subconscious mind \u2013 fiction comes from the same place that our dreams come from \u2013 but it is clear that the subconscious has been infested by the virus. We have all been having such strange and vivid dreams. It is no wonder, really, that the work is coming so slowly and with difficulty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

        Writers, by our natures, persevere. The work rarely comes easily, and most writers are rightly suspicious of it when it does. We write not because it\u2019s fun but because we have to. We write to make ourselves whole, and writing is above all a form of listening; it is a means of listening to the sounds of future realms even as they form. In this way, we can perhaps even claim to see into the future. And there is one thing now that we can say with certainty \u2013<\/p>\n\n\n\n

       All of this will pass.<\/p>\n\n<\/div><\/div>\n <\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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