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The crime at all costs

Drawing Roland Topor

Upon its release in Plon in 1954, the crime goes unnoticed. Beforehand, he had been refused by Gallimard, who judged the work too lyrical, too bushy. Since February 2008, we can rediscover the romance and unbridled unclassifiable editions of The Last Drop.

"As usual, I I saw great progress in the ice corridor. I stayed a few seconds looking at my reflection. I would gladly have believed a stranger lurking there for hours, an enemy, certainly, who had just appeared to surprise me, face me without saying anything, just wondering accounts. I looked at him insistently. I saw those eyes that seemed to search despite the certainty that there could be no solution, these features sliced raw in the flesh, the color of ash that stuck to the skin, then the air without any flicker of hope find support. I accepted. I found myself worrying more a stranger, I was afraid to be alone in this mask, only vis-à-vis the anguish when by chance I pressed the surprise in other mirrors. "

In Jacques Sternberg, character names sounds like an original curse. Habner it is called or Havn, it is used to a firm unknown or anonymous unemployed recently sacked, the narrator is hopelessly caught up in a society that fear, a victim of its own weight daily, his invariable torpor. Forced to cold and precise analysis of world as it stands, with its machinery and inert disconcerting Havne realizes he is incarcerated in a sort of open-air prison, cold and devoid of loopholes.
Each parcel of its environment confronts a universe which fathom scathing look.
The office where he just completed his last day of work, with its paperwork foul, his insipid lot of letters from colleagues and detestable, preserves the remains of a schedule just as dull his attic and furniture nailed floor, the stairwells immutable buildings that line borrowed their uniform facades and the streets desperately parallel overlapping in an intersection of all nonsense. Unable to find a role in its layout, a place in his device, Havne to flee at any cost. But how to extricate himself from a prison with no emergency exit, where each square meter is only a reflection of his own captivity? By breaking the mirrors that return the illusion of a possible line of flight and, ultimately confuse offering a shocking reflection of reality? Counteracting the organization metronomic city? In rebelling against the absurdity that seems symptomatic govern?

Roland Topor

The city in Sternberg seems to exist only to confirm the impotence of his character to exist by itself. Asphyxiated, the mind starts to blow up the inertia of the set to see new opportunities to escape. A poster advertising becomes the gateway to a dimension where an infinity of galvanizing events occurs in a fraction of a second. The sale of a newspaper run by a kid shouting loudly at the foot of the tower wake up on her hope of a resurrection in the press.
Faced with a crisis of identity, Havne considering a crime that would trigger a outlet in the infernal machinery.
Unfortunately, the most insolent harm can not be distinguished from the mass of his fellows. When it breaks a crystal vase and is asked to pay is double the price he decides to pay in order to enjoy the ineffable pleasure to shatter into a thousand pieces another witness to his condition demeaning . The two vases unfortunate engulfed half of his monthly income and the gesture of revolt, which would have given him a moment at least the illusion of assertiveness, condemns finally become aware of the misery of his situation in the Gear treacherous society. If
petty theft is not enough to attract attention, most sordid crimes also did not allow access to snippets of the evening edition stating the facts different from the previous day. In The Insider, the words chanted at once the insurrection of his character and his inability to escape the nightmarish quagmire in which the evil bog down inexorably. In vain they seek to exorcise the inconsistency that captured the urban landscape since the city center, interactive par excellence, is deserted by its inhabitants. With slot machines without interest, its windows quake, cinemas dilapidated, she recalls now a cemetery where the money has lost its raison d'etre.
Depopulated, deprived of its power, the city is so light on his paradox in a fireworks show done by a bomb ghostly, with each feat has the effect of a damp squib.
Under these conditions, the crime remains the most glaring perseverance.

• Read: The Hit Jacques Sternberg (1954) proposed a new edition in 2008 by the last drop (preface by Jean-Baptiste Baronian )

How To Plan Sorority Initiation

Sebastian Ingrosso on the new album from Madonna?

As the planet

Madonna is calm, behold Marc Andrews, editor of DNA and assistant to Mediaweek, is launching a new rumor via her Twitter.

"Sebastian Ingrosso Swedish House Mafia from told me he had a new album in preparation for Madonna, but he was not involved. Not yet."

An album sounding electro-pop? It is still far ... In the meantime, find "One", the tube that a hit at this moment of Swedish House Mafia, featuring some Pharrell ...

Swedish House Mafia feat. Pharrell - "One"

Source: Twitter Marc Andrews

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The invention face the inquisition

Mervyn Peake in Lilliput

The last drop publishing house that is no longer in his first attempt, offering us an unpublished translation of a German author unknown, Jakob Wassermann (1873-1934) with a reputation, as the hero who will be presented, to be a formidable storyteller.

"He had the audacity because his way of expressing had become gradually more rounded and fluid, which intoxicated himself, like a swimmer may be, by its own flexibility pronounced more reckless and tough. He had daily knowledge of new words and new names, features, colors, situations, events. Words pounced on him so much he had the impression of being under a waterfall preventing it from breathing. All things between heaven and earth were caught in them could be thrown into chaos as pawns in a game: each meant something, set itself up behind each event. Their sequences and their links were infinite, a thousand ways, they bruised the heart or led him to rejoice. "

We are in a province of Bavaria in the seventeenth century AD while the Holy Inquisition rages, the slightest deviance speculative motive makes the offending subject to the disgrace, the torture of interrogation during which the latter will recognize his alleged misdeeds, failing which it will pay a heavy price for his disobedience to the holy path and his loyalty to the devil. Then a little hellion will interfere in the daily lives of local people by declaiming loudly and snippets of stories that stun and sow discord in the distilling of spirits in this poisonous atmosphere. Disowned scion an illustrious line of Franconia, Ernest has a few tricks in his bag of tricks. Storyteller early victim of his vigils enchanting bathed in light of a thousand and one stories, he likes knitting stories reviving the imagination of his audience to perceive the feverish expectation aroused by the word outstanding. More than anything, the more delicious pleasure is to realize the credulity of those who listen. For him, the passion of the narrative is devoid of intention, based primarily on the joy of invention and the reaction of those who lend an ear.

Philip Adolphus, Bishop of Wurzburg, guarantees of the Inquisition that raged here in Bavaria as elsewhere throughout Germany. He must maintain it with a lot of threats, abuse, torture or pyres grim way of punctuating the daily life of this country plunged into a medieval terror and torpor in which bogged down in indolence unfit to revolt against the countless accusations of witchcraft. Punishment and other awards are all listed in a registry that legitimizes injustices perpetrated. Even in the heart of this relentless maniac, must be justified in writing what has been decided by a signature that can irreparably a cleaver.

Beside her, the father Gropp, uncompromising servant of the established order, and demagogue broke all ploys to convince his interlocutor, used and abused his influence to the bishop to submit to his whims. When it begins to fantasize, unlike the young Ernest, what anime is not so much the desire to see the reaction of the naive listener, but rather the pride of subjecting the victim in fear of his nonsense.
If one is a genuine storyteller, the other is a teller of tall tales sordid. And the author will show us the striking difference between the two personalities.

Baroness, Theodate Ehrenberg, step-sister of Adolphe Philippe, drowning in debt that has left her husband at the time of disappearance, and had to give, in spite of herself, raising her offspring to a tutor. It takes one day the road that leads to the castle of Ehrenberg, to join him. Over time, the kid has acquired an aura that mesmerizes his relatives. Inevitably, his uncle also will fall under the sway of his charm, detrimental to the inflexibility imposed by its function.

I do not unveil much more about following this story with clarity and spirit of recklessness that would emerge, despite the morbid adventures are recounted to us, are remarkably transcribed by the two translators, Dina and Nathalie Regnier Sikiric Eberhardt.

* Read to the last drop editions: confabulation Jakob Wassermann, translated from German by Dina Regnier SikiricNathalie Eberhardt, prefaced by Stephane Michaud .
* Anne-Francoise welcomes storyteller as it should
* Nikola talking about the storyteller

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The old, the Diurc and Marquis, holy trinity in the service of language

Old Woman in the hen Bartome Esteban Murillo

"She broods in her head, the melody, fear of forgetting . The climber, which occupies almost the whole front of the house is a river upside down, mouth biting the ground, and across its network of tributaries for the sources at the top of the wall. Here and there, a few leaves, black, scorched by days of snow. The old sings in his head, puts it in his memory alignment of notes. "

Deep in a remote valley of Poitou, the old has taken up residence. She lives in a garret where rudimentary devices blooming in the cottages of the housewife less than fifty years have not yet managed to clear a path. It is not short of ideas, compromise allowing just do not use these shells which distort the landscape of his home. It has its foibles of her own that characterize it, as to remove itself from her pussy worn by drowning in the pool of Father Andrew, or to slaughter chickens in his backyard then it will taste. The old has his little mannerisms that titillate the ear. I must say it has a way for her to pronounce certain consonants, some vowels, to appropriate in amount. The tone and distortion of palaver that come out of his mouth, the face of the old contracts and we can easily imagine the wrinkles that are growing or painful to the pronunciation of certain names pronounced unfit to appear in a dictionary. "Duke" (pronounced "Diurc") is the name of the bastard she received the evening of Christmas as he huddled in the manger of baby Jesus. Time and again, yet the four corners of the upper town where she lives, she had already crossed his path. For a few pats of the foot, redoubled some onomatopoeia which it has the secret, the dog and its stench decamped in the trough of a gutter where nested surely that old mutt. The vision that night, she needed to, more haunting than ever, she dazzled by its obviousness, the cursed "Diurc," the unrepentant wanderer, the mutt of misery, had to find refuge with her. To hell with avarice, it would take on his meager food enough to feed his new companion fortune.
Since then, she boasts that it is a wonderful dog, able to recite the Mass in Latin.

"Nothing is closed in his speech, on the contrary open to all the gloss. Cruid of Mr. is a man of reading, he has in mind more than one book. Those are his glasses, his eyes. Culture Has a purpose other than to orchestrate a vision, a diction of the world? "

Olivier Cruid is sixty years well rung. Marquis by its condition, a linguist of his condition. It is rather a passion cultivated with a tireless care livelihood itself. Annuities and real estate investments provide him the comfort of not having to bother with a task that would face his body. Sensitive to the melodies of this multitude of everyday objects that surround him, as well as to birds chirping, the pipe of a toad, the hiss of an owl, the lugubrious cawing of the crows that fly over his house, or murmurs gartempe of which carries in the course of time the mish-mash of the langue d'oc and langue d'oil. The Marquis is nostalgic for a time not so long ago when Latin was still considered the whim of a clergy ostentatious mired in tradition, the dead language was not considered quite as cute little lie scholars who stammer words misunderstood as others showing a distinctive mark. When, without warning, the fancy took you to some compounds of shelling by Virgil or Horace , you can not point as the most despised creatures retrograde. Language, strength to untie any-did-it will not finally removed from its original musical, it does not end point by being threatened its integrity and its original beauty?
He asks questions, the Marquis de Cruid in his ancestral castle, surrounded by treaties and books he once written in memory of a time endangered.

Despite the contrasts that dot their existence, the fate of these two characters coming together in the same sensitivity to listen to world music. Strayed into a solitude, which alone can revive the power of voices around them, the old and the Marquis spin toward one another, following routes that they ignore the disconcerting convergence.
Until the end of this crossover amazing, the story goes largely to the usual vicissitudes that mark usually a novel. Here, the deployment of prose, the picturesque situations and the uniqueness of the language used is enough to make reading exciting. Lionel Edward Martin is a writer precious, a singer who gives the words their acclaim, inspiring weddings melodic unfolding in their wake a flood of reminiscences, each more delicious than the other.
In return, the text we present a dizzying density, requires attention at all times. Asides, enjoying a ubiquitous learning, highlight a particular combination of words, emphasizing pronunciation incongruous here or there, an obsolete use of language, sometimes going back to the etymology of the word. The influence of reading the Latin poets of antiquity is noticeable in many passages of text.

Original, dense, abundant ideas, this is a novel beneficial for Modern Languages and confirms the unique approach of the Vampire Active in the French publishing world.

• Read: The old rose bush in Lionel Edward Martin, in the collection The Vampire active insurgencies.
  

  • Frederick Fiolof showcases Old, sublime way .
  • dialogue between the author and Anne-Francoise Kavauvea very illuminating on the process Created by Lionel Martin Edward .

  
  
  

Wongittilin Walrus Carvings

Drawings of Francois Schuiten rescuscitent dreams of Jacques Abeille

"Originally, there's a novel.

This novel has a story. Cursed.

Almost a black legend.

And readers. Few.

, smugglers who pass

the book, as a myth,

or sorcery. "

The blows of fate that marked the path of the garden statuary have not been enough to negate the sacrifice of some smugglers who marveled at the dream world of Jacques Bee, tried disclose the secret, the password leading to the gardens.
Like Le Grand Meaulnes of Alain Fournier , Seasons of Maurice Pons or Under the Volcano Malcolm Lowry of , statuary Gardens is a skilled workforce cult since it may well mark deep and lasting one who seizes it. It is a gateway leading to an open cycle of the unknown, while firmly rooted in a world of unsuspected familiarity. When the book reached the hands of the Belgian artist Francis Schuiten (responsible for the cycle of the obscure cities in collaboration with Benoît Peeters ) it immediately recognized a convergence with its mode of expression, a relationship with his world. It did little more that the two artists decided to put their talents to a work driven by a common passion, that of giving life to dreams wildest.
Seas lost under no genesis of this cycle, or an epilogue to it. It is rather a work that the reader can satellite, according to his imagination, according to his mood and his ramblings, inserted at the place he deems fit to find him.

The expedition will be the subject of the story is told us through one of its members, the writer in charge, accompanied by a young geologist, a guide and a cartoonist. The split is emerging between the different personalities gives rise to a suspicion that challenges the collaboration essential to the success of the mission entrusted to them. Rally lost lands bordering the seas appears to be a journey where the dark sides of cleared areas blend into the mysteries raised by the ambiguous attitude of some members of the expedition. In this atmosphere of distrust, the writer confides to his friend the fears that arise in everyday life, through letters that will be delivered by a courier devoted to this task. Throughout the journey, we are led to question the predominant source of danger, namely the inhospitable lands covered or adversity of fellow adventurers.

oversized statues that litter the terrain of this terra incognita are further evidence of a struggle between the extent of their natural curves and the proliferation of urban materials, which s 'interwoven, that one can not determine whether this was caused by penetration painful desire to develop city or, conversely, a tendency emerging in the heart of these statues to want to conquer the territory that the man was captured in over the centuries.
fact remains that we remain enthralled by the work of staging for to combine the features of the designer and the words of the writer. The illustrations offered here allow for the creation as a whole to avoid the charge prohibitive that we may bring to such works.
Indeed, each of them is here introduced with words which outline the history of their design, the array elements, and the emotions they evoke. The association becomes so smooth that it leads the reader to ask about the inspiration that the work of one has inspired among the other artist. However, the outline of a figure unrecognizable, appearing regularly on stage the designer, creates doubt in the mind of the writer, up to question the similarity of the respective perceptions of the decor.
Francois Schuiten has returned the magnitude of these statues in their appearance profoundly land, to make palpable the image of their distress. The games on the scales and terrain, compounded by the space given to images are absolutely amazing.
Writing about Jacques Abeille she married the anthropomorphic forms of the sculptures in their contours, indentations and other imperceptible cracks which can not be said if the work time or humanity.

Legends supplied by the tribe of Hulains they will reconnect with a past that refuses to show up? More
a march towards the discovery, clearing a stretch of sea lost, the aim of the expedition seems more than ever the highlighting of successive steps that have led to such chaos. The revelations made available to these travelers will they be the ones they were entitled to expect such an adventure? Do they know the only goal of the task they have promised to perform with the best possible consciousness? Lost in these seas, the reader is forced into a corner the psychology of this writer that ignores the initiation quest he is about to undertake. It
with delight that we get lost in the maze of his mind.

• Check out Seas lost, graphic novel Bee and Jacques Francois Schuiten in Attila.
• Nikola talks about his vision of the seas lost.
• The cosmic cockroach has also seduced .

Early Signs Of Pregnancy More Condition_symptoms

A Vengeance

Drawing Topor offered Towarnicki . Time is running out, "every hour wound, the last kills" as it is written on the dial of the clock, and the little man gets on the needle of the stopped clock to go to the afterlife.

The last drop offsets the small amount of its catalog by the high quality of the selection.

Bartleby recently gave voice to Christopher Sedierta who heads home since February 2008. Attention to "authors who are not afraid to face the darkness of the world and manage to turn it into a literary surprisingly powerful," it shows us that passion is not a word meaningless.

The tavern had already highlighted Adalina Silvio Huonder Children and disappear Bañez Gabriel, who will again be honored in 2011 with The Virgin of Ensenada .

So she just propose The storyteller signed Jakob Wassermann, unpublished translation by Dina and Nathalie Regnier Sikiric Eberhardt, already responsible for one of the tavern-Adalina invites you to enter the maze unsustainable business day, a novel by Jacques Sternberg , originally published in 1961 (in Losfeld).

Having slipped during twenty-four hours in the little Habner, we understand why the last drop loudly claimed she "loves the word, words which smack, which fuse, the slap and claw and bite. The cruel tales, dialogues acids.

And the pictures too unreal, contrasting, venomous and absurd. "

" Life could be simple, yet if there were not days. Live a great passion, centuries or more lives, it's easy, harmless. Live a single day, "that poses other problems. Strange indeed to think that the man wakes up sometimes at night, terrified by a nightmare and it never happens to him to recover in sweat, terrified to stand in a day like so others stuck in this existence that we must support the pretext a bit ridiculous that between life and death is no provision for an interim solution. "

THE MORNING

A business day may close without having been read, seen or known, but then we are likely to miss something, to be unconsciously ignoring or even stay at our beginning. With the drawback to stay away from all that trouble intempéripéties the daily life of a man that we know nothing, except his loss elementary, since the clock told him it was time to resume of abuse. If days bombard their usual monotony as a perpetual mass, Habner waking has the air of having forgotten his identity, the nightmares of his sleep, dreams of a summer night, the next day like yesterday. And it is not without displeasure that he drew a line under that which comes before him.
It's time, insists he wakes up through the ringer with deafening roar similar to that of a jackhammer. Time for what, after all? Ask him, it costs nothing to try. At worst, you wipe a silence as heavy as a leaden, as a glacial iceberg in the middle of a piece of Alban Berg.
In this apartment the ramifications worthy of a city in full boil, Habner not think members of his family residing in more dead than alive. Still, the nature of their parentage, or the spinning will know, remains uncertain. You end up believing that Habner circulates in a loop in a labyrinth without exit, that something is amiss or wrong. You choose your friends but not his hunger one might say at the sight of the fury with which his cousinspecteurs, adoptive son, preterm mothers, aunts customs, imaginary women, mothers-in attendants, strive to make her life as boring as a priesthood. Yes, life balance, it serves as a bone to the undertaker's men in particular.
Beware of your neighbor, your previous one, and you too. Habner himself did not he once wrote an anonymous letter in which he personally denounced. The only reliable
remains of this deceiving world is undoubtedly his audio system, although some failures are likely to question its status as the sole engraved disc collection of his heat.

Roland Topor

THE AFTERNOON

In this microcosm upside down literally and figuratively at each, without really knowing it, to ruin faster than it should time to tell. A war rages unabated without interest within the four walls cracked, cracks between the ceiling and the floor paneled battlefield. At the forefront of fantasy, the administration moved in a chaotic first floor above the second. It decays inside his house while they choked off. The intemperance of the climate is matched the timelessness of situations.
Taken to its climax, perfectionism causes the destruction of industrial production. At the heart of the plant where Habner remembers as bad as many have previously unsuccessfully to work, the rods were cut to their extreme sinking, so they make mine disappear.
conversations similar to the dialogues of the deaf, where the misunderstandings are legion, where the word of one another and make use of every king. The laws, in turn, grant that the faith's most totalitarian absurdity. Among a lot of action all the more preposterous than the other, it has seemed to take the precaution retroactive ban automobiles long before the invention of engines.

In this world where all the principles seem reversed, the time seems fortified rolling in his power, thwarted in its linear aspect. Past leaks like the reflection of a mirror in which we attempt to intercept the projection of a memory.

"My wife legitimized aware that we are married? Nothing is less certain. I could almost swear that she left me before even meeting me. Regardless, I got this situation. I admitted that I have no presence. Even the mirrors do not always refer to me a reflection. Since the mirrors avoid me, I avoid them too, I has none. "

Roland Topor illustrating Alice

THE EVENING

Therefore, it is in the future we must go to detect traces of a future perfect. At the Office of Recovery Days Faulty is also one days to follow that one can relive forever. Always present time, however, because in the machinery of killing effect, there are unknowns that obey as undesirable. At every turn
lexical field, the narrator Electrician bypasses words and their original purpose. We are witnessing a collision of ailments that result in a cemetery of dead and downed all the more exquisite than the other. The word of a bite than the other in a carnival spirit cannibal and eating and absolutely enjoyable. Corrosivitalité of explosive, the terms are confused, rejected, buttressed, returned to better track the nonsense of thinking of the narrator, upset marked trails, fluff the hair smooth speech. Words combine to better dissociate saucissonnent sentences are better season the taste of the day.
To give an idea of delirium disorder sternbergien include readily Marx Brothers. To illustrate this aspect unbridled could stride mention the designer Roland Topor. To account for the blackness of the text, loneliness suffered by his character, the name of Jean-Pierre Martinet comes to mind. Finally, to assess its fair value inventiveness, the zaniness of the world of Jacques Sternberg, could evoke Lewis Carroll, one of whose passages Through the mirror is placed in the preamble somnambulistic the novel:

"Here, you see, you have to run as fast as we can to stay in the same place."

A Business Day is in effect a sort of Alice in Wonderland, shimmering destruction of a society that runs on its dissolution. To mimic the organization of our contemporary world, there is a universe which looks more than a sham. Returned, crazy, stricken, disturbed with a thoroughness that would have misled mad hatter he awoke in the chaos of his boots not, it is condemned to being a mere shadow of himself.

• Read, drop everything and soon-now: A Business Day by Jacques Sternberg reissued in late 2009 with the precious editions of The Last Drop .
• 's column on Celine Escouteloup discordance.fr

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The old pigeon soaring wedding A story board

photographs from the blog of Marie-Paule Deville-Chabrolle

The wedding

cardboard Celebrate marginality of fates collide, overlap haphazardly, who marry or pass the buck in a wedding procession.

They invite us in an entertaining way to fill the gaps in these slices of life, these selections, these snippets of life.

It was after one of my walks I picked the fruit of a text that I present here.

I'm "old" one has plucked like a pigeon and took the opportunity to stand on its own. I am the one who clings to hopes of ordinary people. Becta one we gaze upon it shows the tip of his nose. The scarecrow who stretches out his arms to gain height, the bird of ill omen thwarting the blows of fate and the wars drew his organ, as others waved a flag. One who runs away to the sound of Pachelbel's canon. One who likes to upset conventional wisdom by turning the guns on broomsticks, the kamikaze bashful lovers of freedom. I'm also the one that twirls above the universal ballot. One who collects his booty in the heart of the fragments of urban poetry, laughter, glimmers of hope, sparks of genius. I am the old lady who comes and goes overnight, by telling them she did not empty in between. The playing hopscotch to switch in no time from earth to heaven. I'm also the girl throwing stones into the pond which splash dreams and lies shimmering truth. I am the one who knows the thousand and one evils of humanity remaining invariable since the beginning of time. Stones, lice and cabbage, I grow to develop a market garden dotted with beliefs. A cemetery that discloses the secret of winged words, a place where everything that emerges from the earth feeds the combined efforts imperfect and still do. Boldness irrigating micrograms and prose appetizing peddled from one shore to another, according to a waltz wandering. The Wedding singularities and plurality to fertilize interbreeding tasty.

fact remains that for some or for others, I am a fortune teller, a drivelling bad fortune. Pigeon denigrated, traveler's shadow, or dove incantatrice, I am a constant metamorphosis which his traveling circus any time of day or night. Which vanishes in October between the thieves on the run and that reappears in the middle of flakes and debris of December. My feathers in the sky describe paths which says a lot about my intentions.
Children of October, and Eid Akanot Anna Doïdou first, welcome these poems ephemeral by burning in the black brick my songs imaginary

"HOPE IS A BIRD
FLYING IN THE SKY OF THE INSURRECTION.

THE INSURGENCY IS AN EXPECTATION

FEATHERS FLYING IN THE SKY.

THE BIRD IS AN UPRISING

FLYING IN THE SKY HOPE.

THE SKY IS HOPE

FLYING IN THE UPRISING OF A FEATHER ".

Chalk and soon the snow will mix to coagulate the dreams changing. This could be
the epitaph of the old pigeon.

• According reads from The Marriage of cardboard Jean-Daniel Dupuy, published in 2005 editions of The Bad Seed

South Park Fish Sticks Song Lyrics

fetched

captivate the reader for more than 200 pages through a history of hair, that's enough to leave most dubious aesthetic hairdressers? What cause its share of gray hairs for publishers who have the courage to publish the story in question. Yet Alan Pauls here comes the tour de force not only passionate, but also bring a deep reflection the links between our hair and our existence.

is natural that the novel begins in a hair salon, while a translator (which could be Alan Pauls) unaccustomed to frequent such places, is found in the hands of a young woman was kneading the scalp. A time for relaxing effect, abandoned to other dimensions of his memory.

"What it does not exactly get a haircut. He sat in the chair from one machine to travel back in time (...)"

Since the hair seems to be forgotten, the appointment in ritual Celso, hairdresser Paraguay, including a little-known chapter of history we will be narrated in the end, reminds the slave to his punishment monthly. The awkward position, orders hammered with diabolical precision, and especially the usual questions, responding to a necessarily subjective embarrassment following which the man was forced against his will to express their will as concretely as possible, oppress at the highest point. Thus, the ideas he is secular, the "short" or "long", the "gradient" or the "homogeneity", shades of "little", the "somewhat" or "very" they resonate in the same way to the ears of a seasoned professional.
scenes that are sure to evoke some memories in the reader aware of the authenticity of the refund.

Associates to its fate, for better or for worse, his hair seem to be the guarantors of his personal history. They recur to him mean that they remain suspended over his head like a sword of Damocles, since no other part of the human body is capable, in the same way that our hair, make us aware of our perishable nature.
The willingness to change its cutting obeys somehow necessary transmute the witness of his conviction to come, a symbol of belonging to a tendency to assert itself in an era of loud and clear identity.
Thus, by stealing the image of this army of fingers led by his former girlfriend with red moccasins, probing the complexities of the African Cup of his classmates, he feels the caress of ideals that he decided to embrace on the spot, borrowing the style of the boy. A fiasco that will leave marks in his mind throughout his life. And option years, despite the setbacks of adulthood, invariably, Monti will be associated with this exuberance, hair and his seductive power.

"In some cases, these scars: one was hit, it fell and was bleeding, it was sewn, and the trace in the form of seven or right or the small energetic horseshoe clearer that appear when shaves his head are souvenirs * preventing the facts vanish in the haze of the past. But in most cases there was nothing, neither accident nor contusion or suture, nothing, and the marks are there, as clear as tattoos and fingerprints, birth lines, drawn on the ground close to the skin, reappear one day and are faith identity with any other region of the body or memory does not trace. "

However, at each meeting, more recognizable than ever, Monti carries the scars of the teeth-in-leg and other blows of fate dealt by fate, which, in turn, removes it from childhood.
Along the lines of the hand carry with them the future of each hair seems to reflect the trials endured by being that door. More than anywhere else parcel of our flesh or bones, hair relics remain, surviving the disappearance of the beloved, and take over a time invaluable, as evidenced by the auction of the lock of Che, treasure scattered among other treasures, or the final episode which I will not reveal details.

Alan Pauls impressed by the breadth of his sentences, in which flows simultaneously a multitude of ideas. Tourbillon syntactic uninterrupted from beginning to end, the core of which the reader might get lost if he does not get carried away by the spirit of the author, at times reflective and funny.

• Read haircut: History hair, Alain Pauls, translated from English by Serge Mestre newly available at Christian Bourgois .
• Reading notified of Frederick Fiolof