By Wajdi Mouawad
Lorsqu’il découvre le meurtre de sa femme, Wahhch Debch est tétanisé : il doit à tout prix savoir qui a fait ça, et qui donc si ce n’est pas lui ? Éperonné par sa douleur, il se lance dans une irrémissible chasse à l’homme en suivant l’odeur sacrée, millénaire et animale du sang versé. Seul et abandonné par l’espérance, il s’embarque dans une furieuse odyssée à travers l’Amérique, territoire de toutes les violences et de toutes les beautés. Les mémoires infernales qui sommeillent en lui, ensevelies dans les replis de son enfance, se réveillent du nord au sud, au touch de l’humanité des uns et de l. a. bestialité des autres. Pour lever le voile sur le mensonge de ses origines, Wahhch devra-t-il lâcher le chien de sa colère et faire le sacrifice de son âme ?
Par son projet, par sa tenue, par son accomplissement, ce roman-Minotaure repousse les bornes de l. a. littérature. Anima est une bête, à l. a. fois réelle et fabuleuse, qui veut dévorer l’Inoubliable.
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Bottle caps stuck to them. 27 fox farm In the pasture a shire whose broad muscles once drew a hayrake, a plough, can’t hold the weight of his great head and neck – he will be fed to the foxes. And the Clydesdales and saddle nags that stray along the fence with limps and sagging bellies, with rheumy eyes (one has no tail). But the foxes not having known field or woods, bred, born in long rows of hutches, will die to adorn some woman’s neck. 28 nightmare Through the blinds a white arm caresses a vase of zinnias beneath the skin of a pond the laughter of an eye in the loft the hot straw suﬀocates the rafters become snakes through the mow door three deer in a cool pasture nibbling at the grass mercurous in the moon.
Your brain has sugared now, your white beard is limp, you talk of acres of corn where there is only snow. Your sister, a witch, old as a stump, says you are punished now for the unspeakable sin that barred you from the table for seven years. They feed you cake to hasten your death. Your land is divided. Curse them but don’t die. 21 february suite Song, angry bush with the thrust of your roots deep in this icy ground, is there a polar sun? ◆◆◆ Month of the frozen goat – La Roberta says cultivate new friends, profit will be yours with patience.
I look at the rifles in their rack upon the wall: though I know the Wars only as history some cellar in Europe might still owe some of its moistness to blood. ◆◆◆ With my head on the table I write, my arm outstretched, in another field of richer grain. ◆◆◆ A red-haired doll stares at me from a highchair, her small pink limbs twisted about her neck. I salute the postures of women. ◆◆◆ 24 This hammer of joy, this is no fist but a wonderment got by cunning. The first thunderstorm of March came last night and when I awoke the snow had passed away, the brown grass lay matted and pubic.
Anima by Wajdi Mouawad