Читать книгу Revenge of the Translator - Brice Matthieussent - Страница 23

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* Now that I’ve made myself at home, I suddenly feel the desire to raise the bar by using the strength of my back and thighs. I’d like to lift myself up, first kneel down, then get into a vertical position, raise this wretched horizon line at the bottom of the page that confines me to the lower margin. I would like to hoist this bar by the sole force of my desire and my muscles, make it rise like the weight lifter who thrusts above his head the black bar linking the big matte metal pancakes and who, completing a clean and jerk, goofily brandishes the bar at arm’s length: his cheeks swelling under the effort, his face turning purple, his gaze lost in the distance of private contemplation. It’s with this same determination that I will push my bar without dumbbells, so heavy nevertheless, toward the sky. But not for anything in the world would I want to step across the bar, or jump over it, like the 110-meter-hurtles runner who one minute soars over the cinder track and the next jumps over the rectilinear obstacle. I’m not trying to abandon my staves to occupy a better place; I have no desire to sit on the throne in the middle of the royal page. No, I, the lone man comfortably sporting the dress of the immaculate bride, will subject him to the worst outrages, lifting my bar little by little, firmly planted in this footer, bracing myself. (Trajectory North)