* Jean-Luc Lagarce (1957-1995): outstanding figure of the century French drama XX.
We must preserve the space of creation, the luxury of thinking places, places the surface, where invent what does not exist, the more questioning of the past, parts of the question. They are our beautiful property, our homes, for all and sundry. The impressive buildings of the final certainty, those, redundant, cesemos then built. The celebration can be something alive, the memory can also be happy or terrible. No need to whisper or walk past your toes. Our duty is to make noise. We have to keep in the center of our world a place for our uncertainties, the place of our weakness, of our difficulties to say or hear. We remain hesitant and remain in doubt, against the violent speeches peremptory kind of professional, economic logic, the advisors, working and living, our lords consensual.
can not be content with having or not clean conscience against the barbarity of others barbarism is in ourselves and only asks us devastated, that exploded in the depths of our spirit and we are founded on the Other. We must be careful to the world, and be careful with the world is above all be careful to ourselves. We must beware of evil and hatred that mamamos in secret without knowing it, without wanting to know, without even daring to imagine, hate underground, silent, waiting for it's your turn to devour us and use us to devour innocent enemies. Art spaces can turn away from fear and when you have less fear, less bad.
We should not be amnesic, but not longer be amnesic every day at seven in the evening, when our prayer and our collective pardons. Not to be amnesiac is not just look at how the past is slowly moving away from us, our beautiful convalescence, not amnesia is to look in the eyes today, today, tomorrow and look at ourselves as well, not seeing anything, not wanting to, let to affirm, but walking anyway, keep a clear view, walking slowly and keep smiling, gentle, not being sure of anything.
A society, a city, a civilization that waiver of Art, away from him, on behalf of cowardice, shameful laziness, lack of sleep perspective on itself, withdrawing from the heritage of tomorrow, heritage of becoming, to be content in the most pious self-satisfaction, with the values \u200b\u200bhe thinks he has forged and that really just inherited risk waiver that society moves away from his only truth, forget building your future in advance, waive potential, in his word, does not say anything or others or themselves.
A society, a city, a civilization that waives its share of unforeseen events, their margin, their time, their doubts, their poise and who does not give even a moment to produce without thinking, a society that stop laughing even a little, despite the misery and the uprooting of their own anxieties and loneliness, is a company -satisfied itself that is being waged entirely to the contemplation morbid and proud of his own image, still contemplating his own image and a liar. Denies his mistakes, his ugliness, and its failures, self-hidden, beautiful and perfect it is believed, is lying. And only then greedy, petty, empty-headed, the imagunación saved, eats away and destroys what belongs to others, and as much as we loath to admit it is reduced and is drowning in its own memory, the idea that projects of itself. It gets stuck up and thought, nourished by their own illusions, confident in its own brightness, without following or offspring, no future history and without spirit. It is magnificent, I think because it says so and the only one who listens. She's dead.
Translation: Laura Pouso. Tribute Collection. Editorial Atuel. Buenos Aires 2007
We must preserve the space of creation, the luxury of thinking places, places the surface, where invent what does not exist, the more questioning of the past, parts of the question. They are our beautiful property, our homes, for all and sundry. The impressive buildings of the final certainty, those, redundant, cesemos then built. The celebration can be something alive, the memory can also be happy or terrible. No need to whisper or walk past your toes. Our duty is to make noise. We have to keep in the center of our world a place for our uncertainties, the place of our weakness, of our difficulties to say or hear. We remain hesitant and remain in doubt, against the violent speeches peremptory kind of professional, economic logic, the advisors, working and living, our lords consensual.
can not be content with having or not clean conscience against the barbarity of others barbarism is in ourselves and only asks us devastated, that exploded in the depths of our spirit and we are founded on the Other. We must be careful to the world, and be careful with the world is above all be careful to ourselves. We must beware of evil and hatred that mamamos in secret without knowing it, without wanting to know, without even daring to imagine, hate underground, silent, waiting for it's your turn to devour us and use us to devour innocent enemies. Art spaces can turn away from fear and when you have less fear, less bad.
We should not be amnesic, but not longer be amnesic every day at seven in the evening, when our prayer and our collective pardons. Not to be amnesiac is not just look at how the past is slowly moving away from us, our beautiful convalescence, not amnesia is to look in the eyes today, today, tomorrow and look at ourselves as well, not seeing anything, not wanting to, let to affirm, but walking anyway, keep a clear view, walking slowly and keep smiling, gentle, not being sure of anything.
A society, a city, a civilization that waiver of Art, away from him, on behalf of cowardice, shameful laziness, lack of sleep perspective on itself, withdrawing from the heritage of tomorrow, heritage of becoming, to be content in the most pious self-satisfaction, with the values \u200b\u200bhe thinks he has forged and that really just inherited risk waiver that society moves away from his only truth, forget building your future in advance, waive potential, in his word, does not say anything or others or themselves.
A society, a city, a civilization that waives its share of unforeseen events, their margin, their time, their doubts, their poise and who does not give even a moment to produce without thinking, a society that stop laughing even a little, despite the misery and the uprooting of their own anxieties and loneliness, is a company -satisfied itself that is being waged entirely to the contemplation morbid and proud of his own image, still contemplating his own image and a liar. Denies his mistakes, his ugliness, and its failures, self-hidden, beautiful and perfect it is believed, is lying. And only then greedy, petty, empty-headed, the imagunación saved, eats away and destroys what belongs to others, and as much as we loath to admit it is reduced and is drowning in its own memory, the idea that projects of itself. It gets stuck up and thought, nourished by their own illusions, confident in its own brightness, without following or offspring, no future history and without spirit. It is magnificent, I think because it says so and the only one who listens. She's dead.
Translation: Laura Pouso. Tribute Collection. Editorial Atuel. Buenos Aires 2007
