Pity or the work of an old soul crushed under the weight of an absinthe-flavored existence
The word crisis carries an infinite number of meanings. No intention of revealing them all this afternoon. However, a few clarifications are necessary. A kid whose parents do not have enough money at Christmas to buy her a Little Black Mermaid doll has a fit and locks herself in her room without touching her meals for the day. A boy whose dog was suddenly poisoned by a neighbor in revenge or shot after contracting rabies, losing a faithful friend overnight, enters into crisis. Finally, a society in the grip of all sorts of mutations and whose leaders are weak, perhaps prolonged in a deep crisis. In the first case, the young girl sulks to attract the attention of her parents in order to feel appreciated by children her age at school or in the neighborhood. Today, thirty minutes of negotiations can be enough to find a lasting solution. In my day, a few well-aimed belt blows would have overcome this whim. But, humanity evolves, they say. In the second case, this boy can find his smile again after a few weeks. He needs a little attention and, probably, another dog. As Stendhal would say, only passion triumphs over passion. In the last case, this society led by inepts is shaken to its deep foundations. Its institutions can disintegrate one by one. The vital forces dissolve in no time. This situation creates a societal tsunami that destroys all life within this community. It is indeed a crisis. The crisis from this point of view constitutes an alarming, desperate situation in the existence of a community where nothing is going well. Chaos reigns supreme. The very essence of life disappears. The individual can take precedence over the community. Everyone tries to solve their problems without worrying about others. The closest neighbor is relegated light years away from you. How can we turn to creation? How can we continue to conceive of otherness? How can the artist absorb this great collective disarray as a source of motivation? These are the questions I must answer. An artist sees and feels what ordinary mortals cannot even imagine in a thousand-year life. He creates to denounce, when his conscience as a human being is revolted. He exalts heroes or the homeland according to his feelings. He sings the beauty of an irresistible, captivating or ugly resplendent woman. He can also use the ambient desolation to give meaning to life. Creating in literature as in the arts in general does not depend on the situation. The act of creation depends on the creator’s disposition. Events paralyze some and galvanize others. Creating is enjoyable. Everyone therefore enjoys according to their own whim. Writing opens the way to change. The writer takes a different look at the world. By embedding himself in reality, he embellishes it, makes it better or hideous depending on the message he intends to share. All things considered, with him, life is never fixed. Writing is putting the world in a jar to travel the universe. The artist broods over his work in all weathers. Oswald Durand was delighted to see Choucoune’s beautiful body from his secret observatory. Musset, on the other hand, was in pain writing his October night. As for Dany Laferrière, in exile, he described the horrors of the Duvalier dictatorship and the carefree attitude of the young girls in his neighborhood in this violent and dangerous world. Ultimately, the writer lives in a society with values that he shares or not. They condition his existence or have no hold on him. In many ways, the surrounding world serves as his laboratory. He carries out his experiments there. He casts a new, worn, disillusioned, melancholic, violent, bitter look at the world depending on his mood. Pitié is the work of an old soul crushed under the weight of an existence that tastes of absinthe. Young Mike Bernard Michel lives by expedients and lies. The hands of life fall on him with indescribable violence. Misfortune embraces him day and night. Should we give up? Musset liked to say: "Man is an apprentice, pain is his master. And no one knows himself until he has suffered." The artist must produce under all skies. Such is his vocation. Incompetents in power, legal or highway bandits, the high cost of living, unemployment, heartaches are all subjects of concern for him. If it is true that a hungry belly has no ears, the fact remains that it keeps the brain awake. What am I saying, it stimulates it to the point of creating timeless works. Mr. Pitié, you have a bright future ahead of you. Work of Jean Rony Charles, the book is available from Éditions Repérage.
