Acide Sulfurique by Amélie Nothomb

By Amélie Nothomb

« Vint le second où los angeles souffrance des autres ne leur suffit plus : il leur en fallut le spectacle. »

C'est vrai qu'on ne lit que du mal de ce livre... Pourquoi ? Qu'a-t-il donc de si méprisable ? On sait qu'Amélie Nothomb écrit vite, voire très vite (mais toujours très bien). Cela se ressent souvent dans ses romans, et c'est un kind auquel on s'attache facilement. los angeles richesse habituelle du vocabulaire employé laisse ici sa position à los angeles crudité du thème, des personnages et de leurs propos. Nothomb dénonce, mais n'étant pas elle même spectatrice on lui ôte ce droit ? C'est fool, mais c'est amusant, c'est précisément ce qu'on interdit à son personnage... Tous ses appels au public entraînent invariablement les réactions opposées à celles attendues. Nothomb nous supplie avec ce roman de prendre judgment of right and wrong de notre folie, de notre cruauté, et on ne lui accorderait ce droit que si elle même consentait à regarder ces horreurs télévisées... Resistons avec elle, éteignez votre télé. On peut rêver.

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She moved her head in a peculiar gesture of the neck, deliberately forcing her injury on me. She paused when she reached the doorway, waiting for me to step out of her way. I looked down at the scar tissue on her face, a seam left by an invisible zip three inches long, running from the corner of her right eye to the apex of her mouth. With the naso-labial fold this new line formed an image like the palm-lines of a sensitive and elusive hand. Reading an imaginary biography into this history of the skin, I visualized her as a glamorous but overworked medical student, breaking out of a long adolescence when she qualified as a doctor into a series of uncertain sexual affairs, happily climaxed by a deep emotional and genital union with her engineer husband, each ransacking the other's body like Crusoe stripping his ship.

His hand had struck some rigid object as he was hurled from his seat, and the pattern of a sign formed itself as I sat there, pumped up by his dying circulation into a huge blood-blister - the triton signature of my radiator emblem. Supported by her diagonal seat belt, his wife sat behind her steering wheel, staring at me in a curiously formal way, as if unsure what had brought us together. Her handsome face, topped by a broad, intelligent forehead, had the blank and unresponsive look of a madonna in an early Renaissance icon, unwilling to accept the miracle, or nightmare, sprung from her loins.

This bogus commiseration over the dead man irritated me, merely an excuse for an exercise in moral gymnastics. The brusqueness of the young nurses was part of the same pantomime of regret. I had thought for hours about the dead man, visualizing the effects of his death on his wife and family. I had thought of his last moments alive, frantic milliseconds of pain and violence in which he had been catapulted from a pleasant domestic interlude into a concertina of metallized death. These feelings existed within my relationship with the dead man, within the reality of the wounds on my chest and legs, and within the unforgettable collision between my own body and the interior of my car.

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