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 los angeles littérature. Anima est une bête, à l. a. fois réelle et fabuleuse, qui veut dévorer l’Inoubliable.
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Additional resources for Anima
You blink in surprise 24 and I wonder what you can see, my funny kin, as you trouble my silence. I am a shelter of lies. Should I learn to speak again, or hopeless in such sanity will I touch some face I recognize? Down the hall the baskets start back. My arms fit you like a sleeve, they hold catkins of your willows, the wild bee farms of your nerves, each muscle and fold of your first days. Your old man's face disarms the nurses. But the doctors return to scold me. I speak. It is you my silence harms.
Today I see the head move, like some pitted angel, in that high window. What is the waiting head doing? It looks the same. Will it lean forward as I turn to go? I think I hear it call to me below but no one came no one came. ELEGY IN THE CLASSROOM In the thin classroom, where your face was noble and your words were all things, I find this boily creature in your place; find you disarranged, squatting on the window sill, irrefutably placed up there, like a hunk of some big frog watching us through the V of your woolen legs.
They gave me your ash and bony shells, Rattling like gourds in the cardboard urn, 8 Rattling like stones that their oven had blest. I waited you in the cathedral of spells And I waited you in the country of the living, Still with the urn crooned to my breast, When something cried, Jet me go let me go. So I threw out your last bony shells And heard me scream for the look of you, Your apple face, the simple creche Of your arms, the August smells Of your skin. Then I sorted your clothes And the loves you had left, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, until you were gone.