Nicole Brossard

PLACE

It happens that we touch on the past by stroking our hands along ancient marble or gazing upon cities blacked by sudden lava, by the sudden trembling of hands. It happens that I dig into my subject in the middle of a sentence searching for a site where the humanity of women achieves the exhilarating speed of the present.

WILD DUST

That which we haven’t translated from the vaulting delirium of beauty, we must invent, the anxious crack of our eyes scrutinizing a grain of sand, the flying and savage dust of language.

ONE

I seldom play with the idea that the earth can be stirred like an identity, or that with our hands we can compare wounds, the silences and the proofs of love. I prefer to imagine eternity as a virtual room, a beautiful white page where I take as witness the body and its decor of shudders, curves and murmurs; I prefer to touch where I can start anew.