In Extremis

Description

Seven years since Des roses et des orties, which already hinted that life could be prickly, in every sense of the word. Seven years, a quarter of Mandela’s imprisonment. Time to take stock of the cell where our thoughts go round in circles, to assess the balance of our renunciations and our joys, the time of disenchantment (this denunciation of the cynicism of the powerful, this little regard for human beings and for the earth), the time that passes, which one would like to put on pause with magic creams while pretending “as if we were here to stay.” But it is hard to “pretend” that the children, in the meantime, have not grown up. Now we must turn around to hear their cries of joy on the merry-go-round. And once turned around, it is the great flood of the past. We rediscover the first bands, the first concerts, we glimpse an old crooner haunting the stage, the shattered destinies of the great figures of jazz, and going further still we can even witness the end of chivalry on the plain of Azincourt, and much further still, we make out a cross planted on a hill that proves that one can die of love. For seven years later, in extremis, it is clear, there is only love that remains. Jean Rouaud, Prix Goncourt 1990.