A soap bubble that bursts, pierced by the rays of the sun? A joyful sound, light, discreet, that of a drop momentarily scrunching the surface of a pond? No. Plop is a name, or rather a name: he arrived on earth is the noise has been the child fell from the womb of her mother directly in the mud that covers the entire land surface, where water mingles to the soil and dirt, and where no light penetrates. The world welcomes this new baby who will wait for his ten solstices finally receive a draft of identity seems to have suffered the ultimate cataclysm. Apocalypse How is it produced? Ravaged planet, traversed by wandering mobs organized into "groups" according to a hierarchy of laws wild land is no longer a hospitable place, and every hill, every crevice holds a peril, and men, always in motion - Indeed, the drop can not last because it exposes the risk of a bad encounter - do not know the rest. Nature has been polluted, perverted by who knows what end of the world. She leaves shyly guess in some places not preserved, but less affected. So this place where hunting deploy members of the group in search of game.
They arrived at the location.They were ruins, surrounded by thorny bushes, some as tall as a man.From afar, we saw a few walls, beams, doors and windows gaping like the eyes of a skull. Everything was covered with moss, mushrooms and ivy-leaved black.
The remains of the lost civilization have been devoured by nature, however, little fertile, but it seems to have colonized, digested, putrefying. The houses offer more than the sight of skeletons disturbing, and nobody would take shelter. Rain invades everything, diluting the landscape, drowning, abolishing the distinction between the elements: water is mixed with earth, enmeshment and dangerous - this dark mass can sometimes consume the one who entered the space. The novel, written in a dry and incantatory evocation of multiplies traps watching humans too confident, they emanate from the medium itself, or have been placed in their way by other men. Here, everyone is both hunter and prey.
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| Anselm Kiefer, Burning rods (1984-87) |
Humanity has suffered a fate ambiguous. Indeed, it seems to have returned to a form of animal, since the activities are organized around two basic concerns: food and sex. The search for a pittance activity is essential: it is scarce and of poor quality. The inhospitable place described in the chapter entitled "The Hunt" game is full of a coveted but dangerous cats. Without them, we fall back on rats, insects, remains of meat on a carcass abandoned corrupt, failing - or, conversely, junket; human flesh, taken from the bodies met, or on those that have been slaughtered for "recycle". This term is regularly used in the text also establishes a link between the Apocalypse and a past history with the betrayal of human values and institutional cruelty. The organization of this embryonic society, in fact, is complex. Groups, "Brigades" hierarchical, "Volunteers", "Recreation" ... all humans are classified according to their abilities or their inabilities, the lowest being destined to die so that their body may be used. This complex organization is grafted onto the latent savagery and every special occasion reveals the lowest instincts of man.
human relations are governed more by individual interests. In the Group, there is never a question of solidarity, each trying to maintain his place to survive and use the other for personal. The verb "use" also means the sexual act: there is no reciprocity in pleasure sought. Sex is doomed never to procreation: the birth of a child is a curse - the mother of Plop, the singer in the contagious joy, prostrate and stops singing when it gives birth. The sex is practiced to satisfy a need and one who provides the other carnal satisfaction has the sole purpose of extorting a privilege to establish its place within the conglomerate of individuals devoid of identity and that only compiles the survival instinct. Sometimes, as with the woman Plop the Commissioner General, the claim is to obtain turn sexual satisfaction, but it never happens in the exchange, each taking his turn to pleasure, and pain.
One day, amid spasms of pleasure, Plop pretended to fall on her. His mouth was found against one of her breasts. He has bitten. She swore that she had never felt anything like it.
She asked him to move his mouth, his tongue over his chest.
Plop said she would give him something in return.
- What? she asked.
- Fun, he replied, knowing she would have said yes to anything.
He asked her to blindfold him, to tie it, cut it, to force, that's how he enjoyed him.
Parody of romantic relationship, which ultimately has the objective that lead to the conviction of the woman and her husband in the plan devised by Plop to escape his condition. However, the narrative household surprises. Sometimes it seems to be born a tendency or a genuine affection. Plop has with the old woman who saved a relationship mixed with respect; during his meeting with Bizarrine, he feels ambiguous feelings, fear and attraction that can be explained by the humanity she has more. Indeed, the girl and the old have in common reading: in this fallen world, few know how to ensure the existence of books. Read spreads like a secret, for initiation into a group of elected officials who have yet to hide. This world is dead where books no longer exist: the little that remains of humanity is linked to the few pages that remain, and treasured in secret.
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| Anselm Kiefer |
Plop, which carries within it the seeds of rebellion, the unexpected survivor who could render to humanity some of its qualities, chooses a path ambiguous for him, hello first passes through the exercise of power - and his intelligence is at the service of his opportunism, then sought and received the death as a deliverance. The book opens with an image of the dying man, until its end which is closest to each scoop that one of his fellow cast upon him, trapped in a hole that became his tomb.
With each shovelful, each handful of dirt falling on his head is a picture of life emerges from his mind.
like that, until now, the end.
All this effort has been made for this moment to get to that, in order to finally die.
's novel Rafael Pinedo, Argentine writer died in 2006, is harsh, violent, sometimes unbearable. His writing pithy reflection desperate stresses on humans and the world, on what could become the books. Reading it evokes another major text, The Road , Cormac McCarthy, written some years after this text. But here it is not about learning. If quest ago she enrolled in a private humanity of all its landmarks, the books have disappeared since with all the links that facilitate the transmission: no mother, no father can not here undertake to keep the child in the spark good ...
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