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* * *

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* * *

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* * *

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* * *

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* * *

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1

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­­­ ­­. ­­ ­ ­ ­, ­,
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­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ’­’,
­ ­ ­.


2

­ ­­­ ­, ­­ ­­­.
­ ­, ­ ­ ­ ­
, ­­­, ­­­­ ­­ ­...
­­­ ­­­­­­ ­ ­
­­­. ­, ­­ ­­­. ­­­
­ ­ ­­ ­, ­­ ­­ ­,
­­­ ­ ­­­ ­.

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● ­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­, ­, ­­­ ­. ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­­, ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­. ­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­­, ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­, ­ ­­­ ­ , ­­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­ 19. ­­ 20. ­?
– ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­, ­ ­ ­, ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­, ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­. ­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­­ ­­­, ­­­ ­­ ­, ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­. ­­­, ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­. ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­. ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­, ­­ ­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­, ­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­, ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­, ­ ­. ­­ ­ ­­­ ­­ "­­" ­­, ­­ "­­­" ­­. ­ ­­ ­­, ­ ­­ , ­­ ­, ­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­­­­ ­­­­.
● ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­ ­ ­­. ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­?
– ­ ­­ 80- ­­ ­­­ ­­­­­ ­­ ­ ­­­­ ­­. ­­ " ­" "­ ­­". ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­, ­­­ ­­­. ­, ­ ­­ ­, ­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­ ­­. ­ ­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­, ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­­­­­ ­. ­­­­ ­ ­ ­­­­, ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­ ­­­ ­­­. ­­­, ­­ ­­, ­­ ­­­­­ ­­, ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­. ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­­.
● ­, 1982, ­­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­­. ­­ ­­­ ­ ­­ ­­­, ­ ­ , 2002, ­­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­­­. ­ ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­­ ­­ ­ ­ ­­­?
– ­ ­­­ ­, ­ ­­­­­, ­­ ­­ ­­­­ ­­­. ­ ­­ . ­­, ­­­, ­­ ­­­­­ ­­, ­ ­­, ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­, ­ ­ ­­. ­, ­ ­. ­ ­ ­­ ­ ­­ ­­ ­­­. ­ ­­ ­ 5000 ­­­­. ­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­... ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­... ­ ­ ­­­­­... ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­... ­... ­ ­. ­ ­. ­ ­ ­ ­­.
● ­ ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­­­? ­ ­­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­? ­­­ ­­ ­ ­­­ ­­, ­ ­­­, ­ ­­? ­­ ­ ­­ ­­? ­ ­ ­­­ ­­ ­?
– ­ ­­, , ­, ­­ ­­­­, ­­­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­­­­. ­, ­, ­ ­ ­ ­­­­ 30 ­­. ­ ­­­­ ­­ ­, ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­ ­­, ­­ ­­­... ­­­­ ­ ­­­. ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­­­­ ­­­ ­, ­­­ ­­ ­­­ ­­­ ­, ­­ ­ ... ­, ­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­.

*

­ ­­ (­ ­­), ­ 1948, ­ ­ ­: ­ ­­­ ­­ ­­ ­­­ ­ ­, ­­­, ­ ­­­­ ­ ­ ­­.
­­ ­: ­ ( ­­ 1982), ­­ (­ 1986), ­ ­­ (­ 1990), ­­ ­­­ (­ 1994), ­­ (­­­ ­­ 1994), ­­­ ­­ (­­­ ­­ 1998), ­­ ­ ­­ (­ 2000), ­­ ­­ (­­­­ 2003), ­­ ­­ (ţ ­ 2004), ­­ (­ ­ – ’­ ­ 2006, ­­ ­ ­­), ­­ (­ ­­­ 2008), ­­­ ­­­ ­ (­­­­ 2011).
­ ­: ­­ ­­­ (­-­­ 1998), ­­­ (­-­­ 2005, 2006, 2007. 2015).
­ ­­: ­­ (1986, ­­­ . ­ ­­), ­­ ­ (1989, ­­­ . ­ ­­), ­ (1998, ­), ­­­ (2009, ­­­ 95 ­­), ­ ­­ – ­ (2009).
­­ ­ ­­­ ­ ­­: ­­­­ ­­­, ­­, ­­, ­­, ­­, ­­, ­­, ­­­, ­, ­­­, ­­, ­­­.
­­: 1991. ­­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­­; 1999. ­­ ­­­­ ­ ­­ ­; 2011. ­­ ­ ­ ­­­ ­­­ ­.
­­ ­­­ ­­­­ é­­ 1980. -­ 2001–2010. ­­ ­ ­­­ ­ - ­­ ­. ­­ ­­­ ­ ( ­, ­ ­, ’­­­, , ­ ­­­­...) ­­ ­­­ ­­ ­-­­ ­-­.

Po­e­try fa­ces neo­li­be­ral he­ge­mony

An In­ter­vi­ew with Gérard No­i­ret

In­ter­vi­e­wer Jo­van Zi­vlak

● Cri­tics say that your po­e­try per­fectly sketches ab­sur­dity, its cla­rity, mu­si­ca­lity and lu­ci­dity. It is the ab­sur­dity we in­ter­we­a­ve our li­ves which are mo­re or less de­ri­si­ve, the li­ves we lead to fight aga­inst the do­ors of ti­me. Do you think that the ro­le of po­e­try is mo­re aut­hen­tic, clo­ser to its na­tu­re as a sort of de­ba­te star­ted by Ca­tul­lus or re­pre­sen­ted by Vil­lon or Brecht, than the se­arch for per­fec­tion or an ab­so­lu­te form do­mi­na­ted at the end of the 19th and the be­gin­ning of the 20th cen­tury?
– I feel that po­ets do not act as they njish, but as they can, de­pen­ding on the lan­gu­a­ge they use, whi­le the qu­a­lity of that lan­gu­a­ge is mo­re im­por­tant than the­ir in­ten­ti­ons. Li­mi­ted to qu­a­lity wri­ting, de­pri­ved of in­vo­lun­ta­rily turns, im­po­ve­ris­hed in de­ep rhythm, the lan­gu­a­ge is clo­se to ze­ro that mi­ni­mi­zes the parts of a po­em to al­most not­hing. The li­ved li­fe, cul­tu­re and tec­hno­logy can only at­tri­bu­te to the be­gin­ning of uni­qu­e­ness. It do­es not ca­re that a po­et is dri­ven by the idea of an ab­so­lu­te form or an am­bi­tion to re­sto­re the re­a­lity. If his con­cepts defy a sim­ple de­scrip­tion, if his ide­as re­ach over his tho­ught, if his pun­ctu­a­tion is car­ried on by elan, the aut­hor has all the pre­re­qu­i­si­tes to re­ach an ex­ci­ting pi­e­ce of wri­ting, wha­te­ver his wor­ri­es are. This phe­no­me­non can be com­pa­red to a na­ti­ve "go­spel" fo­und in sin­gers, or a na­tu­ral "pre­sen­ce" with ac­tors. What is left is a qu­a­lity I spe­ak of, of­ten ca­u­sed by a physi­cal shock, not ne­ces­sa­rily a pa­in­ful one, but which can still be lost or can sud­denly be tran­sfor­med in­to wri­ting and hurt no­ve­lists or playwrights.
● Your po­e­try pre­sents glo­om ima­ges of in­di­vi­dual and col­lec­ti­ve li­ves sur­ro­un­ded by me­lan­choly dre­a­ming of sal­va­tion. How you do see your po­e­tic ro­le in the con­text of con­tem­po­rary French po­e­try?
– I am one of tho­se who at the be­gin­ning of the 1980s wan­ted to reply to the dis­rup­ti­ons of struc­tu­ra­lism and di­vi­de hu­ma­ni­stic pro­ofs. I de­nied both the no­tion of "de­ath of a su­bject" and the one re­gar­ding "its com­ple­te­ness". I wan­ted to re­bu­ild re­la­ti­ons bet­we­en hi­story, po­li­tics and po­e­try. At that ti­me, I was al­ready clo­se to cri­ti­cal thin­king and went to a cri­sis whi­le I was wor­king at a po­si­tion that had a so­cial cha­rac­ter at­tac­hed to it. The­re we­re so­me con­nec­ti­ons bet­we­en daily en­co­un­te­rs with mi­sery, my own li­fe strug­gles and my lan­gu­a­ge that was de­eply mo­ved by a psycho­a­nalytic­ shock. De­fi­ning what is new in my sen­ten­ces, I star­ted cre­a­ting a po­e­try of di­a­lec­ti­cal po­li­tics in­stead of po­li­ti­ci­zed po­e­try. In ca­se my wor­ked has evol­ved, partly be­ca­u­se of my wri­ting and partly due to exi­sten­ti­al re­a­sons, I ne­ver wan­ted to be so­ci­o­lo­gi­cally se­cu­re or ho­nest or advan­ces. I pu­blish a po­em only when it is not ex­pec­ted.
● For qu­i­te a long ti­me, sin­ce 1982, you ha­ve been te­ac­hing cre­a­ti­ve wri­ting and the art of oral ar­ti­cu­la­tion both in Fran­ce and abroad, hi­red by with dif­fe­rent pe­o­ple. You we­re wor­king in the so­cial ser­ves in Pa­ris and, af­ter that, in 2002 you de­vo­ted your­self en­ti­rely to wri­ting and wor­kshops, re­ma­i­ning in the area of po­pu­lar edu­ca­tion. Do­es that kind of so­cial work con­tri­bu­te to ac­cep­ting and un­der­stan­ding the mo­dern po­e­tic ex­pres­si­on in wi­der cir­cles?
– Af­ter a fa­i­lu­re in school, I ga­ve lec­tu­res in li­bra­ri­es, cul­tu­ral cen­ters and the­a­tres. I bro­ught to wor­kshops wha­te­ver I knew. And tho­se al­so mix mo­ments of pri­vi­le­ged me­e­tings, pla­ces of sha­ring, a ple­a­sant way to ma­ke a li­ving and tra­vel, a njay to de­fend va­lu­es. Ul­ti­ma­tely, it is all very mo­dest. I ha­ve not ma­na­ged to wi­den the cir­cle of po­e­try au­di­en­ce ex­ten­si­vely. I had to re­ach al­most fi­ve tho­u­sand in­di­vi­du­als. So­me just had a dif­fe­rent vi­ew on art... So­me be­gan te­ac­hing li­te­ra­tu­re dif­fe­rently... So­me ga­i­ned con­fi­den­ce... So­me con­ti­nued wri­ting and I read them with a lot of ple­a­su­re... Ot­hers... I do not ca­re for num­bers. I did what I co­uld. I stick to my end of the co­urt.
● How do you see the con­tem­po­rary French po­e­try? Do­es it ha­ve a sen­se of its im­por­tan­ce or did it ac­cept the mar­gin as its de­stiny? Do­es the po­e­try ha­ve its au­di­en­ce in Fran­ce, its pu­blis­hers, its ma­ga­zi­nes? Do­es the sta­te sup­port the awards? What is the pla­ce of po­e­try in French so­ci­ety?
– As it is with everything that is not adver­ti­se­ment, sports, spec­tac­le, vi­o­len­ce or spe­cu­la­tion, po­e­try fa­ces neo­li­be­ral he­ge­mony. It gra­du­ally lo­ses the po­si­tion it had thirty years ago. Its in­sti­tu­ti­ons are li­mi­ted to il­lu­sion, ma­ga­zi­nes and pu­blis­hers di­sap­pe­ar, the me­dia ba­nis­hes po­e­try, etc. The si­tu­a­tion is still not ho­pe­less. New pos­si­bi­li­ti­es ha­ve emer­ged due to the vir­tual world, so­me ma­jor pu­blis­hers con­ti­nue to de­fend po­e­try, the ar­tists in­tro­du­ce it in the­ir work, and so on. But, it is high ti­me we fi­nis­hed de­a­ling with in­ter­nal strug­gles re­gar­ding the is­sue of symbo­lic po­wer.

*

Gérard No­i­ret (born in 1948) has spent a long ti­me wor­king at two po­si­ti­ons: as a so­cial wor­ker in Pa­ris area and as a wri­ter, a cri­tic, a cre­a­ti­ve wri­ting te­ac­her and a di­rec­tor.
He pu­blis­hed the fol­lo­wing bo­oks: Le pain aux alo­u­et­tes (1982), Cha­ti­la (1986), Le com­mun des mor­tels (1990), Chro­ni­lju­es d’in­ljuiétu­de (1994), Tags (1994), To­u­tes vo­ix con­fon­du­es (1998), Polyptyljue de la da­me à la glyci­ne (2000), Pris dans les cho­ses (2003), Ou­vri­er le chant (2004), Maélo (2006), Atlan­ti­des (2008) and Au­to­por­tra­it au so­leil co­uc­hant (2011).
He pu­blis­hed two ra­dio dra­mas: Les régi­ons tempérées (1998) and Le pont de la mo­rue (2005).
He wro­te a num­ber of dra­mas that we­re per­for­med in va­ri­o­us the­a­ters.
His po­ems ha­ve been tran­sla­ted and pu­blis­hed in So­uth Afri­ca, Ger­many, En­gland, Spain, In­dia, Italy, Mo­roc­co, Ro­ma­nia, Gre­e­ce, Co­lum­bia, Cro­a­tia, Ar­gen­ti­na.
Awards: Prix Tri­stan-Tza­ra in 1991 for Le com­mun des mor­tels, Prix des Déco­u­vre­urs in 1999 and Prix Max-Ja­cob in 2011 for Au­to­por­tra­it au so­leil co­uc­hant.
He has been a mem­ber of edi­to­rial bo­ard of La Qu­in­za­i­ne Littéra­i­re ma­ga­zi­ne sin­ce 1980 and Mâche-La­u­ri­er ma­ga­zi­ne from 2001 to 2010. He has pu­blis­hed a num­ber of ar­tic­les in va­ri­o­us ma­ga­zi­nes (Le Mon­de, Le Ma­tin de Pa­ris, L’Hu­ma­ni­te, Esprit, Le Mon­de Di­plo­ma­ti­que...) and to­ok part in ra­dio shows Fran­ce-Cul­tu­re and Fran­ce-In­ter.

Pre­ve­li Mi­li­ca Stan­ko­vić i Dra­gan Ba­bić


 
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