The ascent to the sea
Upon the cut grass of the summits are stamped the sky and the stabbing flight of the great raven, eagle, or maybe even bearded vulture: we are not closer to heaven, we are in heaven, in its footprint, the design of its flowers, in the dancing, gushing recordings of the horns of an ibex or chamois. The sky and its clouds: the source of Fontanalba is like a milky cloud, a light mist of a new-born child, when the words are still unable to separate, but a language of love is intertwined, where Italian and French do not cry, and above all, do not cry wolf.
I like to imagine white, too, the wolf is not seen and had to disappear as the bright light of day progresses. Yet, the greatest wonder is the hope that we put in the common sea, common to the Mercantour and Maritime Alps, the tangle of their languages, common and desirable above all things: this is towards the sea to which we go, he is revealing the higher elevations, it is in him that we lose ourselves in the summit of Argentera where we no longer know what blunders: the splendour of the snow, the glow of the rocks, the silver sea. Or this happy confusion.
Far from the Parisian literary scene, Maryline Desbiolles has been living and writing in the hinterland of Nice since 1998, when she published La seiche. This work has revealed the extraordinary lyricism of his writing, the same that we find in Anchise, a work that won the “Femina” prize in 1999, and in Primo, published in 2005.