Category: New beginnings

(version française)

The world was dying, and the fairy was crying. The butterfly was sipping her tears.

It had not always been like this. The fairy had been happy, in osmosis with a primordial nature. She was at the centre of the multimodal, mineral, ecological and psychic network covering Gaia and keeping it in an optimal state. She laughed then, intoxicated by the contented waves emitted by every stream of clear water flowing freely, every plant drinking this water and offering its fruits, every animal eating these fruits and expressing its happiness in lively and harmonious movements.

Then the ships had arrived. The beings emerging from their hulls had immediately attacked Gaia. They had fractured its crust, diverted its waterways, cut down the trees and driven out the animals. Their chemical waste had polluted the streams and poisoned the plants. Gaia’s atmosphere had grown hotter, her skies covered with heavy, low clouds, pouring out endless streams of toxic rain.

The fairy had felt every affront, every wound, every imbalance. Her agony was immense and perpetual. She had begun to cry, letting a steady stream of dense, rich tears flow. By then, the butterfly had been a small, grey, withered thing, destined to be quickly extinguished by the ravages of its environment. Perhaps attracted by the waves of sadness emitted by the fairy or by some unknown pheromone, it had approached her and tasted her tears.

The effect had been almost instantaneous. Its six diaphanous wings had grown and spread out, sumptuous. Their vivid yet indefinable, ever-changing colours enchanted the fairy, who saw her pain recede. In turn, the butterfly was now fed only by the fairy tears. The fairy and the majestic and delicate lepidopteran had entered into a symbiotic relationship. They managed to get through the continuous destruction of their world by comforting each other.

Then one day, the defilers returned to their ships and left, never to return. They had maybe decided that Gaia had nothing more to offer. They had maybe discovered other worlds to exploit and defile. The fairy never really knew what they had come to seek at the planet’s heart via those millions of wounds.

Gaia gradually recovered. Her skies calmed, and her waters became clearer. Her wounds closed, and the scars disappeared, covered by lush vegetation once again. The fairy stopped crying and began to laugh, in tune with this convalescent nature.

The butterfly had no more tears to consume. It had become entirely dependent on its lachryphagy and could no longer feed itself. Its light faded and disappeared.

(Version française)

The lion sits in the middle of the path. Pale beige. Silent. Not particularly imposing. But at two o’clock in the morning in a wood near Séné along the Gulf of Morbihan, it is an unsettling sigh.

The race started from Vannes at 7pm two days ago. This is the first time I will run more than 100 kilometres. The grand raid du Golfe du Morbihan is 177 long. A triple one in imperial units, 111 miles. This race is important in many ways. Distance is, of course, a factor. I started running about ten years ago, and I’ve been increasing the length of these extreme races, half sporting events, half adventures. Furthermore, I love the location. My family is from Morbihan, where I spent all my spring holidays as a child. As a teenager, I followed in the footsteps of the Armoricans, the Celts and Merlin. For a long time, I dreamed that I would buy a big house there to make a permanent family home; I, who moved 16 times before my 18^th birthday. In reality, I haven’t been back to Brittany for twenty-five years… Finally, it’s been a challenging year; my life has changed, not necessarily in a good way. My training has been affected, as well as my performance in races. I feel strained, old, inadequate.

These few days, with their change of scenery and focus on effort, are therefore very welcome. As usual, the first kilometres are difficult. The legs are heavy. But the collective enthusiasm helps me to overcome this delicate phase. There were just over 1,200 participants at the start. They ranged from formidable runners, capable of spending ten hours without deviating from a pace that most normal human beings cannot maintain for a few kilometres, to oblivious dreamers who have only ever run small local trails on Sunday morning. But we all vibrate with incredible energy, made of a mixture of impatience and apprehension.

From 30 degrees at the start, the temperature drops quite quickly. After a brief period of chatting with the runners around, the single-track allows me to adopt a steady pace, which, although brisk, does not require too much effort. I arrive at the refreshment station of the 36^th kilometre 15 minutes ahead of my schedule. The darkness has fallen. After absorbing some solid calories, I set off again with the headlamp.

I’m heading into my first night of racing, hitting the heart of the matter on an ultra, namely the long solitary periods where the mind takes over from the body. I had planned to sleep at the rest station in Le Bono, at the 54^th kilometre. All the experts say that ordinary people should take short naps, if possible on the first night. But at three o’clock in the morning, I really didn’t feel like sleeping. What’s more, the checkpoint is overcrowded and deafening (I’ll soon learn that the pros find quiet corners between the checkpoints). I leave after a quick but solid collation: pasta for energy, dry meat for salt and proteins, and fresh fruit for pleasure.

The temperature has now dropped significantly, and a light breeze rises, sufficient to cool my sweat without drying it out. So I put on an insulating jacket. The next few hours see us ride on long stretches of tarmac road, as hard on the morale as they are on the legs.

I reach the Crac’h checkpoint with the first light of dawn. I lie down on the tarmac of a basketball court, unable to sleep. The checkpoint has received the packs of coffee, but not the coffee machine (the 137^th kilometre checkpoint has received the coffee machines, but not the coffee…). So I set off again without caffeine, slightly nauseous and a bit worried about what is coming. But a phenomenal sunrise over the Locmariaquer peninsula quickly dispels these minor worries.

However, I am getting tired, and my feet hurt. The nausea is back. My weakness is so apparent that during the crossing to Port Navalo, the pilot forces me to sit on the bottom of the boat rather than on the side like the other passengers. The few kilometres between the dock and the main base at Arzon are some of the most mentally challenging, with ever more frequent episodes of walking interspersing my attempts at trotting.

The stop at the base camp is crucial. Clean and dry clothes are waiting for me. I can charge my phone and my GPS watch. And above all, I can take a shower. A shower! Admittedly, the floor of these overcrowded changing rooms is only slightly less muddy than the gulf’s shoreline when uncovered at low tide, and its smell is much worse. Admittedly, the pressure of a long line of naked and scruffy runners makes the effectiveness of the cleaning a priority rather than surrendering to the soothing waterfall. But I emerge relaxed enough to try to sleep. With all the cots occupied, I lay down on floor mats in a corner of the gym, and manage to nod off for a few minutes despite the cacophony of a few hundred participants, their families and volunteers.

I set off again at around 11am, under a blazing sun soon replaced by an overcast sky and even occasional drizzle. Dozens of kilometres of paths now await me, following the fractal structure of the granite coast. Seven hours to cover six kilometres as the crow flies… The Anglo-Saxons have a perfect expression to describe what I feel: “soul-crushing”. For hours on end, we go around coves and bays, only to find ourselves constantly facing the same islands. A light in the midst of this emotional darkness, I reach kilometre 107, the longest distance I have ever travelled in a race.

At Sarzeau, the 120^th km refreshment point, I manage to doze off for a few more moments despite the chirping of a group of birds having a heated conversation just above my head. I set off again with poles, an implicit admission that the run/walk ratio will now be reversed. After crossing many flooded fields, my feet are soaked, and my shoes are heavy with mud. I slip a few times; I don’t get hurt, but my confidence is weakened. The second night of the race begins.

The next stage, made up of long stretches of road that I roam alone, accompanied only by the sound of my poles on the tarmac, brings me to the brink of exhaustion. I have been on the move for just over 30 hours. Running is undoubtedly no longer the right word to describe my progress. As best I can, I reach Séné, the checkpoint of the 156^th kilometre. My feet are in a terrible state. A podiatrist takes care of me as best she can, draining my blisters, injecting antiseptic solutions and carefully bandaging them. I set off again in a cool, damp, inky night, hobbling along rough paths, kept semi-awake by the intervention of scattered showers. And then, in the middle of a small wood, I find myself facing it.

It is ten or fifteen metres away, sitting in the middle of the path. The light colour of its fur contrasts with the muddy ground and the dark vegetation around us. The animal seems to be of average size for a lion. But what do I know, having only observed them from a distance in zoos?

Its presence is not an ontological impossibility (escaped from a zoo or the garden of a rich eccentric? Hallucination due to fatigue? Better still: the last representative of a hidden line of native felines still visible on the coats of arms of Vitré and the Pays de Léon).

Enigmatic, silent.

Why is it there? Is it guarding the path like Gandalf the Grey guarded the bridge of Moria (or like Monty Python’s Black Knight guarded… the plank)? Is it intrigued by the sweaty, tired-looking people who pass by at regular intervals? Or is it just enjoying the relative coolness of the night in contrast to the heat of the previous days, a memory of the African savannahs.

It doesn’t roar, doesn’t snarl, doesn’t growl; not even a purr of pleasure at the thought of the meal to come.

I have to make a decision. I don’t even consider running away. Usually, the animal would have joined me in two bounds. But in my current condition, the king of the animals would only have to walk leisurely to catch me. I am too tired to even be afraid. I throw a few “Boo! Hoo!” and a “Go away!” in a hoarse, weak voice that doesn’t even echo in the empty woods.

I take one step; a second. The next moment, the Armorica lion is gone. Was it ever here?

I arrive in Vannes 38 hours after my start.

(The French version of this text has first been published in issue 7 of the literary review Torticolis)

There are 64 of them, 32 per door. Most are looking for a few years of respite before compulsory military service, which could – at the time – be acquired through specialised training. A handful is rather looking for proof that their balls were larger than average. Some may be there by vocation. They sing at the top of their lungs a paratrooper song to make themselves believe they are, and to forget the anguish they all feel.

While crossing the aperture
Paratrooper remember,
Yes, remember!
That one day it could occur
your fabric doesn’t open,
Doesn’t open!
That after some free-falling
You’ll no longer be breathing, la, la, la, la, la…
Chute candled in the ozone
You will fall like a stone.*

“Shut up! You’ll be less cocky in a few moments. The next one singing doesn’t jump and get punished”. They fall silent, with here and there a few awkward sniggers.

They jump eight by eight, by cables as they say. The pros would have jumped 16 at a time, but the trainers know what to expect. The first group doesn’t disappoint. The head jumper stands at the door, one hand on either side of the opening, his body outstretched. He enjoys the scenery for several long seconds before jumping. Despite his comrade’s demonstration, the second jumper misses and falls sitting on the doorstep with his feet dangling in the air. The sergeant solves the problem with a well-placed kick on the backpack, which sends the clumsy one into the atmosphere.

The third one presents a more tasty sketch. A few nights earlier, the young ones from high school had been “hazed” by the group’s older members, preparing for the military academy. Nothing too serious. Led by an angry little fellow, four idiots who thought they were tough had woken them up in the middle of the night, had overturned their beds, and uttered a few insults and threats. The loudmouth is now on the cable. At the last moment, he turns around and tries to get back to his seat. The sergeant attempts to convince him for one second to find his gonads. Our hero then collapses on his knees, sobbing. Having neither the time nor the desire to negotiate further, the sergeant unhooks the carabiner, grabs the former future Rambo by the straps of his harness, propels him in a single swift movement to the back of the plane where he remains prostrate. The launch of the cable is missed; an additional fly-over will be needed.

It’s the third group’s turn. The rehearsed choreography goes off without a hitch. He stands up, carabiner in his right hand. At the signal, he attaches it to the cable running above their heads. The first jumper is in place. He is himself in the fourth position. The pilot-controlled light comes on, and it’s “Go, go, go”. He has a brief view of the outside while the previous jumpers are jumping. Then it’s the door; the image of the ground, 400 m down. He can see all the details. Nothing like the acrobatic jumps shown on TV, where a blurred landscape of yellow, green and brown geometric shapes seems a little unreal. Here, everything is terribly clear, the runway, the barracks and even the ground personnel. Terror seizes him, and in a second, everything comes back to him.

His first swimming lesson. When at 6 years old, he found himself in the wrong group, with the third years, screaming in terror while a lifeguard – policeman when he was wearing more than a pair of swim trunks – threw him from the top of the 3 m diving board towards certain death.

All the 5 m diving boards, in primary school, secondary school, military high school; with always this atrocious fear at the pit of the stomach, the humiliation of not jumping and the shameful climb down avoided only thanks to the fear of mockery for weeks to come.

And the countless dreams, where he found himself lying on his stomach at the top of a bridge a few centimetres wide, suspended tens, even hundreds of metres above the ground, forced to crawl from one bank to the other of titanic rivers, with bubbling grey waves.

Then he falls into the void. All the lessons are forgotten. The elegant jump, so many times rehearsed on the ground, becomes just a passive response to gravity. He finds himself upside down on his back. And he slowly moves away from the vast, deafening steel bird that passes over him. The tether is 22 m long. One would think that the opening is, therefore, almost instantaneous. It is not. He has time to see two comrades leave the plane in slow motion, disarticulated puppets like him. And to realise that he is going to die. That this whole undertaking was a colossal mistake. Then comes the jolt. The strap pulls the parachute out of the bag at full speed but not instantaneously; then, after an almost imperceptible pause, it detaches and continues with the plane. The result is a sudden and violent reorientation, which sees him again head up and feet towards the centre of the globe, accompanied by the impression of a sudden ascent.

The next step involves a change in the temporal reference frame. After the past few seconds that lasted an eternity, his brain, flooded with catecholamines, decides to go on holiday. The Transall is gone; there is no more noise. He is suspended like a baby in his harness and no longer controls anything but feels safe and peaceful. He turns slowly on himself and admires the landscape. The minute and a half of descent disappear in a snap of the fingers.

The coming back to reality takes the form of anxious shouts from the men in green left on the ground. “Hey, dickhead! You’re going in the wrong direction! Pull your suspension lines!” He wakes up suddenly and realises that he has almost reached the edge of the field. He pulls on the suspension lines to orient the canvas and to skew his fall; the wrong lines. And his movement speeds-up accordingly. “But he is going to miss the field, the moron! Opposite suspension lines, you idiot!”

Indeed, he misses the field and its welcoming carpet of grass. He crosses the road that runs alongside it and now sees the tarmac of a car park rushing towards him. Can one rollover on a car park, as he is supposed to? (military canvases have a descent speed incompatible with a stand-up landing, and they have no brake handles). The question is rhetorical since he is paralysed by fear and does not make a single movement to regain control of the situation. He finally lands backwards and falls on his backside; his body then tips over at full speed, and his head hits the ground. His outer helmet encounters a pebble that pierces it. The resulting metal splinter pierces his inner helmet, scraping his scalp. The car park is that of a pub, with a few tables outside, occupied by groups of patrons roaring with laughter.

He stands up, red-faced but dignified, and folds his parachute. His ass hurts, his skull bleeds, and he’s going to get hell.

He has never been happier.

* French version https://www.musicanet.org/robokopp/french/yavaitla.htm

(French version)

The Ship is oblong, capsule-shaped. It travels the dense and turbulent fluids, propelled by a dozen engines, each connected to a long cable. In rapid counter-clockwise rotation, the cables wind together, forming a screw that converts the rotational movement into a translation movement of the surrounding fluids, and thus an opposite translation of the vehicle. Unless the Ship maintains a steady speed, it is swayed by the surrounding whirlwinds and loses its bearing.

The Ship moves randomly, extracting the fuel that feeds its engines from the surrounding environment. Everything is stochastic in the Ship, decisions and actions obeying laws of probability, modified according to events and the environment. At the front is a “nose”, carrying a matrix of detectors, which measure the ambient concentration of the various substances encountered – not only the chemical components that can be used as fuel, but also the poisons that can damage the delicate operation of the Ship. These concentrations are continuously compared with previously measured concentrations. Thousands of detectors synchronously measure the same substances. Their sensitivity threshold is high but the lower the concentrations, the lower the signal-to-noise ratio, decreasing the reliability of their response. However, this response depends not only on the concentrations they measure themselves but also on the response of neighbouring detectors. This procedure leads to a more effective cooperative decision. If most detectors do not detect a change, overly sensitive individuals are ignored. If, on the other hand, a majority of detectors detect a variation of concentration, the indolence of some of them does not put the Ship in danger. Thus, individual stochastic decisions, integrated in time and space, give rise to a robust and deterministic global decision.

At the very moment, the concentration of a particularly toxic product is increasing, the detectors are adamant. On the other hand, the quantities of fuels seem stable. Continuing straight ahead can, therefore, only be harmful without bringing obvious benefits. The coordinators, each in communication with several detectors, decide to change direction. As the detectors’ responses are congruent, so are the coordinators‘ decisions. Moreover, the coordinators are also in constant communication with each other, and as for the detectors, their individual decisions influence that of the others. Once the decision has been made and shared, all the coordinators in agreement notify the messengers nearby, whose role will be to transmit the decision to the controllers of the engines. Messengers are constantly on the move, roaming randomly through the Ship. As a result, there are always some messengers in the vicinity of the coordinators, who are unaware of the decision and ready to receive the information to pass it on. These messengers know how to recognize a controller but do not know where they are. The Ship is too large, too complicated, and its configuration constantly changes. The messengers then leave through the Ship, each following a distinct path chosen randomly. Although apparently illogical, this approach is more effective than systematically exploring all possible paths, which are in almost infinite quantity.

When a messenger arrives near a propeller, they reach the command centre and contact a controller. 34 controllers, distributed in a circle around the rotor, decide on the direction of a propeller. Everyone presents their opinion, but a change of direction requires unanimity. Controllers are constantly changing their minds. By default, however, they tend to choose to push the Ship forward, and thus rotate the rotor counter-clockwise. But right now, the messenger delivers a clear order: reverse the rotor. However, the controller‘s final decision is also influenced by that of their two neighbours. Initially, the arrival of a few messengers, communicating with dispersed controllers, did not change the collective decision, and the propeller continued to turn clockwise. As new messengers arrive, more and more controllers are flipping. So much so that soon, controllers who have not received the message vote to reverse the direction of rotation, just because their two immediate neighbours think so. After that, unanimity, and therefore the final decision, is reached very quickly. The rotor stops and then goes back in the opposite direction. A single rotor rotating clockwise, and therefore in the opposite direction of the others, is sufficient to cause chaos, dissociating the propulsion helix. The Ship slows down, making it sensitive to the swirling currents of surrounding fluids. The turbulence makes it tumble madly.

Their message delivered, the messengers are gone. When controllers come back to their senses, they start voting again to move forward. The various rotors start in an anti-clockwise direction, and the propulsion helix is rebuilt. The Ship‘s initial orientation is completely forgotten, and it soon it travels fast in a new, random, direction. If this movement takes it into areas where fuel decreases or poisons increase, a new tumble will be decided. If, on the contrary, luck smiles on it, leading it to ever more nourishing and safe lands, the decision of the next tumble will be delayed.

Escherichia coli thus continues its biased random journey that, although appearing aimless to the uninitiated observer, allows it to orient itself effectively. It takes advantage of its small size, which, despite preventing it from distinguishing differences in concentrations between its extremities, leads to a lack of inertia allowing an immediate re-orientation.

Characters
The Ship	Escherichia coli	https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Escherichia_coli	doi:10.1073/pnas.022641699
detectors	aspartate receptor	https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aspartate_receptor	doi:10.1101/cshperspect.a003442
coordinators	histidine kinase	https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Histidine_kinase
messengers	CheY protein (with the message, a phophate)	http://www.rcsb.org/structure/1FQW
controllers	FliM protein	http://www.rcsb.org/structure/4GC8
propellers	bacterial flagellum	https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flagellum	doi:10.1016/j.cub.2006.09.053

For more details:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chemotaxis#Bacterial_chemotaxis%E2%80%94general_characteristics

(Version originale en français)

He had always been convinced that human beings should be equal. Not identical. But equal. Equal in rights, equal in obligations. After all, he was born in the country which decreed in its declaration of human and citizen rights, several centuries ago, that “men are born and remain free and equal in rights”; assertion that United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights had extended, geographically and semantically, proclaiming that “all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights”. If the latter text had abandoned, in the fundamental article, the mention of permanence for innate equality, its authors had added in Article 2 a pinch of universality, following the enumeration of characteristics that could not lead to unequal treatment by “or any other situation”.

In addition, he had spent most of his adult life in a kingdom that placed multiculturalism and the celebration of diversity at the centre of his social and cultural policy. A kingdom where one must declare, during any job application, gender, age, ethnic origin, religion, and sexual preference, in order to be able to back claims of non-discrimination on a solid statistical basis. Suffice to say, he had never pondered the question of equal access to all aspects of modern life in a Western society. Like air or drinking water, that was self-evident.

And then he made that mistake. A despicable, illegal behavior that led him to the courts. He had come out convicted, severely. Social sanctions being unsurprisingly added to the judicial sentence, he had now to re-invent himself. The prospect was agonizing, although slightly exciting. He was no-one, and could thus become anyone. He had always been competitive. And he used to give his all in what he was passionate about, which in the past had included his professional activity. So, since equal opportunities and treatment were obvious, he should be able to cope.

The first clue that things would not be so simple came from his social network. Hitherto ultra-connected and in constant communication, visually or via various analogue and digital artifices, he now entered the silent world. After a dozen messages of support, his interactions were mostly limited to his family and anonymous members of various administrations that he had to meet on a periodic basis.

He started quickly to look for a job. He knew, of course, that the doors of certain fields would now be closed. Moreover, as long as the period of rehabilitation was not completed, he had to mention the sentence if asked. But he never had the opportunity. His applications remained unanswered, or the interactions ended after an initial contact. That is, as soon as his identity was known and led to an online search. His case having been widely exposed in the press, this did not come as a surprise. The extent of the phenomenon was more puzzling. Tired by the impossibility of being recruited into an organization or a traditional company, he tried “freelancing”. In order to start his business, he attempted to register on global platforms, counting millions of subscribers and managed abroad. However, he was rejected there as well, without any particular reason being invoked. Nor did things stop there. When he wanted to renew his home insurance, he was told that it was not possible. After some online research, he found out that most insurances were declared null and void after a conviction. When he decided to take a subscription to the local gym, he was asked to cancel it on the next day.

He then discovered a little known fact outside the judicial domains. Anti-discrimination laws do not apply to people who are not “rehabilitated”. He could now be barred from any activity or place arbitrarily without the need of any justification. He was entering a hidden apartheid, involving hundreds of thousands of people in his own country of residence. He was now a second-class human, with fewer rights than the others. From an “alpha plus plus” of the Brave New World, he had gone to a “gamma”.

The question that now arose, in this era of absolute memory, was this: Since we could be relegated to second class, would it be possible, with time, to regain a position in first? To become again, one day, a man, “free and equal in rights” with his neighbor?

(Version originale en français)

… but do not read them anymore. Or I increasingly don’t. I read a lot of novels and essays in small format, with cardboard covers and often few illustrations. As for reference texts, encyclopedias, technical compendiums, I read their content on a screen. It can be a Kindle, a computer screen or a phone. But I rarely read them in paper form, even when I have them at hand.

I recently had to part with a hundred of them. The initial idea was to sell the less useful and the less recent, which is often synonymous in the technological fields. As I established my priority list, I discovered that my choices were based more and more on the quality of the container rather than the usefulness of the content. It was anyhow clear that the probability of opening any of these works for practical purposes was very low. I do not read them anymore. But the idea of parting with some of them was more painful than losing others.

Because I like beautiful books. Carnally. I like to weigh them up, to look at them, to smell them, to feel their texture. To contrast the granularity of their covers with the softness of their pages. I like books with a real cover, a hard one. Not paper or pliable cardboard, but solid cardboard, sometimes covered with leather or fabric. I keep the glossy outer cover when it comes with the books. And sometimes, I remove it before opening the book, as we strip a woman naked before making love. I can then discover what was hidden behing this poor quality veil, the material and the color of the skin of the book; I can browse through the titles and other illuminations; see if they are golden, if they are embossed, even engraved.

Then I discover the interior. Sometimes starting with the beginning, frontispiece and cover page, or opening the book at random instead. My initial curiosity often concerns type and quality of fonts as well as typographic accuracy. A balanced font and correct typography fill me with joy. An ae instead of a æ, ff or fi instead of ff and fi and my heart sinks. Fonts are important.

When in the late 1970s, Don Knuth wanted to write his monumental work on computer programming (The Art of Computer Programming), he did not find any typography software of sufficient quality. So he wrote his own, called Teχ – that since became one of the systems favoured in the scientific and technical world, but also by some actors of the humanities, such as historians. Moreover, since no available font suited him, he created his font generator, MetaFont.

That is why I love scientific books so much. The great opuses of biology, with their complex diagrams, and their anatomical planks evoking Shelley-like chimeras or Lovecrafts’s unspeakable horrors. Or else the mathematical textbooks, with their mysterious equations and abstruse schemas, revealing to the initiate some secrets fit to shake the pentagrams. And of course the chemistry books, listing their formulas, probably describing powerful potions. When manipulating these volumes, often of a not insignificant mass, one feels already like Merlin.

Besides, the older a book is, the harder I find to part with it. I have anatomy compendium from the nineteenth century and manuals of biochemistry of the mid-twentieth. These books are of course completely outdated. But how can one not dream in front of these hand-drawn anatomical planks, these yellowed pages and patinated covers, read by generations of students and curious minds? The same goes for my “Littré”, and its four gigantic volumes, cataloguing a French language from the past, now both obsolete and incomplete. Moreover equipped with highly questionable etymological analyzes. But as soon as I open it, I find myself projected at a time when the “honest man” could claim an encyclopedic knowledge. Its endless definitions, unfolding columns after columns (in serif font!) cannot be compared to the short and dry sentences of an online Larousse dictionary, telling us that Torticolis is a masculine noun meaning a “Contracture more or less painful of the neck muscles, limiting the rotational movements of the head”. While the 272 words from good Émile provide us 5 other definitions, including an adjective and a bird name. However, when I search for a definition, do I turn to my faithful and exhaustive treasure of black leather? Of course not. I type the word in a search engine to take advantage of the global memory (missing by the way the link to the digital version of the Littré, which does not even figure in the first hundred answers). Nonetheless, I like its heavy presence in my library. I can see it every day, and from time to time I open it at random, just for a guilty pleasure.

A British comedian compared books to ready-made dishes. Not collecting the empty packs once their content is devoured, he expressed his surprise that we kept books once read. But for me, some books are precious objects, like jewels. Although the jewel is amplified by a delicate ear or an alabaster neck, it nevertheless has its place prominently on the dresser, or stored in a jewel box, which is opened from time to time, for us to explore its content. Likewise, I like to revisit the beautiful book as a sensual illiterate.

(The French version of this text has first been published in issue 6 of the literary review Torticolis.)

I like the little detours. Those who allow me to arrive just in time. Not early. Not late. Just in time.

Like everyone else, I learned as a child that “punctuality is the politeness of kings”. I preferred this politeness to the quarter of an hour of the same name, and made it a point of honor to arrive in advance at any appointment, any invitation. Taking into account the possible vagaries of the journey, the need to find a place to park if I had my own means of transport, and maybe even some time-consuming imponderable, I always added a comfortable time cushion when planning my trips. I did not mind waiting in a hall, in front of a door, or near a sports field. A book, the observation of the surroundings and its inhabitants, watching the clouds go by, or a little introspection were enough for me. The wait had never bothered me too much.

And then I had to go to this summoning, in a place a little far from home. As usual, I arrived well in advance, and I was parked on a seat at the reception; stuck between the front door and the windows protecting the receptionists. In this place, there are mainly two types of people; those who wear a uniform – or at least a prominent colorful badge – and those who do not. Members of the second type do not like the eyes of those from the first type, or even the eyes of other members of their tribe. Having no uniform, this person is naked, whatever the nature and thickness of their clothing. A little later, I had to repeat the experience, in another context, where the attributes of the first type are wig and black dress. I now have to regularly attend meetings where “before the hour is not the time yet, and after the hour is not the time anymore”, presenting to the too foresighted person the prospect of a closed door, and a wait shared in a heavy silence, often exposed to the rest of the world, busy in their occupations of “normal” people. I am also part of an unwanted population, whose lengthy and immobile presence may, depending on the location, attract comments, or worse.

So I make little detours.

That is, I dynamically adapt my journey according to the time I have left before the precise moment of the appointment. The little detour is an art. It requires adapting not only the route but also the speed to get to the right place at the right time. If the journey is motorized, one must try to limit fuel consumption and pollution. If the journey is on foot or by bike, one must try to limit fatigue, but also sweat. Indeed, an essential aspect of the little detour is a nonchalant arrival, looking neither anxious nor in a hurry. If the route is exposed, it is best to limit exposure to cold, wind, or weather. One can for example, use shopping malls and stores with large awnings.
We can use the opportunity to discover new paths, hidden secrets close to an avenue hundred times traveled. But you must avoid going back to the same place twice. People would become suspicious. The little detour then becomes a mathematical exercise, borrowing from the problem of the seven bridges of Könisberg and that of the commercial traveler. It is also better to look determined. The modern person moves from one location to another for a specific reason. If it is not the case, the thing is shady, and social networks begin to buzz.

But more importantly, you have to learn to love small detours, not to see them as a chore, as lost time, and to enjoy them a maximum. Especially when they form an unavoidable part of the rest of your life.

(The French version of this text has first been published in issue 6 of the literary review Torticolis.)

The table is rectangular. Neat piles of bright colored brochures and leaflets are spread in the centre. We have naturally moved on the three sides where chairs are facing forms and bad-quality photocopies, presenting the biweekly selection. Three plastic pots contain handfuls of mini-biros. The table is slightly too low and I feel transported back to the after-school club, 40 years ago.

This is my first time. Curious, I detail the audience, perhaps with too much attention. I notice that most of us keep our eyes down. The diversity in age, body-language and clothing is remarkable. I carefully dressed up this morning; Navy pleated trousers, pale rose sleeveless shirt, brown linen jacket; Same nuance of leather for belt and shoes. No suit, no ties, but not the Sunday comfy clothes either. “Smart-casual” as we say.

The meeting is at noon, but our cleaner has come to our house at 9am, as she does every Monday. Eager to avoid questions about a late departure for work, I have left just after she arrived. I am lucky, the weather is gorgeous. I have parked the car in the town centre, and then I have walked for hours, exploring the streets and parks that I have ignored for 20 years. I pass by the building on several occasions. It is almost time, but I feel too self-conscious to wait in front of the door.

Once inside, our identities are checked and, after a few minutes, we are directed towards this famous table. There is a young pregnant woman, I guess between 6 and 8 months. She must prepare the after-birth. A very young man is probably just off school, searching for a future. In front of me is a man in his fifties, well combed white hair, a bit of overweight, clean track pants and polo, glasses. Why is he there? A long-term homeless, a foreigner who barely speaks the language and two middle-age men, a little frumpy, complete our group.

The facilitator arrives, arms full of notebooks. She starts by 10 min of mandatory administrative declarations, that she probably has to regurgitate before each meeting. Then comes the first series of questions about everyone’s progress, with a collection of respective forms. I am excused since I cannot have made any progress. The meeting ends up on a “training” step, with a round-table exercise on how to prepare for an interview. The answers are varied and very comprehensive (one of us answers “to brush me teeth”).

I am the last one to talk. There is not much to add any more. On arrival, like a good boy, I have naturally chosen the seat near the “teacher”. Or perhaps it is the routine of the first row in international conferences, the one reserved for speakers and silver-backs, who are always entitled to the first question.

I realize too late that there is no hierarchy. The position does not count since we all have the same, the last one. The clothes do not impress anyone, there is no-one to impress. I am 50, and I am jobless.