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96 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2021
"Upon the range of the west wind, Alone I walk, my heart moved. Scanning afar the Southern Sky I think of my friends." part of a poem written by Ho Chi Minh whilst in China in the 1940's
And so it's here that Nguyên Ai Quoc [another alias] read Michelet and Proudhon to his exiled brothers and that a magazine was put together despite the authorities' obstruction, more or less monthly to tell the truth: a large part all of words threaded together and sometimes drawings, words that the Vietnamese writer felt best to nestle inside humble hearts, not words with which one might embellish brilliant pink lips, not words with which to reduce to silence those who lack them, not words to make fictions to softly pass the time, no, words words to fire one shot only one, at the column, and see a back make like a reed when the wind finally shuts up, straighten, that's right, straighten up, with eyes to follow the act and at last crash into others', into the eyes of those swollen with diplomas and medals, twenty-five cents for these words and a title in French in Chinese in Arabic, going from ship's hold to sunlight, flying covertly to the four corners of the hemisphere, Madagasgar, Dahomey Maghreb Oceania Indochina, and it is said, and you believe it, that in the metropole Annamite workers bought it not knowing anything of the language, of pronouns, auxiliary verbs, of the hard g of "guêpe" and not of "givre," of the words "arpent" and "portefaix," "roulure" and "alambic," "frimas and "ruffian," they bought it simply because they knew that Las Paria had a strong smell, that's right, an aura, resistant, impudent, taking to the streets, and they had their French pals, Lucien Émile or Jaquot, read it to them, this paper, the same that a young man took to Kanaky or Réunion after Nguyên told him to show solidarity with the French people, the working class, and all of the Earth's colonized--and when he came back, this young man, the revoutionary, who moved into this very building before he left France, would ask him to do more. But come on, now these days there's only the blue of a glass window, here, the silence and what you might like to sneak into it.