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32 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1979


Vincent Degraël had scarcely begun to read it before he felt an uncanny sensation he could not precisely define, but which only grew as he turned the pages with an ever unsteadier hand: it was as if the sentences before his eyes were suddenly familiar, started to remind him irresistibly of something, as if on the reading of each one was imposed, or rather superimposed, an acute but uncertain memory of another almost identical sentence that he had read somewhere else; as if these words—sweeter than kisses or more treacherous than poison—these alternately limpid and hermetic, obscene and heartfelt, dazzling, labyrinthine words, swinging incessantly like a demented compass-neeedle between hallucinatory violence and fabulous serenity, were sketching out a confused configuration in which you could find (perhaps) in random array Germain Nouveau and Tristan Corbière, Villiers and Banbille, Rimbaud and Verhaeren, Charles Cros and Léon Bloy.