The Blue Books
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Nicole Brossard's lucid, subversive and innovative work on language has influenced an entire generation of readers and writers. But three of her seminal works of postmodernism and feminism have been lost to us for years. The Blue Books brings them back.
A Book: A novel about a novel; five characters in "search of a narrative, a narrative in search of an author." Brossard's first novel, and a key work in Canadian postmodernism. Turn of a Pang (Sold-out in French): Quebec's 1943 Conscription Crisis and the 1970 War Measures Act weave together to form the texture of a woman's life. French Kiss: a celebration of the energy of women and language in the face of the male authorities of Montreal politics and the physical authority of the printed (and bound) word.
The Blue Books collects these three long-out-of-print, groundbreaking Brossard titles, in their original Coach House Press English translations (A Book by Larry Shouldice, Turn of a Pang and French Kiss by the acclaimed Patricia Claxton). Don't be blue: these Brossard classics are back!
neon Seven-Ups or the barricades yet. Text because the references are too easy to manipulate. Places of encounter ‘bring on the drinks’ ....................................... ............................ Something to get across the textual allusions, primary source quotations from line one and face to face defying the phony wooden muscles outstretched brandished here there and everywhere. Questions of references: for the moment these those in the mêlée on both sides in the sense that words get
one unfold one’s wishes, form thoughts of going here or there, complete with itinerary or maybe none. In every way gives a yen for travel. Images and creation of some esoteric dance, or trance ——— of space. The only way to return from night is slowly. Much inclined to gentleness. Night. The city sprouts in Georges and Lexa like a mushroom. In their breasts geodesic domes protect them and filter love. A philtre before the dawn. The tentacular organ of death has stirred in them, henceforth
make the green shadows pivot round the orb of an eye, earth-like (paradise of verdure and fruits, complete with an Eve, like a rotting tooth made worse by all the hype – let’s get it over with!); dance on the sundial with slow magnetic clock hand movements like a corny image of me coming closer and closer to you why not and now not later as you stroke my ears and antennae to quieten all the static sounds around us, all those darting insects (what fever, what delirium!) drawn by lush tropical
breast an appetite for life swells, puffs up, tortures desires. Then decomposes, seeping creature smells intriguing to the nose. Which reacts. Result: in the breast, the architecture dallies mid blissful scenery. But the cement is cracking and the rest keeps seeping as though secretion instinctively begets rebellion. Demerits like a dose of radiation. Train my narrative intentions directly on your questions. Wait. Slow myself down. Bum around the neighbourhood. Watch one’s time by one’s watch.
differently now. Discover his bio / chemical angel architecture through an elliptical glass that gives him back a neurological reflection of the species (Narcissus was no swimmer you know). * * * It’s dark. Six in the evening. December magic. Evergreens, naked trees (maples, oaks ... ). Elle has left Violet parked, goes to walk a while in a funny little wood behind the big shopping centre in Châteauguay. Lights faint not far. It’s snowing a bit. Bing Crosby dreaming of a white Christmas. See