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Cluster index: Yves Bonnefoy

Writing to Shakespeare.

Bonnefoy: ‘…you’re standing in a corner of the theatre. It’s cold, and a wind seems to be blowing. You’re talking to several men, young and old. One of them will be Hamlet; another, Ophelia. Do you have an idea to explain to them? No. Hamlet is being written here, at this very moment, in the sentences that come to you, that take you by surprise. It’s virtually an improvisation, over several days divided between your table—I don’t know where—and the stage: a text, certainly, but one you cross out off-the-cuff, as when you understand—for example, at this very instant—that your future Hamlet doesn’t grasp all that well what you’re trying to tell him.’

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Écrire à Shakespeare.

Yves Bonnefoy: ‘Et comment ces mains s’y sont pris pour faire bouger cette boue, ces couleurs, ce froid, ces débuts mystérieux de chaleur, je voudrais bien vous le demander, c’était la raison de ma lettre, ou plutôt, non, je voudrais vous dire ce que j’en pense, vous expliquer ce que vous avez fait, car j’ai mon idée là dessus, en effet, vous acquiesceriez peut-être…’

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The Curved Planks, Dear Paula, and a note on Paula Rego.

Yves Bonney (to Paula Rego): ‘Paula, you put speech to the test of night. The frail voice which sought the clearest and simplest truth in the relationship between people, you bury it, as a mountain crumbles, under the multiplying voices that you hear crashing around inside you, as they protest violently, crazily, angrily, in the abyss of the unconscious. Your dark revelations have become the entire sky, the entire earth. What will remain of the hope of this child who has arrived from nowhere, clutching in his clenched fist what he needs to pay for his passage?

Everything, in my opinion.’

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