“I don’t know think of my death”: in the discomfort of an anti-conformist

Photo: Pedro Ruiz The Duty
Guilty of “romanticide”, Marisol Drouin east. She admits. She assumes.

But this is not a novel ! This is not a test either. It is a murder, this book called I don’t know think of my death, the second signed by Marisol Drouin. A cold-blooded murder, calculated, in the novel River of evil that was being worked on, the author of the Quay, 31 (2011), until July 2016, the date of his conviction, choking with two hands, its eradication to large stroke of the keyboard, under the flood of words, of memories, of strong images and sometimes tortured posed in this diary written in the five months since a writing workshop in Montreal.


“I write this text, I bury the novel, expose it. He cries a little, but barely. He will come out again by shaking in the texts to come. Traces of him. I know. I démasquerai, the dénoncerai, the piégerai, will return to oblivion. “


Guilty of ” romanticide “, Marisol Drouin east. She admits. She assumes. She cries even. And this is what gives the brilliance to this introspection, an assembly of fragments of a life, a past, an anxiety that, finally, circumscribed by the outlines of the resistance of the author in the face of the world, in the face of conventionalities, with its condition, and this, by placing himself in a break in the face of his creation.


“I think of it, what I write here, now, is almost an act of terrorism against the present economy, the market society where one buys and sells of time, where time is a commodity, she wrote. It is almost obscene to take all this time to read and to write. “


The phrases invite themselves in continuous, sometimes violent, with a flow rate varying the turmoil, to cut to the impact the adolescence of the author in a village in the Charlevoix region, his discovery of the men, the sex, or the separation of her parents, her motherhood, her disease, a cancer, which, with scripture, the” excluded of the world “. The two things are as close to the death that hovers at the top of each page, or almost, its a way to ensure that ” no one [was] afraid “.


“It is necessary to be rehabilitated in this country white, in this own company. We too often forget. Here, it is occupied to extricate themselves in webs of appearances. And when the death pounces on us, we remain as stunned, surprised to be fatal. “


There is rage in this exercise of style, in this exploration of memory constitutive of the singularity of the author, in these confessions of a soul damaged and uncomfortable in the face of these dictates of social calling to an amount that does not want to be a part of. There is the intimacy, the fragility, exposed to some emergency, by a cry from the heart that goes through the putting to death of a literary project to create one that celebrates life. And that is the fact seeking to disturb, and finally, above all, seduction.


Excerpt from ” I don’t know think of my death ”

“Motherhood. The disease. Writing. Three events that have me excluded from the world. Of his race. I like the number three. I’ve always liked it. This is the time of history with its beginning, middle and end. In the three, there are all the possible relationships, hatreds and loves, the collaborations and the wars. I often see my life under this figure. I have a rhythm in three time. It is the one from my childhood. Number flawed that I know well. I know to be there. I know the movements. Three, I’ve already been with two boys, one summer. Three, it is better. There is always someone. Two, when the other goes, there’s no more person.”

I don’t know think of my death
★★★ 1/2

Marisol Drouin, The Tribe, Chicoutimi, 2017, 216 pages