2023-10-11 22:15:08
THE MORNING LIST
This week, writing becomes a kaleidoscope, more than ever a place of complexity and nuances: here is the life of a star architect, in Montreal, turned upside down on all sides – for Quebecer Kevin Lambert, darkness is not necessarily where we expect it. For Gilles Deleuze, art becomes a philosophical laboratory. For Jeanne Moreau, whose posthumous Memoirs appeared following decades of avoidance, the road to self-narration was long. For sociologist Ashley Mears, elite parties are a social scene where fame and beauty are trafficked. As for the first cryptic novel, at age 60, by Jacqueline Crooks, born in Jamaica, it goes back to the roots of reggae in London in the 1970s and 1980s.
NOVEL. “Let our joy remain”, by Kevin Lambert
The storm that blows through Kevin Lambert’s third novel sweeps away everything in its path. Not content with leaving her characters panting, she also attacks the reader, ruffled by this merciless book. It all starts with a draft. Sneaking into a luxury apartment in Montreal, where a friend of Céline, extravagant « starchitecte » 67 years old, celebrates his birthday, he announces a storm, all the more devastating because it will end up attacking its own object: a bad weather so powerful, in some way, that it drowns itself. Which, of this ambiguous burst disorganizing the guests, and of which we only gradually understand the content, or of Céline, will prove to be the most dangerous?
For more than four decades, Céline has defended innovative architecture which would also be an art of the people: not everyone creates works within which we live! But she has recently been the target of a vengeful controversy. A file of New Yorker has just denounced his current project, the construction of the head office of a multinational: it would contribute to the gentifrification of Montreal.
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Kevin Lambert’s skill comes from a paradoxical cruelty. Because the hurricane that is unleashed on Céline’s life only shakes her in appearance. The novel attaches us to this figure, apparently a scapegoat. Except that, like an unstoppable spinning top, it continues its roll, penetrating the heart of the cyclone without appearing to impose its point of view. We run out of air, and the reader becomes dizzy… Doubt floods every inch, sympathy gives way to suspicion, then disgust: won’t Céline always land on her feet? A tempestuous novel which turns asphyxiation into a prosperous reading regime, provided you accept its collapse. You. E.
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