Il me semble que le mot « avant-garde » a toujours été pour moi une espèce de souvenir. J’ai dû l’entendre autour de 1960, alors que le surréalisme ne se portait déjà plus très bien. Presque en même temps je découvrais Bataille et Artaud, que n’accompagnait aucune étiquette d’avant-garde. Mais c’est l’ensemble du climat de pensée qui se modifiait de manière profonde dans les après-coups de la guerre.

Les avant-gardes – ou du moins ce nom : il ne s’agit que de son usage – ont eu d’emblée pour moi un goût de passé. D’arrière-garde, en somme. Je ne plaisante pas : je pense que le soupçon porté sur la nature militaire de la métaphore était déjà présent dans le contexte où je découvrais le mot. Pourquoi fallait-il que l’art opère comme une armée ? Il y avait un doute. Ce n’était pas tant l’idée de la lutte ou du combat qui était préoccupante...

A for Anomie

The idea that terrorism and other forms of political violence are directly related to strains caused by strongly held grievances has been one of the most common explanations to date and can be traced to a diverse set of theoretical concepts including relative deprivation, social disorganization, breakdown, tension, and anomie. Merton (1938) identifies anomie as a cultural condition of frustration, in which values regarding goals and how to achieve them conflict with limitations on the means of achievement.

Gary LaFree and Laura Dugan, “Research on Terrorism and Countering Terrorism”, Crime and Justice, Vol. 38, No. 1, 2009.

B for Block or Blocked

If terrorism in each of its expressions can be considered an indicator of the existence of a political block (of an impossibility of reacting if one wishes to react differently), this influences its real ability to modify the situation. Terrorism has been historically more successful when it was not...

I said “Would you like a rope? You know that haul you have is not secured properly.”
“No,” he said, “but I see you have string!”
“If this comes into motion—” I said, “you should use a rope.”
“Any poison ivy on that? ” he asked me, and I told him my rope had been in the barn peacefully for years.
He took a length of it to the bedside table. He had no concept for what wood could endure.
“Table must have broken when I lashed it onto the truck,” he said.
And, when he was moving the sewing machine, he let the cast iron wheels—bang, bang on the stair.
I had settled down to pack up the flamingo cookie jar, the cutlery, and the cookware, but stopped briefly, for how many times do you catch sudden sight of something heartfelt?
I saw our milk cows in their slow...

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