Suzanne. Anais Barbeau-Lavalette

      He includes a few excerpts for you. It’s repulsive and modern. You don’t like it. And you tell yourself that you would have banned it too.

      All the same, the daring speaks to you. But what wins you over is Claude’s mischievous enthusiasm. He is quenching your thirst.

       It was a spring day. Birds spilled out their warbling canticles, and humans, having answered their various calls of duty, were bathing in the sanctity of fatigue. Everything was working out its destiny: trees, planets, sharks. All except the Creator!

       He was stretched out on the highway, his clothing torn. His lower lip hung down like a soporific cable. His teeth were unbrushed, and dust clogged the blond waves of his hair. Numbed by torpid drowsiness, crushed against the pebbles, his body was making futile efforts to get up again. His strength had left him, and he lay there weak as an earthworm, impassive as treebark.

       [...]A passing man stopped in front of the unappreciated Creator and, to applause from crab-louse and viper, crapped three days upon that august countenance!