“Par le 17e de latitude, aux antipodes, les nuits sont toutes belles. La traînée de lait sillonne la grande vallée et lentement des mondes traversent la voûte céleste: leur trajectoire ne s’explique pas, car le silence subsiste.”(10)
(At latitude 17, at the antipodes, all nights are beautiful. The Milky Way cuts across the big valley and slowly, entire worlds cross the vault of the heavens: nothing could explain their path, since the silence persists.)
(English translation)
THE INTERIOR VOICE: At latitude 17, at the antipodes, all nights are beautiful. The Milky Way cuts across the big valley and slowly, entire worlds cross the vault of the heavens: nothing could explain their path, since the silence persists.
GAUGUIN: These are the spirits, barbarians say. These spirits are not prophets; they are looking for another homeland.
THE INTERIOR VOICE: Around the island, the infinitely small ones formed a gigantic barrier:
GAUGUIN: waves like phosphorescent flows are shaking, but not bringing down the wall.
THE INTERIOR VOICE: These curls bordered by green lace… I vaguely watched them,
GAUGUIN: My thoughts and my gaze were worlds apart,
THE INTERIOR VOICE: oblivious of time:
GAUGUIN AND THE INTERIOR VOICE: On those nights, the notion of time loses itself in space.
THE INTERIOR VOICE: I also heard them composing a monotonous song for drums.
GAUGUIN: Dreaming, I merely let myself be troubled
THE INTERIOR VOICE: by the neighing
GAUGUIN: of a rutting horse,
THE INTERIOR VOICE: an animal in pain. Why should I care? I become selfish.
THE INTERIOR VOICE: At latitude 47
GAUGUIN: in Paris, I think:
THE INTERIOR VOICE: there aren’t any coconut trees left,
GAUGUIN: rumours lost their musical sense.
GAUGUIN AND THE INTERIOR VOICE: Palaces, boulevards, dilapidated houses, streets with pavements sliding under the girls’ feet, pimps.
