The short story, the Microfictions not a very popular genre in France. Of course, this does not practice. Proof of this is the book of Régis Jauffret, Microfictions had a big impact. The truth is that, although English-speaking readers, as well as in English properly await a story with a conflict, whether explicit or not, among the French is more the idea of \u200b\u200b vigenca récit. Of course there are the contes or nouvelles. However, this goes beyond the dimensions of the text. The Narrative secuencilidad traps of the facts, without necessarily these are articulated in a flame-point knot or whatever, to serve as centrifugal and centripetal force at the same time.
is extremely difficult these days to offer a possible definition of a genre, because as you build it, under every brick put a stick of dynamite. Thus, since the last brick, contemplate their immediate destruction.
However, in practice these short recits I mention the book The sleeping office of Marc Pautrel. Bordeaux is a writer for adoption. Here he published his first book and everyone else writes here. I consider it a fine prose writer of great sensitivity, and I think it is appropriate to present a translation of one of his texts, precisely what the title of his first book. Is a free translation ( traduttore, traditore , you know).
sleep The office of Marc
Pautrel
He shook hands, smiling, but he said nothing. Was so small that you would have said that he had stopped growth in ten years. His height gave him the appearance of a human being reduced, small rectangular face fine lines, blue eyes, pale complexion, a complete baldness, short arms and legs, this guy was not old, maybe thirty, maybe forty, or fifty or sixty. The impact for its serene and mysterious smile on his lips. He never spoke, one would say it was dumb, but his eyes showed that he thought that the head had precise ideas on various topics. His office was sleep.
He lay on his back, body straight, arms stretched over his legs, his head on the mattress. A light blanket covered it: doubled in the autumn, under a quilt in spring and covered with a thick blanket up to his neck in winter. When he slept, we thought it was dead. One dead, smiling and breathing quietly.
The room where the man worked was free of noise and benighted. A light as filtered under the door. A mechanical clock, put on the ground beside a large bed, ticked at their own pace. Outsiders
got paid to sleep day and night. When he woke up, had to write in his notebook the dreams he had. The only dreams, nightmares ever. Perhaps I had nightmares. As it was, he did not have to write them down. Attendees spent every day in the room to retrieve the book, which they handled with great care.
man He loved his work. He exercised conscientiously and effectively. We would say that was the best: he was sleeping as long as possible without waking, one who had the greatest number of dreams and more varied. He was happy to sleep. He felt a great pleasure to be dropped in light sleep, as if a tube at the height of his kidneys would have passed through the body at right angles, as if it were a football doll, feet forward, vertical, submerged in the waters of oblivion.
Often the papers had the drama of professional dreamers went crazy. Confinements were common within the profession; also as rapid wear of their bodies, fatigue and, finally, the dreaded catastrophe: insomnia. The strongest, after a few years, were reduced its capacity to dream and keep those dreams. But this little guy never had problems. It was the best: he slept like no other, he dreamed about ten at a time.
Translated by Ricardo Sumalavia
Pautrel
He shook hands, smiling, but he said nothing. Was so small that you would have said that he had stopped growth in ten years. His height gave him the appearance of a human being reduced, small rectangular face fine lines, blue eyes, pale complexion, a complete baldness, short arms and legs, this guy was not old, maybe thirty, maybe forty, or fifty or sixty. The impact for its serene and mysterious smile on his lips. He never spoke, one would say it was dumb, but his eyes showed that he thought that the head had precise ideas on various topics. His office was sleep.
He lay on his back, body straight, arms stretched over his legs, his head on the mattress. A light blanket covered it: doubled in the autumn, under a quilt in spring and covered with a thick blanket up to his neck in winter. When he slept, we thought it was dead. One dead, smiling and breathing quietly.
The room where the man worked was free of noise and benighted. A light as filtered under the door. A mechanical clock, put on the ground beside a large bed, ticked at their own pace. Outsiders
got paid to sleep day and night. When he woke up, had to write in his notebook the dreams he had. The only dreams, nightmares ever. Perhaps I had nightmares. As it was, he did not have to write them down. Attendees spent every day in the room to retrieve the book, which they handled with great care.
man He loved his work. He exercised conscientiously and effectively. We would say that was the best: he was sleeping as long as possible without waking, one who had the greatest number of dreams and more varied. He was happy to sleep. He felt a great pleasure to be dropped in light sleep, as if a tube at the height of his kidneys would have passed through the body at right angles, as if it were a football doll, feet forward, vertical, submerged in the waters of oblivion.
Often the papers had the drama of professional dreamers went crazy. Confinements were common within the profession; also as rapid wear of their bodies, fatigue and, finally, the dreaded catastrophe: insomnia. The strongest, after a few years, were reduced its capacity to dream and keep those dreams. But this little guy never had problems. It was the best: he slept like no other, he dreamed about ten at a time.
Translated by Ricardo Sumalavia
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