Nicole Brossard: Negotiating the flash, the burn

Indeed your guess is as good as my height. but the question is who am i beside a tree, the Empire State Building or on my way to the sky? voilà.

If, as lesbian-linguistic theorists posit, language and literature create, decreate, and recreate corporeal and cerebral manifestations of self / other in terms of both a material and intellectual body (of work), then it almost goes without saying Montréal's Nicole Brossard (b. 1943) leads the way in her endless quest to first dislocate then relocate the act of writing in the feminine to inscribe or imprint phonemes, words, sentences, paragraphs and texts entire -- not to mention the spaces between / around same -- which yield to transgressions, transformations and, ultimately, transcendences of what one generally considers patriarchal truths undermining the universal jouissance of imaginative existence in narrative perspective (or perception) of the core self intransigently as fluid as it is fixed.

Brossard, the Québécoise considered by many a "lezzie legend in her own lifetime" who deems "the creative energy of lesbian desire" the force which directs and drives her work, published her first book, a collection of poetry ( Aube à la maison), in 1965. Since then, the doe-eyed beauty's created 30-odd world-class volumes of verse, fiction and criticism deservedly honoured with several well-known awards, citations and accolades since, in the words of one commentarian, her "subversive texts have become queer-theory classics around the world" (Alice Lawlor).

Over the course of several months -- through both formal and casual questions and queries -- Brossard graciously reveals a little of both herself and that which makes a difference for her, what matters to her and the way in which she works, plays and thinks (in several languages). Open, generous and astonishingly kind (not to mention warmly patient), she provided what might best be considered a working aesthetic (although, of course, she would most likely shudder at the deployment of that particular concept -- voilà :)).

However, BTW, during the back-and-forthing, the news comes down that the so-called formalist's latest novel, La Capture du sombre (exquisitely translated into English by Susanne de Lotbinière-Harwood as Fences in Breathing), has been short-listed for The Rogers Writers' Trust Fiction Prize, the winner of which will be announced during the International Festival of Authors' festivities later this month. It relays the writer Anne's story: Invited to a Swiss château by the mysterious retired publisher Tatiana, Anne discovers a dame with "the sharpness of a mind that can cut through umbilical cords and black thoughts with a single reply."

How does Brossard, the woman who declared (in 1988) that "loving a woman is always political," feel about this latest coup in a long list of achievements?

"I am very happy," reports she, "to be a finalist for the Rogers Prize because that is a new start for me towards the narrative in Fences in Breathing. I am also pleased because it is a space and also a rhythm in the writing to be shared with Susanne who has now translated four of my books ( Mauve Desert, Yesterday at the Hotel Clarendon, etc.) in a very sensitive way."

Ah, speaking of sensitivity for a moment, it seems damned-near impossible to convey how deeply sensitive Brossard shows herself to be during our e-correspondence, demonstrating as much concern and thoughtfulness for the interviewer as the questions posed and recesses poked, items surrounding translations, disciplines, processes, philosophies, influences, irritants and, most keenly, working in various form/ats (as well as several languages). What, for example, does she find attractive about given genres and how, by extension, does she go about greeting, meeting, overcoming and conquering the challenges each presents?

"Whether we want them or not, genres remain because they serve different needs and purposes of expression. The need to tell stories, to plunge into a narrative in order to make sense of things, will always be there. A poem will always be a flash of meaning organized around a few images, words or sounds. And theatre will keep being about body, self and voice positioned with words one in front of another. How we burn inside -- how we deal with time and meaning -- influence the genres we choose. As well, different feelings call for different strategies of writing. My spontaneous way to relate to life is in the present tense and therefore poetry is the genre in which I am privileged to work. On the other hand, every five years, I need to negotiate with reality and to understand it: This usually calls for a novel to be written. Genres are called upon to perform a duty whenever there is a vibrant need for them. Some writers need to move in different spaces, need to experiment. I belong to that kind of writer, probably because I also need to transgress the space assigned to me and to renew the one I have created. As long as I am on the side of poetry, all genres are accessible to me."

abrupt fright sudden flight with no narrative how does it feel to be stumbling over ticking vowels sensing speed in your mouth tears unavailable -- WITHOUT A NARRATIVE

How, in this case of experimentation, does the individual artist stay grounded, so to speak, in terms of change and language as organising principles, say? Who owns what and how does anyone claim what's rightfully theirs (or even know it is)?

"Every day we use two things which definitely make us what we are: Our body, our words. Both are organised in language. One belongs uniquely to us, the other belongs to everyone. With them we are what we are and what we will become. Altering what you are relies on changes and transformation. Let's say that changes occur with more or less natural progressions such as adolescence, maternity, menopause and sickness while transformations occur through cultural scenarios related to decisions: Drugs, food, chirurgical interventions, body building, etc. The body fascinates because this is what remains once you are naked (which is to say with neither social nor culturally symbolic attributes). It is interesting to see how women artists, for example, have questioned the signification of the female body (especially through performance). Here, I think of Orlan and Carolee Schneemann; I also think of the famous carnal dress (Vanitas) of Jana Sterbak.

"All this said, the body is for me simultaneously our solitude, our joy, our energy. It also provides for highly poetic vocabulary because most parts of the human body have a symbolic meaning whatever the culture. Until now, I have been lucky enough to have a body which provided me with more joy than pain; therefore, the body has been a tool for translating an enthusiasm and a fervour for life in its mysterious complexity and virtuality no matter the reality."

Insofar as possessing a body that has, as she avers, provided her "with more joy than pain," does the trailbrazer consider herself to be what's called, almost generically, a language poet and what role, if any, does narrative play, most specifically, in her poetry; also (and perhaps more to the point), how does she feel about being labelled a lesbian poet?

"Well," replies Brossard, "I certainly cannot refuse the term, 'language poet,' because it speaks to a fascination with language and an awareness of the structures and the virtuality of language at the same time. It is about experimenting, questioning and 'making a path' (as the poet Charles Bernstein would say). The expression 'language poet' points to a strong attraction to language which, of course, every poet should have . . . I would like to think I provide a narrative trend without losing any of a poem's concentration.

"Labels are either negative or positive. They are both given by people with whom you do not share values and by people with whom you share an essential dimension of yourself in practice or history. Because they are about visibility, they can be exploited for the best or the worst. But one thing is sure: Every individual is always more complex than the label attributed to him or her even when the label is self-imposed. When I say I am a lesbian it means more that a sexual practice. It is a way of being with women in a dynamic that fulfills and gratifies me. Being a poet makes the lesbian in me exist twice, once for real and once in a symbolic space. I have often said that it is the poet in me that deals with emotion in a way that can be shared with others."

"So," I ask M'Dear Nicole, "can a poem break your heart?"

"Yes," she answers emphatically, "for better or worse, if a poem goes directly to my guts, yes!"

Of course, given this elementary truth, it becomes imperative to ask perhaps the only questions worth asking: Why bother? What's the point of it all? What does the remarkable OneOf hope her work provides for others, does for the race or gives to the human universe?

"The same thing that I find in others' writing," replies Brossard sans hesitation:

"Literature has proven to be at the origin of so many transformations. Literature excites meaning and because of that it constantly renews our capacity for emotion and a curious joy, a sort of unjustifiable hope."

Voilà!