President of the Academy of Stanislas,
History of Art lecturer at the School of architecture and at the Fine-Arts School of Nancy
“What is mankind, that you make so much of them,
That you give them so much attention,
That you examin them every morning,
And test them every moment?”
“On the way of stone, way of the cross, way of jew crowned with thorns, Christ hunted with the sewed star, he falls every day for the thousandth time. His sceptre is derisive, frail mirrors exploded into a thousand images. Son of the man, what is your just weight quartered tied bound wounded torn slashed penetrated beaten humiliated hundred nails million of pins and in my stomach the blood, the semen, the frustrations, the efforts, the wounds. Of all.
Is my strength a strength of stone?
Is my body brazen?
Rebel, imprecatory man barbed of offenses, cross your fingers, cross your wefts.
But the uproar imprisons itself, the fear shuts itself away, closes itself, straps itself, bewitched mummy mandrake.
On the frail light gold red cord, Penelope obstinately folds the hundred thousand little knots of the power and the glory, ladder of the ants and of men, ladder of Jacob.
Precious varnish, reliquary monstrance, fair weigher of souls and of the specter of things.
Secret ceremonies, transparent shivers of feathers flight of squeaking wings.
Derisory, Break, Impetus, Fragments, Flight, Stunning flight.
In the cold night of black varnish and the fog weaved with gold, naked, stubborn, bandaged, sneering.
The three Hebrews were singing in the Furnace.