Re: Me kane prekur
People will probably be shocked that I have chosen not to remain silent, given what I did and that it was thought I benefited from being declared unfit to plead.
Had I not benefited from this decision, I would have had to appear in court and answer charges.
This book represents the response I would have otherwise have been obliged to give. All I ask is that I be allowed to give it now as I would have been compelled to in those circumstances.
I realize, of course, that what I am attempting to express here conforms neither to the nature nor the rules of court appearance. The fact that I was not and will never be tried in due and proper manner does, however, lead me to wonder if what I have to say will not render me more vulnerable to the judgement the public is free to make. But this is what I wish to happen. It is my fate, in seeking to allay one fear, to arouse countless others.
I
What follows, down to the last detail, is my precise memory of those events, forever engraved on my mind through all my suffering. I shall describe what happened-between two zones of darkness, the unknown one from which I was emerging and the one I was about to enter. Here is the scene of murder just as I experienced it.
Suddenly I was up and and in my dressing-gown at the foot of my bed in my flat at the Ecole normale. The grey light of a November morning – it was almost nine o’clock on Sunday the sixteenth – filtered through the tall window to the left, on to the end of the bed. The window was framed by a pair f very old Empire red curtains which had hung there a long time, tattered with age and burnt by the sun.
Hélène, also in a dressing-gown, lay before me on her back.
Her pelvis was resting on the edge of the bed, her legs dangled on the carpet.
Kneeling beside her, leaning across her body, I was massaging her neck. I would often silently massage the nape of her neck and her back. I had learnt the technique as a prisoner-of-war from little Clerc, a professional footballer who was an expert at all sorts of things.
But on this occasion I was massaging the front of her neck. I pressed my thumbs into the hollow at the top of her breastbone and then, still pressing, slowly moved them both, one to the left, the other to the right, up towards her ears where the flesh was hard. I continued massaging her in a V-shape. The muscles in my forearms began to feel very tired; I was aware that they always did when I was massaging.
Hélène’s face was calm and motionless; her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling.
Suddenly I was terror-struck. Her eyes stared interminably, and I noticed the tip of her tongue was showing between her teeth and lips, strange and still.
I had seen dead bodies before, of course, but never looked into the face of someone who had been strangled. Yet I knew she had been strangled. But how? I stood up and screamed ‘I’ve strangled Hélène!’
In a state of total panic, I rushed out of the flat and ran full pelt down the narrow staircase with its iron handrail into the front courtyard enclosed by tall iron gates. I kept running towards the sick-bay where I knew I would find Dr. Étienne who lived on the first floor. As it was Sunday and the École was half empty and people were still asleep, I met no one. I climbed the stairs four at a time, still screaming: ‘I’ve strangled Hélène!’
I knocked violently on the doctor’s door. He opened it at last, also wearing a dressing-gown; he looked bewildered. I kept on screaming that I had strangled Hélène and pulled him by the collar of his dressing-gown insisting he come and see her, otherwise I would burn the École down. Étienne did not believe me, saying ‘It’s not possible.
We hurried back down and then, all at once, the two of us were standing over Hélène. Her eyes were staring as before and the tip of her tongue was still visible between her lips and teeth. Étienne felt her heart and pulse and said: ‘There’s nothing to be done. It’s too late.’ I said: ‘Can’t she be revived?’ ‘No.’
At that point Étienne asked me to excuse him for a moment or two and left me alone. Later I realized he must have telephoned the Director, the hospital, the police station, and so on. I waited, shaking incessantly.
The long, worn-out curtains hung in tatters on each side of the window – the one on the right brushing against the bottom of the bed. I recalled seeing our friend Jacques Martin in his tiny bedroom in the Sixteenth District. He was found dead one day in August 1964 and had been stretched out on his bed for several days. On his chest lay the long stem of a scarlet rose. It was a silent message from beyond the grave to the two of us who had been his friends for twenty years, a reminder of Beloyannis. At that moment I took a ribbon of curtain and without tearing it placed it diagonally across Hélène’s chest, from her right shoulder to her left breast.
Étienne returned, and from that point on everything was confused. I seem to remember him giving me an injection and following him back through my office where someone (I do not know who) was removing books I had borrowed from the École library. Étienne spoke about hospital. I sank into darkness. I ‘woke up’ in Sainte-Anne’s Hospital, I am not sure when.
Marre nga "The future lasts forever - A Memoir" Louis Althusser
People will probably be shocked that I have chosen not to remain silent, given what I did and that it was thought I benefited from being declared unfit to plead.
Had I not benefited from this decision, I would have had to appear in court and answer charges.
This book represents the response I would have otherwise have been obliged to give. All I ask is that I be allowed to give it now as I would have been compelled to in those circumstances.
I realize, of course, that what I am attempting to express here conforms neither to the nature nor the rules of court appearance. The fact that I was not and will never be tried in due and proper manner does, however, lead me to wonder if what I have to say will not render me more vulnerable to the judgement the public is free to make. But this is what I wish to happen. It is my fate, in seeking to allay one fear, to arouse countless others.
I
What follows, down to the last detail, is my precise memory of those events, forever engraved on my mind through all my suffering. I shall describe what happened-between two zones of darkness, the unknown one from which I was emerging and the one I was about to enter. Here is the scene of murder just as I experienced it.
Suddenly I was up and and in my dressing-gown at the foot of my bed in my flat at the Ecole normale. The grey light of a November morning – it was almost nine o’clock on Sunday the sixteenth – filtered through the tall window to the left, on to the end of the bed. The window was framed by a pair f very old Empire red curtains which had hung there a long time, tattered with age and burnt by the sun.
Hélène, also in a dressing-gown, lay before me on her back.
Her pelvis was resting on the edge of the bed, her legs dangled on the carpet.
Kneeling beside her, leaning across her body, I was massaging her neck. I would often silently massage the nape of her neck and her back. I had learnt the technique as a prisoner-of-war from little Clerc, a professional footballer who was an expert at all sorts of things.
But on this occasion I was massaging the front of her neck. I pressed my thumbs into the hollow at the top of her breastbone and then, still pressing, slowly moved them both, one to the left, the other to the right, up towards her ears where the flesh was hard. I continued massaging her in a V-shape. The muscles in my forearms began to feel very tired; I was aware that they always did when I was massaging.
Hélène’s face was calm and motionless; her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling.
Suddenly I was terror-struck. Her eyes stared interminably, and I noticed the tip of her tongue was showing between her teeth and lips, strange and still.
I had seen dead bodies before, of course, but never looked into the face of someone who had been strangled. Yet I knew she had been strangled. But how? I stood up and screamed ‘I’ve strangled Hélène!’
In a state of total panic, I rushed out of the flat and ran full pelt down the narrow staircase with its iron handrail into the front courtyard enclosed by tall iron gates. I kept running towards the sick-bay where I knew I would find Dr. Étienne who lived on the first floor. As it was Sunday and the École was half empty and people were still asleep, I met no one. I climbed the stairs four at a time, still screaming: ‘I’ve strangled Hélène!’
I knocked violently on the doctor’s door. He opened it at last, also wearing a dressing-gown; he looked bewildered. I kept on screaming that I had strangled Hélène and pulled him by the collar of his dressing-gown insisting he come and see her, otherwise I would burn the École down. Étienne did not believe me, saying ‘It’s not possible.
We hurried back down and then, all at once, the two of us were standing over Hélène. Her eyes were staring as before and the tip of her tongue was still visible between her lips and teeth. Étienne felt her heart and pulse and said: ‘There’s nothing to be done. It’s too late.’ I said: ‘Can’t she be revived?’ ‘No.’
At that point Étienne asked me to excuse him for a moment or two and left me alone. Later I realized he must have telephoned the Director, the hospital, the police station, and so on. I waited, shaking incessantly.
The long, worn-out curtains hung in tatters on each side of the window – the one on the right brushing against the bottom of the bed. I recalled seeing our friend Jacques Martin in his tiny bedroom in the Sixteenth District. He was found dead one day in August 1964 and had been stretched out on his bed for several days. On his chest lay the long stem of a scarlet rose. It was a silent message from beyond the grave to the two of us who had been his friends for twenty years, a reminder of Beloyannis. At that moment I took a ribbon of curtain and without tearing it placed it diagonally across Hélène’s chest, from her right shoulder to her left breast.
Étienne returned, and from that point on everything was confused. I seem to remember him giving me an injection and following him back through my office where someone (I do not know who) was removing books I had borrowed from the École library. Étienne spoke about hospital. I sank into darkness. I ‘woke up’ in Sainte-Anne’s Hospital, I am not sure when.
Marre nga "The future lasts forever - A Memoir" Louis Althusser
