I fell into French as if I knew the language. I fell into it and at times thought I could replicate the sounds and understand Henri Pichette. He was reading his poem, homage to Artaud. He read the poem sitting down. There was no sub-title and it was not important. Pichette read with such intensity that there was no time to think but to let him take hold of me for the ride. He was a madman raving, gesticulating. He was haunted and spewed forth a whole range of human emotions: cynical, violent, remorseful.
I don’t know this poem, but I will never forget its performance.
(Click image to watch the reading.)
