Post Mortem

Words of my deceased friend Jean-Claude Devictor aka Devic

Saturday, September 21, 2019 – I have just heard the sad news of your disappearance, I can not admit it. I daydream at some of our truculent or savage adventures, square well in the depths of my deep armchair, the trap seat of those who have been.

The difference between meditation and reverie is very little. In meditation, no ideas, no pictures. Neither future nor memory. Empty your head, so the heart can be filled with love. I do not know if I could ever resolve to leave you. Now that you are almost away, I measure the strength and the vastness of our love.

A hare in his cottage was thinking, wrote the poet. A very old hare, in this case. Recluse, crippled. A deciduous rabbit running through its long-gone youth with its long-eared comrade. Very long ears to which no noise escapes. As my dream goes on, quivers my eye. I turn my head. My heart stops. Here you are on my sofa.

I touch heaven

You died yesterday morning, Friday, September 20, 2019. The next day, here you are. Since then, you have not left me. How do you think you’re dead while you’re still alive, closer to me than ever? The day of your death, at nightfall, I come back from Paris. On the highway, I passed in your area, the idea came to me to make the detour for a surprise visit. Useless, my voice told me in my head. You were elsewhere, already.

And in the evening, while I did not know the sad news, you gave me another sign. I did not understand it either. Your face appeared to me superimposed on the familiar landscape of Erquy Bay. Rejuvenated, relaxed, radiant. The next day, Saturday, September 21st, the last day of summer 2019, you took refuge near me. If I were a follower of the miracles cathos, I would speak of an apparition. But you are not the Virgin.

I can see you in my sofa, the one you had so much trouble pulling out of your life. Now you are comfortable there. You talk to me calmly, as you usually do. Your words echo in me. They shine in gold letters on the antique marble. I hear them in my ribcage.

I’m fine, Xavier, the pain is gone, I feel better than ever, I feel young and vigorous, the afterlife is a world of peace and serenity, all the worries of the world have gone away. my head is empty, totally empty, I’ve dreamed about it all my life, I’m here, I’m touching heaven.

Without a single word coming out of my closed lips, I’m crying. You have a mood movement. You speak smoothly. “Stop crying on me, I’m fine, be sure, and if you cry over you, laugh rather, your friend is happy, Detached, serene at last, serene.

Death is funny

It’s good. Your last months have been an ordeal for you and yours. Long hospitalization, difficult convalescence, imperfect cure. Your poor body was so diminished that you chose the other side. You are so often spent in your lifetime, the way is familiar to you. You have lived initiatory death, you have gone through hero’s trials, without bending, without breathing.

The world is a train of waves, you were the dike. You have conquered life as death. You live again. You are the. You are talking to me. I can not help but listen to your advice, as I did when you were alive. Formula very improper, if you are not dead.

Death is a must, there is a license to die that looks like a driver’s license, it hurts as long as we do not have it, and when we have it, we laugh at it!” is funny …” No doubt. Anyway, whatever it is, it is better to laugh at it. It is important to laugh at everything, always, without stopping. The human comedy provides us with endless matter. The horrors, the worst atrocities, the most heinous crimes also carry their share of fun.

I spent my life laughing, having fun, heckling, strumming, singing, raving, savoring, enjoying everything and everything. I had more than my lot of joys and sorrows, but soon after, the sentences are forgotten. As soon as it is gone, life fades away like a mirage. What remains after? You’ll be next week, next year, next life.

I love when you laugh, Xavier, you always made me laugh, from kindergarten to our last meeting in Erquy, at the beginning of September, you did not come to see my dead body, dozens of friends had gathered, you were not there, yes, I know why, is not it better like that, let the dead bury the dead?

Remember when we were little. And later in the 230th with Michel Malherbe. Remember when I was the sole master aboard the GTP. When I still had my sword.

Remember May 68, June 80, fall 92. Remember all our follies, our loves, our girlfriends. Our discoveries, our night marches, our incursions into the other world. Which does not look like where I am. How to say ? Light, warmth, ease, an aerial lightness, a soothing fullness, the words come to me as ever, the images that I send you, the emotions, the state of mind, it is me as I am, such as I’m staying.

I do not want to leave the memory of a moribund, an invalid. You know me as I was. Look at me as I am. Looked. And remember.

These are the last words he left me. There was an explosion of light in my head, a click, and then nothing. The weights have jumped. This time it’s over. He has not reappeared since. The sealed door closed in a thud and heavy sound. I remember, boy. I do not forget you. A friend like you is a perfect blessing.

A smile anyway. He tells me “look” when he disappears! What can I look at if you are erased? Where are you ? Your mind is no longer around. Could it be the second death?

The living has such a humor! exclaimed Flornoy several times a day. He died too. Should we laugh about it? 

We owe respect to the living. We owe the dead only the truth. (Voltaire)



Who will be next on the list? I have the annoying feeling of being in the front line.

Is it still standing the oak
Or the fir tree of my coffin?


Existence blows up every system.
Soeren Kierkegaard