J\u2019\u00e9tais l\u2019autre midi \u00e0 ma bouquinerie pr\u00e9f\u00e9r\u00e9e lorsqu\u2019une femme m\u2019aborda. Dame Christine, fervente lectrice des Lettres du dimanche, m\u2019avait reconnue. Elle \u00e9tait curieuse de savoir o\u00f9, quand et comment j\u2019\u00e9cris mes fameuses lettres. Je les \u00e9cris tout partout et n\u2019importe comment, belle dame! Je ne suis pas une professionnelle de l\u2019\u00e9criture et j\u2019ai le loisir de faire mon possible.<\/p>\n
La plupart du temps, la lettre commence \u00e0 s\u2019\u00e9crire dans ma t\u00eate. En conduisant bien souvent, avec des mots que j\u2019\u00e9cris dans ma paume; en lavant la vaisselle ou, comme hier midi, en accouplant mes chaussettes d\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9 fra\u00eechement sorties de la s\u00e9cheuse.<\/p>\n
L\u2019inspiration est un ange sacr\u00e9 qui sait bien faire les choses et je l\u2019\u00e9coute. J\u2019attrape au vol tant\u00f4t une s\u00e9rieuse interrogation, tant\u00f4t le souvenir d\u2019un r\u00eave mirobolant. Ma caboche vagabonde n\u2019est qu\u2019une courroie de transmission donnant vie \u00e0 mes pattes de mouche hi\u00e9roglyphiques. Au gr\u00e9 du vent, je colore mes feuillets. Un rang \u00e0 l\u2019endroit, un rang \u00e0 l\u2019envers, l\u2019ouvrage avance. La plupart du temps, je me consid\u00e8re bienheureuse de ne plus avoir de destination ni m\u00eame de quai d\u2019o\u00f9 larguer les amarres.<\/p>\n
J\u2019ai une m\u00e9moire de pigeon voyageur et le r\u00e9flexe de tout consigner dans un calepin. Si toute l\u2019encre de ces \u00e9crits n\u2019avait pas s\u00e9ch\u00e9, j\u2019aurais pu y noyer ma grosse t\u00eate. M\u00eame si je n\u2019insiste plus pour durer, j\u2019aime \u00eatre l\u00e0, \u00e0 l\u2019aff\u00fbt de la glorieuse banalit\u00e9 du quotidien. Je ne suis qu\u2019un moment de gr\u00e2ce dans l\u2019\u00e9tourdissante valse du monde.<\/p>\n
Dame Christine voudrait tout savoir de moi. Mais qui suis-je donc? Je l\u2019ignore encore. Elle commente mon pantalon rose framboise et la petite grenouille accroch\u00e9e \u00e0 mon collet. D\u2019o\u00f9 me vient ce go\u00fbt des couleurs vives, demande-t-elle. De l\u2019arc-en-ciel, que je lui r\u00e9ponds. Oui, oui! J\u2019insiste pour lui dire que je porte du p\u00e2le en hiver. Avec un gros collet en fourrure synth\u00e9tique couleur turquoise.<\/p>\n
Que m\u2019importe la parure, c\u2019est la couleur qui me r\u00e9chauffe. C\u2019est cette petite fille en moi qui n\u2019a pas fini de grandir. C\u2019est elle qui insiste pour ressembler aux jolies fleurs sauvages du sous-bois de mon enfance. Elle encore qui barbouille l\u2019envers du calendrier; inventant des histoires abracadabrantes de prince et de princesse dans un ch\u00e2teau dor\u00e9.<\/p>\n
Je r\u00eave en couleurs, ch\u00e8re dame Christine! J\u2019imagine encore trouver le grand amour. L\u2019homme de mes r\u00eaves qui bient\u00f4t se r\u00e9veillera.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Vous \u00eates donc c\u00e9libataire, ch\u00e8re Cora?
\n\u2014 Je le suis depuis l\u2019aube des temps.<\/p>\n
Peut-\u00eatre que dans le grand registraire de l\u2019Amour avec un grand A, une erreur s\u2019est produite. N\u2019importe quel fonctionnaire peut faire une b\u00e9vue; se tromper d\u2019adresse ou oublier un nom.<\/p>\n
Serais-je cette erreur, une ligne vide dans l\u2019ultime d\u00e9claration mondiale de la liste des \u00eatres capables d\u2019aimer et d\u2019\u00eatre aim\u00e9s?<\/p>\n
Je suis une plume aussi l\u00e9g\u00e8re que l\u2019espoir, mais cette absence dans mon c\u0153ur m\u2019alourdit bien souvent. Et le temps, ce divin croque-mort, tardera-t-il lui aussi \u00e0 venir?<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
J\u2019\u00e9tais l\u2019autre midi \u00e0 ma bouquinerie pr\u00e9f\u00e9r\u00e9e lorsqu\u2019une femme m\u2019aborda. Dame Christine, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":24210,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-24209","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"I was at my favourite bookstore the other day when a woman struck up a conversation with me. Christine, a fervent reader of my Sunday letters, had recognized me. She was curious to know where, when and how I write my famous letters. I write them anywhere and in any fashion, my dear! I am not a professional writer and I have the freedom to simply try and do my best.\r\n\r\nThe letter starts writing itself in my head most of the time. Often while I\u2019m driving, I write a few words in the palm of my hand. Inspiration can come to me when I\u2019m doing the dishes or, like yesterday, as I was matching up my summer socks fresh out of the dryer.\r\n\r\nInspiration is a sacred angel that knows how to do things well, and I listen to it. I hang on to profound questions that come to mind or I jot down a few lines from a wild dream I remember. My mind wanders and it simply serves as a transmission belt, giving voice to the barely legible scribbling left on my notebooks or in the palm of my hands. I fill up my notepads as I go along. One row in place, one row in reverse, work advances. Most of the time, I feel very lucky not to have a destination or even a dock from which to cast off.\r\n\r\nI have the memory of a homing pigeon and the reflex to scrawl everything down in a pocket book. I could have drowned in all the ink I\u2019ve used if it hadn\u2019t already dried up. Even if I no longer insist on staying, I enjoy being here, on the lookout for the glorious banality of everyday life. I am merely a moment of grace in this whirlwind waltz of life.\r\n\r\nChristine, the woman at the bookstore, would like to know everything about me. But who am I? I\u2019m still unsure myself. She comments on my raspberry-coloured pants and the small frog broach on my collar. She asks me where my passion for bright colours comes from. \u201cFrom the rainbow,\u201d I reply. Really! I insist on telling her that I wear light shades in the winter, with a thick turquoise fake fur collar.\r\n\r\nI don\u2019t truly care about my appearance. What\u2019s important to me is colour \u2013 vibrant colours warm my heart. They\u2019re for the little girl in me who never stopped growing. She insists on looking like the pretty wildflowers from the undergrowth she remembers from her childhood. She still scribbles on the back of the calendar, inventing whimsical stories about a prince and princess in a golden castle.\r\n\r\n\u201cI dream in colour, dear Christine! I still dream of finding my great love one day. The man of my dreams that will awaken soon.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u2014 \u201cSo you are still single, Cora?\u201d\r\n\u2014 \u201cI have been since the beginning of time.\u201d\r\n\r\nMaybe an error was made in the Great Book of Love. Any civil worker can make a blunder or a typo; get an address wrong or forget a name.\r\n\r\nPerhaps I am that mistake; an empty line in the ultimate worldly record of beings capable of loving and being loved?\r\n\r\nI am a feather, light like hope, but this absence in my heart often weighs me down. And time, this divine undertaker, will it also be slow in coming\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n