I trip my fucking injectors in the heart of the System and feel that at the end of this mad satyriasis I have found again in the purity of its violence the language (désaintciboirisé) of my ancestors. The girls of good family (cock-teasers, every one) whom I pursued with incalculable assiduity, forced me to chasten my language (to castrate myself, that is) and deprive myself of my identity as a poor F.-C. condemned by two centuries of delirium to speak badly and without pleasure, and even to fornicate incestuously with my maternal tongue in a series of very lowlife sucking operations and lame bowings and scrapings, by turns fucking and being fucked: for the majestic and maternal tongue — it must be noted and said — has the status of a dead language! To speak it well is already a proof of necrophilia, or at best a morbid and regressive excess. [Hubert Aquin, Trou de mémoire , 1968] Johanne Lamoureux’s Profession, historienne de l’art (2009) was written for UdeM’s press as part of t...
A critical revue of contemporary art in the city.