“(U)pon which he ran down to the Still-yard Stairs, threw away his Shirt, and plung’d into the Thames, and, being a good swimmer, swam quite over the River, and the Tide being coming in, as they call it, that is running West-ward, he reached the Land not till he came about the Falcon Stairs, where landing, and finding no People there, it being the Night, he ran about the Streets there, Naked as he was, for a good while, when it being by that time High-water, he takes the River again, and swam back to the Still-yard, landed, ran up the Streets again to his own House, knocking at the Door, went up the Stairs, and into his Bed again; and that this terrible Experiment cur’d him of the Plague, that is to say, that the violent Motion of his Arms and Legs stretch’d the Parts where the Swellings he had upon him were, that is to say under his Arms and his Groin, and caused them to ripen and break; and that the cold of the Water abated the Fever in his Blood.”
Daniel DEFOE, A Journal of the Plague Year
Souviens-toi, ô lecteur, comme soudain l’été dernier, j’t’avais causé d’mon appart’ mal isolé. Et bien non, non rien n’a changé, tout, tout a continué. Concrètement, la surchauffe guette l’ordi et moi, n’osant l’éprouver, je brouillonne sur papier sans pouvoir finaliser.
Pour me consoler, je lis des livres collant à mes humeurs et à ma sueur… froide. L’été de l’an passé, les fantômes d’M.R. James, de James et de Wharton m’hantèrent, m’enterrèrent bien. Là, las (mais non hélas), ils ont filé l’flambeau aux pestiférés de Defoe et aux goules éthérées de Lorrain Jean, que je découvre enfin.
Bref, je lis et quand je ne lis pas, je lys dans la vallée.
Vous savez où m’trouver ; – )