“All that the sky promises”, by Julie Estève and Agnès Vannouvong, Seuil, 192 p., €19.50, digital €14.
Julie Estève and Agnès Vannouvong are both novelists. The first has published three books with Stock. The second, four at Mercure de France. They are also friends and, if we are to believe what the latter states in the four-handed book that they published at Seuil, they can call each other around ten times a day and discuss “until the battery dies”.
All that heaven promises is a book of friendship, which allows the voice of both to be heard as well as the constant presence of one for the other. However dissimilar their respective lives may be – one lives in Paris with her son and his partner, the other is constantly abroad and is saddened at not yet having met the woman of her life – they have in common a same slightly crazy sense of humor and a remarkable tendency towards self-deprecation. Both of them know well that these traits that unite them are only elegant – and temporary – solutions for living with their ghosts.
The project in which they engage is in their image, and that of their relationship. Farcical at first glance, but pursued with the utmost seriousness. Stated with lightness and apparent nonchalance, carried out with the awareness that something essential, which could not be said, can be written. “We’re going to write a book togetherJulie suggests to Agnès, a book about invisible worlds, about diviners, about mediums, about the smugglers of souls. We will each have our quest, me the family secret, and you love – your obsession. We’re going to say everything, tell everything, friendship, writing, shit: everything. What do you think ? » From chapter to chapter, both relate the encounters they have with specialists in communication with the afterlife, whom they consult in the hope of discovering what, in their family histories , must be brought to light to help them live better, “repair”.
An act of absolute trust
Such confidence placed in the aid of esotericism is rare in the friendly, family or professional circles that they frequent, the two writers are not unaware of this. “I imagine the dismay of my parents (and some readers) reading these lines”, writes Julie Estève. Never mind. “In reality, I’m a little ashamedshe admits. Here, I’m not ashamed of anything. Literature saves me from shame, it cancels it. It is my sacred place – territory of freedom and truth, sheltered from morality. » The belief in the power of literature is perhaps of the same order, the two writers seem to tell us, as that which pushes one to consult soothsayers or mediums. The main thing is to want to believe in it to give yourself a chance to be shaken in your certainties and in your resistance. And to bring to life long-silenced words, stifled truths, petrified images.
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