Disappearance
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The writer, lyricist and artist died at the age of 60.
We knew Pierre Alferi was sick. “Very sick” a mutual friend had warned us. And then we had seen this spring the live Cinépoèmes tour with his old accomplice, the musician Rodolphe Burger. An old musical, literary and cinematographic project, constantly changing, in search of a “verbal score”. It was then believed that the poet and novelist was going to live again, to continue: a date was even announced for September 8 at the House of Poetry, in Paris. We probably thought that the end of Pierre Alferi would be like in this poem from the collection Kub Gold (1994): “In the manner of these sentences / borrowed from the answering machine / it’s me you’re there I’m / dead ah keep us / the voices of kraftwerk have the elegance / of kleist on a loop would enter / literally always”. Eternally deferred, a little out of reach, a kind of objective signal sent from eternity. It is his publisher, POL, https://twitter.com/editionsPOL/status/1692087537936769306?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Etweeton X (ex-Twitter).
Born April 10, 1963, Pierre Alferi is the son of the philosopher Jacques Derrida (1930-2004). Information will be taboo for a long time: difficult to find a place in the shadow of the giant of “deconstruction”. Moreover, the son owes nothing philosophically to the father and it is rather
