Reading Georges Perec so often, and aloud, as if drause by his written voice, absorbing his rage and need for love, I ended up paying no more attentive to the meaning of the intrigues proposed to attach myself to the writing itself, its forme. Style rather than fable ... feel rather judging ... looking after him rather than me. In the play of rhythmic scansions and syncopations, in the articulations of sonorities and sounds of speech, in the white silences placed between brackets and the cold rage in quotes, I thought then to hear a music of silence, a sad chant vocalising the phantom presence of his mother - and sometimes, even more rarely, by lending his ear better, the song of two beings.

Roland Barthes wrote: "The objective of reading aloud is not in the clarity of messages, the theater of emotions; What it seeks ... it is the instinctual incidents, it is the language covered with skin, a text in which one can hear the grain of the throat, the patina of consonants, the voluptuousness of vowels, a whole stereophony of The deep flesh".

More than others, The Disappearance is a book that is important to read aloud. This novel is what is called a lipogram, meaning that a letter is missing. Perec realized the feat of writing a novel of 280 pages, without ever appearing the letter e, the most frequently used in the French language.
But we can also understand this constraint in a more tragic way. The letter e perhaps represents the mother of Perec or his parents or the Jews exterminated by Nazism. The company then takes on a new meaning: to try to construct a text that has a meaning after their disappearance, to them.
But we also find in this text violence, crimes, rape .... murders take place one another at a steady pace ... the dead instantly leave the world without delivering the slightest message in some sort of agony? This violence without emotion is to be compared to the calm cruelty, we sometimes encounter in the tales for children. But most of all, one hears the strange music of this crazy language.

It is a music resembling a forgotten foreign language, perhaps his mother’s who no doubt spoke Yiddish better than French and whose Perec says that he has no memory: Perec's musical writing Always oscillates between a babble and a moan. Sometimes, miracle ... She is a nursery rhyme...

Perec's mother's name was Cyrla and she was called Cecile, and Perec always remembered that Sainte Cécile was the patroness of music.

On 24 July 1950, seven months before he died, André Gide made the acquaintance

Of a word that denotes a state I have been suffering from for the last few months – a very fine word: anorexia. […] It means the absence of appetite (‘not to be confused with distaste’, Littré insists). The term is used by hardly anyone except doctors – never mind: it is useful to me. To say I suffer from anorexia would be exaggerating: the worst of it is, I hardly suffer any more from it, but my physical and intellectual lack of appetite is such that I no longer know how I stay alive except by force of habit. Don’t imagine that what I have just said is written out of despair – rather, it expresses satisfaction.1.

Let us begin by noting two paradoxes here. First, the ‘satisfaction’ Gide gets out of this lack of desire: this is as much of a reversal of meaning as the opening pages of his memoir Si le Grain ne meurt [If it die] (1926). Second, the fact that in that memoir he recounts this memory: “I ate little, I slept badly […]”.I really had no taste for anything; I went to the table like a condemned man to the scaffold; I would swallow a few mouthfuls only by dint of great efforts; my mother would plead, scold or threaten, and almost every mealtime ended in tears]. This is a precise representation of what we now call anorexia – Gide was an anorexic before he had even heard the term. How then are we to read the recollections of his body in Si le Grain ne meurt?

On the first page of the memoir, we find the following scene – shocking or endearing, as you prefer:
I can […] see a fairly big table, the dining-room table no doubt, with its cloth reaching nearly to the ground; I would crawl underneath it with the concierge’s son, an infant of my age who sometimes came to play with me.
‘What are you two up to down there?’ my nursemaid would call out.
‘Nothing. We’re playing’.

And we would make a lot of noise with the few toys that we had taken with us for the sake of appearances. Actually we were enjoying ourselves in a different way: one beside the other, though not one with the other, we were enjoying what I later learned were called ‘bad habits’.

He goes on: “I realize of course the harm I am doing myself by relating this and other things that follow; I foresee how they may turn my reader against me. But the whole point in telling my story is to be truthful. Let's just say that I am writing it out of penitence”.

This autobiography is a heliotropic text: it traces a progression from a childhood full of “darkness, ugliness and deceit” into glorious sunshine – though exactly where this teleology tends is not really clear, for light seems to dawn twice: once, in the sunlit moment of revelation of the first pederastic encounter, on a North African beach, where “now at last I found my normality”: “in the glorious splendour of the evening, how my joy was clothed in its rays!”, and later in the ambiguous but equally splendid moment when, “dazzled by the azure light”, the young André becomes engaged to his cousin Emmanuèle. In this paper I shall examine this dual tendency and multiplicity of paradoxes, looking in particular at the ways Gide recalls his body in childhood and adolescence and the ways in which we can read him.

Daily and naive clinical cases of sexual awakening – or a renewed wakefulness to sexuality- but also to eroticism, lead us to revisit with adolescents what would be a red thread, monumental and eclectic, of George Bataille’s work, the dialectic of the forbidden and transgression. Without the transgression resulting from a deeply buried original drive force that is neither a moral or immoral instinct, life becomes inexistent; without prohibitions, the world collapses. Eroticism, which is shared pleasure, exchange and reciprocity, should be considered within a framework of rules, prohibitions even, which would model an instinctual life; not without a certain amount of anguish omnipresent throughout the author’s work, a certain “malaise, secret of the greatest pleasures”.

“My mother”, a posthumous novel (published in 1966, four years after George Bataille’s death), is the story of a mother's relationship with her son, Pierre, 17, the day after his father's death, violent, alcoholic, hated. Debauchery, perdition, orgy, perversion of the mother (and Pierre?), unavowable incestuous desire, sexual relations experienced in a quasi-psychotic mode so much “it is true that on two occasions at least we have allowed the delirium to bind us more deeply And more indefensibly than carnal union could have done.” For Bataille, this is the example of eroticization pushed to its extreme, the non “passage a l’acte” in a tormented and maddening chastity.

And of course, there is laughter, another keystone of the work of Georges Bataille since its beginnings around 1922; a revelation, an irony, a shaking, "a knowledge of the depths of the worlds," a suspended time in which the word can not express emotion, an outside world which not far from denying death, recalls and affirms it, and at the same time absolves (here incestuous desire).

The almost unspeakable childhood of Georges Bataille with a blind father and neuro-syphilitic dementia, abandoned in his paralytic chair by the family during the capture of Rouen by the Germans in 1914, found dead in 1915; a probably melancholic mother with at least two known suicide attempts; an adolescence marked by the encounter with and then the renunciation with religion; those are as many prisms through which one can read and understand “My mother.”

Some psychic traumas, ever present in the clinical field of adolescence, confront us with feelings of impotence. We often think of these in terms of archaic experiences qualified with terms such as “unimaginable”, “unthinkable” and even “non representable”.

Without denying the radical essence of these experiences, we will reflect on what could be considered our “duty” as analysts and psychotherapists is in the clinical study of these difficult cases: the duty to imagine what is unimaginable to the patient, of attempting to think what to him results unthinkable, to dare represent what to him results non representable in these precocious experiences that the failing process of adolescence often sheds light on. Facing these “off time” states of psychical sideration, agonistic experiences lacking representation, experiences one cannot grasp and which cannot be bound together, we must fight the evaporation of traces and images, as well as the formless, the invisibility and the risk of disappearance.
Of it depends the possibility of succeeding at making such experiences human, insofar as the subject precisely defines them through a sentiment of psychic annihilation and the painful feeling of losing his own humanity.
If one has the goal of shaping what has no shape, of understanding what feels as unimaginable, one must thus first allow oneself to imagine and recuse the argument of the unmentionable, the infigurable and the unimaginable.

To face the “formless” (D.W. Winnicott); to face the “clinic of the extreme” (R. Roussillon ); to affront the “terror of existing” (M. Corcos ); “imagining the unimaginable trauma” as the role of the analyst (P. Fédida ); “imagine despite everything” (G. Didi-Huberman).

Such a clinic confronts us not only with the need to imagine, but also with the duty to imagine, and by imagining, with the possibility of constructions.
Through an interpretation of the movie “Son of Saul” from Lazlo Nemes, we attempt to introduce elements that allow us to reconstruct and construct an experience of humanity, through past experiences of psychical annihilation and dehumanization.

Marguerite Duras hated psychology, she only delivered scum, dialogue or soliloquy (La Pléiade).
Written very quickly without knowing how she do it, in parallel to other books, Lol. V. Stein is considered as one of her masterpiece, the most enigmatic, the most phantasmagoric.
Coming from the depths of her being, in nearly automatic writing, at a moment she is confronted to her demons and her midlife crisis. Confronted with her son’s difficult adolescence and her own problem of dependence, she delivers one of her most romantic works, a true ode to impossible or misunderstood love.

In face of her imaginary world so narrated, the psy, and even Lacan in person, must delete, always preceded by the artist. Jean's enigma in regard to Lol, Lol watching this woman dancing with the man she loves is consider as a disorder of the duality, of the subjectivity, from the Self to the other, in order to try to find our self with the risk to become mad to try see the love of our love.