What?

Catch him for Heaven’s Sake!

Catch him!

Hey!
Hey!
And make him regret coming here!

He isn’t going far!
But what’s going on?

Come back here!

Hey!

Oops!

Stop!

Come back, by Heaven!
Leave me alone!
I have to see the Professor!

Ha!

[No text]

Kasku: [iiinx sex aajluaj auuoj]
But what devil is this that speaks nonsense so worryingly?

It is Kasku, who despairing of his failures has come to decide to fiche himself in the water.

Goodbye solitude!!

Kasku finds himself in the sun, he doesn’t know where, when suddenly…

Kasku finds himself facing his double!!

Kasku’s Double: Why do you want to die, solemn idiot!

Kasku: Uh… no girl wants me…
Kasku’s Double: Pff… and have you tried liking yourself?
Kasku: What?

Kasku: Myself?

[Now the page is turned over – this is the inverted panel 11]
Kasku’s Double: Yes, yourself!!

Kasku: I don’t understand…
Kasku’s Double: Ha ha! What an idiot!

Kasku’s Double: Go! Return to where you belong!

Kasku’s Double: Ho!!

Sunken bitch Kasku!!!
[This can’t be right! I’m blaming Babelfish.]

You know, I was born in the church, the one that’s flooded now.

My mother said she belonged to this place

and when I got here, I understood what she meant immediately.

This pit…

...was my theatre. It heard my song.

Some names
which are no longer carried by anyone
some people who don’t exist
their history eludes us
(at best we guess)

Who gave you permission to smoke?

Stella? You okay?

Stella: Yes, I’m just sitting there.

Stella: when you are all alone here, this room puts you in a special state.

Stella: I had thought that it would be full of people who drink coffee and talk and talk.

Oh. This place makes my head turn, I think the cake is starting to have an effect.

We’d better push on to Saturnia. The hot water springs will make you better.

Stella: Walter, don’t trail behind.

How can it be that we do not lose ourselves in this darkness?
[Not convinced by this one… ]

It’s the machine, it leads us everywhere. Where we…

Voice: Attention maldroit

Narrator: A brilliant machine, that alone can find its way
Voice: Everyone enter the pot-hole

Who built it?
A friend who builds all our machines

The generators that light our houses, and those of our neighbours.

He builds and, in exchange…

we supply him with everything he needs for construction.

A dream within a dream:
We have heard talk of her. We know she’s coming: something terrible, alien.

They call her death. We are scared.

We wait in silence, huddled in the dark

Sound of footsteps outside. The door opens

And there she is black, enormous, impressive.

I was initially disappointed on my first reading of the _ Journal Volume 3, but I plunged in again and found much of interest. The first is, as for other readers, the account of Neaud’s criticsms of the associates of Dupuy _[???]
Trondheim: Journal of Fabrice Neaud talks about Journal d’un Album.

Then, rereading it several times, I realize how much the dry tone of the account is undoubtedly just the unfortunate consequence of an excessive sensitivity of Neaud regarding his fellow professionals.
From Journal: Then, rereading it several times, I realize how much the dry tone of the account is undoubtedly the consequence of a bad scene between Dupuy and members of L’Association.

I find it extremely shocking that this boy, talented as he is, could make these simplistic remarks on the work of the group’s editors.
From Journal: I find it extremely shocking that these people, talented as they are, could make these simplistic remarks on the work of Dupuy.

Even here, then, it’s necessary for everyone to cast the others into the abyss and to disparage them for speaking well of you. _ What a disappointment.
From Journal: Even here, then, it’s necessary for stories to have good “rhythm”? Their “introspective” bit (like a newspaper)! Fitting on a single page? _[Quel comble!] What a disappointment.

That furiously points out something to me

Jean-Christophe Menu: Good. XIII, that pisses me off. I find it badly written.

And I can’t get away from the idea that to make an intimate account a matter of ‘stylistic egoism’ is a disguising our inability to interest others in reading or not.

June 93: At the bottom of the bed, at the bottom of the hole.
Voice: Listen Roland, you don’t want to come by to see him… prescribe something for him?...

Dupuy: I don’t want to take anything…
Other person: But Philippe…

Young Charles: I remind you that the the problem isn’t that you collected stuff, but that you continue to collect stuff.

And what about all these comics on the Simpsons? They didn’t exist in my day.
And I’m not speaking about the figurines…

Because “Mr” buys all these figurines and dolls, and not even let his daughter play with them!

Adult Charles: The Simpsons, it’s not the same. I think they’re excellent.
And then, I ended up giving some of them to Nina…
...some dolls…

YC: Perfect! At 34 years old, “Mr” argues over toys with his 2 year old daughter.

AC: But I don’t just buy that, like books… Look, I bought a book on “Garouste et Bonnetti”, a book about the covers of Blue Note LPs, a novel by Henri Calet…
YC: Hee hee hee! In the end, it’s pretty funny, the Simpsons!

Antanas: If you listen, he says – like Kafka in literature – that reality is unassailable if you attack it from the front. He said that it’s necessary to make a tour of realits to give a holistic picture.

A: But not a fragmented image like the Cubists. More like a rounded, shiny thing, like the oyster that cannot expel a bit of grit, so instead turns it into a pearl.

A: But it takes time to make a pearl, doesn’t it? It is strange, Chaim. Your painting has the same concerns as that of Kokoschka. However, one would say that you don’t feel like him…
Pascin: Don’t move.

P: Don’t move, Antanas. I want you to be like a statue – if not I’ll stop painting. I can’t paint you if you move.

There was another boy, in another company. He was called Donald Carrothers.

He always called me “California”.
Donald: Hi California! How’re ya doin’?

He had the look of a blond farmer, with a small pointed nose, and a look that stays in the memory. He was not big, but slender, with powerful thighs.

What had struck me about him, it was his athletic bottom, but when he marched, he marched with his chest pushed out in front of him, because the pack was heavy and he had a very small chest.

I liked his way of calling me “California”. We spoke a little, like that. There was an inclination between us toward a friendship that never formed.

And so I’m going to take two large jumps in time to say what happened to him.

Motorcycle
Wheel

Pants
Choucroute

Green
Forest

Ski
Snow

Snow
Ski

Pants
Candle

Scissors
Cloth

Glue
Paper

Pants
Hospital

Choucroute
Sausage

Bracelet
Arm

Candle
Dinner

Pants
Book

Pants
Escalator

Pants
Football

Good… That’ll do…

Pants