Geneviève Robichaud works in various essay forms. Her interests broadly center on translation and the adjacency of ideas – their movements, stutters and paralogical qualities. Hito Steyerl and Nathanaël are visible influences on her work – especially the manner in which they construct a poetics of ideas, of correspondence. Geneviève’s essays have recently appeared in Mandalit, The Capilano Review, Cosmonauts Avenue and Lemon Hound where she also worked as an editor.





            Each day I tell myself the story of my life, writes France Théoret in “Elegy for the Memory of Women”. I know that this sentence is made up of heaviness, desire and truth, ambiguity in regard to writing, she continues.
          The closest I’ve come to writing about the question of “where I write from” was in an essay on self-translation where I posited that, being the translator of my own texts, the friction between both versions made the self available to the reader in a way that other kinds of translations did not. Now, even though I disagree with the statement (mostly because of its inexactitude...and perhaps also for what it presumes), I find myself constantly propelled to that place (space, opening, invitation?) where the friction between texts gives way to a seeing that is not visible. Tangible but untouchable, or is it the other way around?
          As I write this, I can see the books on my library shelf. You can tell which ones are in French and which ones are in other languages. The French ones have a white spine. The books in other languages are all sorts of colours. There is no particular order to how the books are arranged. Beckett’s self-translations, for instance, are scattered here and there. Only Molloy seems to disappear. Its white and black spine making it impossible to classify: French or English?
         I go to a poetry reading and listen to a poet from another city. She inhabits every word as though physical. (Why do I say as though. Perhaps they are. Physical.) I listen to how her person appears there in the shape of her words. There is melancholy. The heat of a country I’ve never visited. Late night debauchery. Trains. Cab rides. The tide coming in and out.