We hold first With bare hands for a simple but festive expression of desire, pleasure, feminine but not only; the whole is soon coupled with a sincere offering, that of an individual endowed with stupidity and conscience, almost heterosexual, who suddenly turns around like a glove, trying to overturn all his intimate dykes to give, perhaps to be, something a little new to read. But, even with bare hands, it is not easy to touch, in writing, by his only sincerity: one always risks being lulled by his own little music, and deviating towards self-indulgent self-indulgence, quickly disgusting. Here, this is not the case. Amandine Dhée gropes forward but above all naked, vulva in the wind, barely veiled – split in writing; it thus delivers a form of truth minced because it is raw (even cruel at times) about itself, and about what it is to be human too. That is to say addicted to desire.
Everything passes there, grasped unceremoniously, in pleasantly disjointed round trips, so embraced. Sex, of course, and its essential “Continent clitoris” : “This is not the time to refuse to lick women, but rather to see in them, in addition to pleasure, a political act of great nobility” ; “Enjoying is such a beautiful way to disobey.” Desire, which laughs well on the chiaroscuro edge of ourselves: “In our fantasies, isn’t it always us, the chiefs?” ; “Our desires are far more devious, intelligent and magical than we are.” The concrete place attributed to women, a quick-setting cement during the masonry reign – here and there shaken, #MeToo is in the place, but tenacious – of the reifying patriarchy: “Apologize, women’s disease” ; “That women still manage to desire, their desire not completely quenched, not burnt out by dint of making them objects, it is a miracle.”
And again the diagonal question of gender (“We are all made”), maternity (“This love so strong that it stinks of death, the terror of losing”) and then, of course, the feeling of love, satellite of everything, at the origin of most of the comings and goings inside and outside us.
Impeccable feminist essay even in her doubts, her wanderings, her renunciations, With bare hands, it’s the Bad feminist French, more humid; an often explosive diary exercise, in which there is endlessly talk of this essentially unconquered freedom to be and stay alive.
With bare hands
La Contre Allée, 114 pp., € 16.