One is straight away struck by the paucity of words availed to expound this chanced-upon poiesis born in the crevasses of cultural hybridity and nourished in the no man's lands of ascetic transmutation...


At Matta's, one fills the swimming pool: "This pipe is me, all the money that I make sets out again immediately. My women, my families, my house, and this swindler who exploits me (our merchant)..."

Chez Matta, on remplit la piscine: "Ce tuyau c'est moi, tout l'argent que je fais repart imm√©diatement. Mes femmes, mes familles, mes maison, et cet escroc la qui m'exploite (notre marchand)…"
(Laubies, 2001.)

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