<html><head></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space; "><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></i></div><div><div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"><div><div style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-width: 1pt; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; font-size: 14px; position: static; z-index: auto; "><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; ">1. How do you think about your work in relation to the writings of other contemporary writers? How does a poetics based on prose/verse, or the letting go of that opposition, situate your work with respect to other recent writings in France?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; ">2. Do you consider American or English poetry an important influence on your work? How would you draw a relationship between modern American poetries and your own? Which English language poets, or groups of poets, enjoy a particular ascendency in the context of French poetry?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; ">3. To what degree is cosmopolitan pop culture (including strategies in international consumerism) an important resource for your work? To you mind, is there an emergent 21<sup>st</sup><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>century aesthetic of viscera based on poking fun at the experience of mass culture? If so, how would you like your work to participate?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; ">4. The Paris seen in<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Oxo</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>seems, to some degree, the inside view of an outsider addressing other outsiders. What kind of political currency would you (want to) ascribe to this collection of poems?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; ">5. In the segment subtitled “The ‘Unsayable’” in<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>To Seek a Sentence</i>, you state that “The only task of literature is to invent new syntactical forms, new rhythmic patterings: to expand the language,” to which you add: “The only obstacle is the totality of overused sentences that, at every turn, evade their own cutting-edge possibility. Each sentence has its obstacle and not a single one is insurmountable.” Could you further expand on this insistence on the dynamics between clarity/unsayability? What relationship do you perceive between the scale of frames (<i>Quelle relation tracez-vous entre les échelles de dispositifs</i>)? How has this question evolved for you over the past decade? What is at stake for the currency of a work in this question? Or, more precisely referring to<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Oxo</i>, how (if at all) is this explorative, innovative notion of literature aimed at in the structural constraints and thematic concerns you adopt for this book?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; ">6. Would you please speak a little about the physical design of<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Oxo</i>/<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Kub Or</i>? To what degree were you involved with designing the precise spatial layout of each text, and how important to your mind are these specific relations to the internal economy of the books?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; ">7. What role do Suzanne Doppelt’s photographs play in the critical acts of<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Oxo</i>? In what order were the images and texts created; which came first, the photos or the poems (and does this query about origin (image/text) help illuminate other competing myths of origin (oral/written literature))? Could you speak a little about the actual production of the images; is there some overlap in the craftsmanship of the photos and the texts?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; ">8. Naming, it seems, occupies an important place in your poetics. In both<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Oxo<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i>and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Sentimentale journée</i>, each poem is accompanied by a title, a caption or a recap that refers, with various degrees of literalness, citation and irony, to the text itself, or to the stories that unfold in the texts. We wondered in our discussion about the types of authority the name exerts over the object it names; to what degree are you deliberately (and/or intuitively) resisting or accelerating the fascination of substitution in these instances (“Tai-Chi,” for example, is one of the poems that oriented this segment of our conversation).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; ">9. What, to your mind, are the most consistent connections between the various types of creativity in which you engage, spanning your work as a translator, your writing of novels, your composition of poems (books of poems), your collaborative compilation of short films and video-poems, and… (other activities) ? How does this trans-field, inter-material craftsmanship relate to your idea that a “Philosopher is not a geometer, but a surveyor.” What vital or agonistic relation do you experience </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond; ">between the artist and philosopher in you?</span></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><b><span style="font-family: Garamond; "><o:p><br></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><b><span style="font-family: Garamond; "><o:p><br></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><b><span style="font-family: Garamond; "><o:p><br></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><b><span style="font-family: Garamond; "><o:p>Vers la prose<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><b><span style="font-family: Garamond; "><o:p><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "></span>Toward Prose</o:p></span></b></p><div>by Pierre Alferi<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">La prose n'est ni un genre ni l'opposé de la poésie. Elle est l'idéal bas de la littérature, autrement dit un horizon, et lui souffle un rythme, une politique.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(8, 8, 8); font-family: Garamond; "> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">Prose is neither a genre nor the opposite of poetry. It is the ideal base of literature, in other words a horizon, and it whispers a rhythm, a politic.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(8, 8, 8); font-family: Garamond; "> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">Quant au rythme, on a coutume de le mesurer au moyen des formes évidentes qu'il prend dans les vers réguliers. Sans doute la prose a-t-elle le sien, mais, disait Cicéron, pas facile à reconnaître. On a coutume aussi de louer dans la poésie, fût-ce pour la cantonner, la "parole des origines" à quoi la prose devrait sa pulsation première, plus ou moins assourdie.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">With respect to rhythm, we customarily measure it by means of the obvious forms it takes in standard verse. Undoubtedly, prose has its own standards, but, as Cicero stated, not so easily recognized. In poetry, we also customarily praise, if only to delimit it, the “original word” to which prose would owe its first pulse, more or less deafened.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">De cette légende s'autorise l'usage laxiste de "prose" pour désigner ce qui n'est pas vers, formellement flou, prose dont on fait sans le savoir. Mais on peut distinguer le rythme, qui n'est pas sans la régularité, de sa mesure, irrégulière en prose ; et revendiquer pour celle-ci la tâche poétique la plus délicate. On peut aussi raconter l'histoire des naissances à rebours, dire que de la prose sortit toute la poésie moderne et qu'elle se retourne vers elle.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">Out of this legend springs the lax usage of “prose” to refer to what is not verse, formally fluid, prose made without knowing it. But rhythm, which is not without its regularity, can be distinguished in its measure, irregular in prose; and for prose we can reclaim the most delicate poetic task. We can also recount, against the grain, the tale of birth, state that from prose all of modern poetry sprang forth and that it turns back toward prose.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">Ainsi Charles-Albert Cingria, dans un chapitre de<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>La Civilisation de Saint-Gall<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i>qui a pour titre " Renouveau, par la "prose" de toute la poésie occidentale ", narre-t-il l'histoire récente du rythme. L'événement qu'il relate est, vers 880, la découverte par Notker, moine bègue, d'une nouvelle façon de mettre des mots sur un chant. C'était pour ne pas oublier, comme mnémotechnie, qu'il avait dû inventer ces mots. Mais ils ne composent pas des vers reconnaissables. Sachant ce que c'est que la poésie - l'art appelé poésie - ; il n'est pas très sûr, malgré le plaisir qu'il y éprouve, que ces mots, si bien disposés et assonancés qu'il invente en soient. Il croit plutôt que c'est de la prose ; alors on dit les proses, et le genre, parti de Saint-Gall, tout de suite, avec l'impétuosité d'une bourrasque, fait école d'une mer à l'autre. Le rythme, ici donné par la musique, fut donc premier. Mais, passé dans les mots, qu'il informa néanmoins par une vrai prosodie, il adopta d'abord une mesure irrégulière. Voilà la " prose ".</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">Thus, Charles-Albert Cingra, in a chapter of<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>The Civilization of Saint-Gall</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>entitled “Renovation, by means of the ‘prose’ of all occidental poetry,” narrates the recent history of rhythm. The event he recounts is the discovery, around 880, by Notker, a stuttering monk, of a new way of putting words to music. He’d had to invent these words in order to not forget them, as a mnemonic device. But they did not consist of recognizable verse. Knowing what poetry was—i.e. the art called poetry—, he is unsure that, despite the pleasure they bring, these well-placed, well-assonated words are part of it. Rather he believes they are prose and calls them prose, and thus the genre, beginning with Saint-Gall, promptly sweeps the land from coast to coast with the impetuosity of a gale force wind. Rhythm, provided here by music, therefore came first. But, shifted into words, which it nonetheless informed via a real prosody, rhythm took on to begin with an irregular measure. And this is “prose.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); "> A vrai dire, n'importe quoi, même les bruits d'eau et des rythmes d'engins de bois ou de fer lui paraissaient dignes de faire bien s'accoupler et rimer les mots. Ekkehard raconte que, de son dortoir, Notker entendait certains gémissements et des craquements périodiques d'une roue tournant lentement à cause de très peu d'eau. Aussitôt il fit une prose. Prose en ce sens aussi que tantôt la nature tantôt la technique y passent de plain-pied selon leur cadence.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">Actually, anything, even the sounds of water and the rhythms of wooden or metals contraptions seem to merit the careful coupling and rhyming of words. Ekkehard reports that from his room Nokter could hear certain periodic creaks and moans from a wheel slowly turning by the trickle of water. He promptly wrote a prose. Prose also in the sense that now nature, now technique directly enters and passes according to its cadence.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">La primauté du rythme fait un art " dyonisiaque ". Cingria cite Nietzsche et, surtout, Pétrarque. Sauf que la poésie moderne (en langue vulgaire) a puisé dans des rythmes irrégulièrement mesurés. Cette naissance prosaïque orienta son histoire. La complainte de sainte Eulalie qui est le tout premier document de poésie française est une séquence. Dante et Pétrarque ne sont que les derniers des troubadours et les plus grands. Or, le chant des troubadours est le lai, et le lai vient des tropes et des séquences, qui sont la prose ordonnancée au cours du XIIème siècle. On oublie sa naissance. La poésie se referma bientôt, imposa au rythme - et, le cas échéant, à la musique - une forme régulière a priori, une métrique rigide qui supplanta bruits d'eau, gémissements et craquements. Mais l'ère de la nouvelle poésie n'est pas encore close. Elle se ravive à la forme irrégulière primitive. Et Cingria termine en citant Cendrars, Whitman,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Une saison en enfer<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i>.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">The primacy of rhythm constitutes a “Dionysian” art. Cingra cites Nietzsche and, above all, Petrarch. Except that modern poetry (in common languages) drew its inspiration from irregularly measured rhythms. This prosaic birth has determined its history.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>The Canticle of Saint Eulalia</i>, the very first document of French poetry, is a sequence. Dante and Petrarch are but the last and the greatest troubadours. Besides, the lay is the troubadour’s song, and the lay consists of tropes and sequences that are but prose put together over the course of 12<sup>th</sup><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>century. It’s birth is often forgotten. Poetry soon closed up, imposing upon rhythm an a priori regular rhythm, a rigid metrics that supplanted the sound of water, the creaks and groans. But the era of modern poetry is not yet closed. It is revived by irregular primitive forms. And Cingra concludes by citing Cendrars, Whitman,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>A Season in Hell</i>.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">Cette histoire vaut ce que valent les mythes. On peut y objecter, ou rester froid devant le lieu communqui sacre la musique modèle de tout rythme, préférer la roue lente, les engins de bois et de fer. Au moins le mythe montre-t-il une poésie aux antipodes de cette " parole des origines " deux fois incroyable, une poésie redevable de sa modernité à la prose qui est à son départ et en son<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><font class="Apple-style-span" color="#4562FF"><b>cÏur<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></b></font><i><font class="Apple-style-span" color="#4562FF"><b>[? Sic].</b></font></i><font class="Apple-style-span" color="#4562FF"><b> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></b></font>La généalogie que traçait Cingria se prolonge en effet jusqu'à nous, après l'abandon de l'ancienne métrique : en France, par exemple, de<i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>La prose du transsibérien <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i>de Cendrars, de Zone d'Apollinaire, du Voleur de talan de Reverdy à Ponge, à Michaux, Novarina, Lucot, Cadiot. Les retours paniques à l'ancien code, d'une part, de l'autre les répudiations spectaculaires d'un genre jugé inacceptable ou obsolète, la pratique opiniâtre de la coupe et de l'enjambement aux dépens de tout autre signe de reconnaissance du vers, tout cela trahit dans la poésie d'aujourd'hui la hantise de la prose.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">This history has the same worth as any myth. You can object to it, remain unmoved before the commonplace consecration of music as the model of all rhythm or prefer the slow wheel, the wooden and metal contraptions. At least the myth reveals a poetry opposite to that “original word,” twice unbelievable, a poetry owing its modernity to prose, which is present at its birth and i</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; "><font class="Apple-style-span" color="#422CFF">ts closure [?].</font></span><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; "><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The genealogy that Cingra was drawing up extends, in effect, to us, after the letting go of our old prosody: in France, for example, from Cendrar’s<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Prose du transsibérien</i>, to Appolinaire’s “Zone,” to Reverdy’s<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Voleur de talan</i>, to Ponge, to Michaux, to Novarina, Lucot, Cadiot. The panicky resurgence of the old codes, on the one hand, and on the other, the spectacular repudiations of a genre judged to be inacceptable or obsolete, the unrelenting practice of the line break and enjambment to the detriment of all other recognizable signs of verse—all of this betrays, in today’s poetry, the hauntings of prose.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">Aussi bien elle s'affirme : projet non héroïque, à ras de terre. Et elle n'est pas plus étrangère au poème qu'au roman, et pas moins. Penser la prose, ne serait-ce que penser à elle, l'envisager, la rêver, c'est vouloir pour la littérature - toute - la rigueur d'une prosodie irrégulière, d'une poétique mutante, en même temps que l'abandon à l'existence profane et à l'état " vulgaire " (contemporain) du langage. Si la prose désigne cette tension maximale entre une forme qui ne se connaît pas de modèle et un champ réel qui ne laisse pas de point de vue surplombant, alors les romans ne l'atteignent pas plus souvent que les poèmes.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">Nonetheless prose reemerges : a non heroic project, at ground level. It is no more a stranger to the poem than to the novel, and no less. “To think prose” would be but to think about prose, to imagine it, to dream it; it would be to want for literature—all of it—the rigor of an irregular prosody, of a mutating poetics, as well as a letting go of the profane existence and the “vulgar” state of (contemporary) language. If prose refers to this maximal tension between a form that takes no model and a real field that leaves no point of view overseen, then novels do not reach it more frequently than poems.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">Et cet horizon, cette idée, si libre et large soient-ils, appellent une politique (donc une critique) de la littérature. Sans préjuger de cette politique à venir, parler de la littérature en tant que prose doit permettre - à nouveau, dès maintenant, en attendant - d'évoquer un travail, des programmes d'écriture complexes, précaires, sans pour cela se reposer sur des catégories stylistiques ; et d'évoquer une façon, mille façons qu'ont les livres de se mettre à niveau avec la " prose du monde ", sans pour cela parler de sujets (il n'y a pas de sujets).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">And this horizon, this idea, as free and broad as they are, calls forth a politics (thus a critique) of literature. Without prejudice to this emergent politic, to speak of literature in terms of prose must allow us (once again, beginning now, in the meanwhile) to evoke working, projects of complex, precarious writing, without consequently relying on stylistic categories; and, to evoke a means, the thousands of means that books have in putting themselves at the level of the “prose of the world,” without consequently speaking of subjects (there is no subject). </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">Face à la prose réelle, la poésie paraît plutôt se donner pour tâche de prélever : où couper ? Et le roman, plutôt de tout prendre : comme faire consister ? Ni l'un ni l'autre, ni quelqu'une des techniques mixtes du moment ne trouve plus dans la prose ce chemin en ligne droite -<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>prosa oratio<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i>- vers le monde, ou quelque nom qu'on veuille donner aux circonstances, à l'élément où l'on se noie. Elle gît dans les méandres de la syntaxe et la violence des coupes, rusée, brute ; tous les coups sont permis excepté ceux déjà joués.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Garamond; "> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">Confronted with real prose, poetry seems rather to take on the task of sampling: where to cut? And the novel, rather to take it all : how to make it consist (cohere)? Neither one nor the other, nor any of the mixed techniques of the moment finds any better in prose this straight line path—<i>prosa oratio</i>—into the world, or whatever name we want to give to circumstances, to the element in which we drown. It groans in the wanderings of syntax and the violence of line breaks, cunning, brutal: all moves are permitted except those already played.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">Ces remarques sont banales. Attendre qu'il y ait du nouveau, du travail, c'est la moindre des choses.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">These remarks are banal. To await the new, the work, that's the least of matters.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: rgb(8, 8, 8); ">Seulement, en cette époque de regrattage, il se trouve beaucoup d'écrivains pour éluder et la difficulté d'écrire et la demande impérieuse, assez peu claire (d'autant moins qu'il est partout excellemment " représenté ") du monde. Cela fait une littérature de complaisance dont beaucoup de critiques, éludant la difficulté de lire, délivrent le certificat. De sorte qu'il faut tamiser des tonnes de récits, de dialogues, de vers pour recueillir une once de prose. Quoi de plus accessible, pourtant, de plus modique ? La prose n'est qu'une rumeur à quoi sait assez répondre une humeur, non pas grave, mais basse comme elle.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; color: red; ">Only, in this era of refurbishing the façades of edifices, one finds many writers to elude the difficulty of writing and the imperious demand, rather unclear (no less so because it is everywhere excellently “represented”), of the world. This leads to a literature of complacency, which many critics, eluding the difficulty of reading, deign certify. Thus must one sift through tons of stories, dialogues, and lines of poetry to gather but a single ounce of prose. What, however, could be more accessible, more modest? Prose is but a rumor to which a sense of humor well enough knows reply, not a serious one, but one similarly low.</span></p><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><i><font class="Apple-style-span" size="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10px;">—Translation Jean-Jacques Poucel</span></font></i></div><div style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-width: 1pt; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; position: static; z-index: auto; "><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; "><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-family: Garamond; "><a href="http://www.remue.net/cont/alferi1.html">http://www.remue.net/cont/alferi1.html</a></span></p></div></div></div><br></div></body></html>