Comme Elle Respire: Memory of Breath, Breath of Memory

Little paper-fish cutouts have been placed on the ground, on the carpet. We’re in the reassuring ‘70s stylishness of a doctor’s office. The carpet is soft and glistens like in interior decoration magazines, it’s with it, in. We couldn’t care less about what Dyson vacuum cleaners and “purifiers” boast they can eliminate several decades later: acarids, those microscopic domestic arthropods, human parasites (notably), and airborne vectors of infectious disease (colds, coughs, respiratory distress). No, in the spring of 1975, innocently and self-satisfyingly, the urbane doctor flaunts the opulent carpet with curly pile in his luxury apartment with its state-ofthe-art waiting room. In this grand interior of a medical office, a man in a white coat plies his important trade. For example, that day a little girl is re-learning how to breathe. One might think that exhaling and inhaling is learned for life—je t’aime comme je respire, elle parle comme elle respire, il ment comme il respire1—from the very first cry at birth. But in fact, sometimes in life breathing gets stuck between the nasal cavity and the bronchial tubes, between the respiratory tract and the lungs. Progressively, imperceptibly, the organism is short of air, a malicious infection spreads and impairs