About the Author

Louise H. Forsyth

Louise H. Forsyth has always loved performance and theatre. As an amateur lover of the stage, she has acted, sung, danced, written, directed, produced, translated, stage managed, served as props manager, and hung out as much as she could as spectator. Woven into an amateur obsession with theatre has been her professional life, where she wrote two theses on the classic French writer of theatrical comedy, Molière, taught courses and supervised theses in theatre, drama, and dramatic literature, wrote scholarly studies about French and Québec playwrights, and theorized about acting and dramatic writing. Her areas of academic specialization are feminist performance and dramaturgy in Québec. Along with her passion for what the women of Québec have written for theatre, she has been engaged for quite some time with developing theories of dramaturgy and acting au féminin, along with revealing the sources of tenacious sexism in the practices and conventions for doing theatre, for studying and evaluating it, and for recounting its history. In short, she has been wondering for quite some time why womenâ??s roles have tended to remain stereotypical in works for stage, TV and film, why theatre done by womenâ??when its perspective is explicitly derived from a womanâ??s point of viewâ??is still easily dismissed with a summary shrug as deserving only condescending scorn, why womenâ??s theatrical experimentation is so rarely discussed by scholars as serious theoretical work or used by them in their own theoretical reflections, and why the silence of critics on women and their richly creative activities has not yet been overcome when it comes to their accounts of theatre history.

Books by this Author
Mobility of Light

Mobility of Light

The Poetry of Nicole Brossard
edition:Paperback
also available: eBook
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Excerpt

Marginal Way by Nicole Brossard; translated by Anne-Marie Wheeler

intention extreme beauty

landscape you add it to the light

of the penchant

the hour is propitious beyond reality

the cosmic body approaches far off

in the marginal way, flagrant attitude

*

it's not familiar in shadow

the cliff

boundaries destroy sight

yet being I say traverse the echo

aerial feminine in the equation above

the seas, syllable here hope

my mind stirs woman essential

*

if in shadow I think of passion

on the back of fragments in full quietude

it's an aspect of reading

a position taken to see there

matter on boundaries cleaves eyes

I exist live to air

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Excerpt
ravage
(this place despite everything)

 

I’ll not put this world on trial, even if it mistreats us.
I’ll not put this time on trial, even if it hustles us toward the fall.

I’ll not put a system that assaults us on trial, I’ll not put a religion that blinds us on trial, I’ll not put an economy that assassinates, attacks, dries, smothers, grinds, drowns us on trial.

I’ll not put life on trial, despite its fundamental inadequacy, nor our species, which does not cease hating itself.
Anyway I’ll launch no trial; the world has enough of those who destroy,
and I know only how to show the blows (and then).
So what can I do? I who do not have the confidence of the troublemakers, to try to transmute what is real, to try to tear up my own ruts, to restrain what is dying, to flesh out time, to punch holes in impasses and see sense appear, perhaps, in its unstable beat?

I chose, one day, to make a commitment despite everything to places that are theatres,
And I chose to linger in this one so as to invite dreamers and to dream with them,
So as to give more space to speech, more speech to speech.
I chose to write on a long wall having the title I begin again, so as to recreate tirelessly and thus to converse infinitely with this world that never ceases to amaze me.

Take the word ravage, for example.
Still yesterday, it inspired in me only fear and destruction, ugliness and chaos.
And then, one day, my country friend taught me that a ravage is also a place
where the deer gather to face the rigours of winter.

In winter, if you go for a walk in the forest, you might fall on a ravage, which you
will recognise by the disturbance of the snow, by the many and mingled deer tracks,
like the imprint of mysterious writing, And you will see that the ravage is protected by tall evergreens that wrap their long resinous arms around it. 

The first time I saw a ravage I thought That’s what we need! A spot to survive the winters, a place despite everything, a refuge for beauty, a stopping place for what hides itself! A ravage! A ravage! We need a ravage!

I thanked my country friend and I returned to the city.
Ever since I begin again,
Tirelessly.

And I hope, with you, to make a ravage out of this theatre.

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