Boscos

Sometimes the trees don't let us see the forest. Since the beginning of Mouawad's work, I sense that the words speak but that the important thing is hidden... something is expressed beneath. The characters speak, and beneath them a river of deep sadness feeds them. Something is buried there. The story is not the story we see in the foreground, but what is important is what awakens the undergrowth. The hidden. A secret sorrow. A deep sadness. Immense and desolate.

And each sentence is a punch. How to say it with enough energy? How to find the strength to keep living in it, after having said it, after having listened to it? Or perhaps having said it out loud and listened to it frees us, because it is as if in making it present we had crossed, through it, that intense pain. Here is the immense luck we have in doing and going to the theater. Here is redemption if it is possible. Life saved, life stolen, life given.

The strength of what is written on these pages is so deep that the words, the sentences, and the images are engraved with an unheard-of brutality in the heart. I would like to have written this great poem about our time, and that of our parents and grandparents. I would like to have written it, and to be able to dedicate it to my parents. We haven't written it ourselves, but we are lucky to represent it today, before you, to say it, to make it present. And in saying it and feeling it we feel like children, parents, siblings, friends. Free for a moment.

Oriol Broggi, director