dans le livre de Geoff Dyer, Yoga para los que pasan del yoga, où j'ai été intriguée par le titre du poème , Detective story, où j'ai voulu le lire in extenso et où je l'ai trouvé cité par un Anglais qui a vécu au Japon avant d'emménager à Bruxelles.
For who is ever quite without his landscape,The straggling village street, the house in trees,All near the church, or else the gloomy town house,The one with the Corinthian pillars, orThe tiny workmanlike flat: in any caseA home, the centre where the three or four thingsthat happen to a man do happen? Yes,Who cannot draw the map of his life, shade inThe little station where he meets his lovesAnd says good-bye continually, and mark the spotWhere the body of his happiness was first discovered?An unknown tramp? A rich man? An enigma alwaysAnd with a buried past but when the truth,The truth about our happiness comes outHow much it owed to blackmail and philandering.The rest’s traditional. All goes to plan:The feud between the local common senseAnd that exasperating brilliant intuitionThat’s always on the spot by chance before us;All goes to plan, both lying and confession,Down to the thrilling final chase, the kill.Yet on the last page just a lingering doubt:That verdict, was it just? The judge’s nerves,That clue, that protestation from the gallows,And our own smile… why yes…But time is always killed. Someone must pay forOur loss of happiness, our happiness itself.