essay
by JEAN-JACQUES SCHUHL
I’m at my desk, Time magazine in my hands, the year-end issue. Under the title Time and the mention “Person of the Year,” the photo of a computer: above the keyboard, the screen suggested by a rectangle of glued aluminum. On that screen my face is reflected. At the bottom of the cover, in the middle of the page, and in large letters:
You.
I am the Person of the Year.
I play the game! In the mirror they’re holding up to me, as to a million others, from the other side of the Atlantic, I look at my face:
Eyes: Eyes
Ears: Ears
Nose: Nose
Mouth: Mouth
Distinguishing features: None
And yet, looking more closely, I detect traces tied to stories that take me back into my past: a few barely visible freckles, stubborn indices of a far-off time…