Yoknapatawpha. The name is impossible to pronounce. Its syllables express authority. They enjoin silence. What god left his last letters here? Is it because it designates an accursed land, stolen from the Indians, that this degraded tetragram struggles to hide its still water?

Yoknapatawpha, a fictive place invented for the needs of his art by the American writer William Faulkner, invites to take an infernal plunge into a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Yoknapatawpha. What if, for a moment, the river suspended its flow and let us hear the voice of that troubled spirit, the silent child Benjy, for whom, need we recall, space and time are one?

Beyond the senses, it is there, once again, that the equivocal is to be summoned – that which has several voices. Here is another attempt to pull the puppet-strings of the teeming images, to suggest a gesture in the torpor of the indeterminate.