The cry of existence does not allow itself to be easily approached by the written word. So, when he learns of his approaching death, which he recognises as the enemy within, the young man that Jean-Luc Lagarce still is, finds refuge in writing. In facing up to the small tragedy which is all existence, he attempts to translate his cry as accurately as possible. Through language. And this produces, a few months later, Juste la fin du monde. (…)
The art of taking leave of life is the most difficult of all, especially if one wants to do it without bitterness and with elegance. And thus, six years later, the still condemned writer that Jean-Luc Lagarce is, noticing that he is still here but that his time is henceforth running out, pulls out of his drawer Juste la fin du monde, this play which had been refused, and adds in new characters and many scenes about what life has taught him since, thus trying to approach even more closely still the writing of his cry, but he is forced in the end to face up to the fact that silence cannot be written, that after the words The End, the page is blank. At least he will have written Le Pays lointain, a theatrical flood without an equivalent today.

I have had the luck, a lucky chance, yes I'm saying it, of being a friend of Robert Pinget. From him and from his texts, I have learned that although the occasions to remain silent are numerous, they are almost always lost, and that even if life is not always amusing, we would nevertheless like it to last forever. To Robert Walser, on whom I worked for almost three years, I owe the understanding, at least I think so, that it's important to be a happy debtor in the face of life. And, after having directed in Lausanne J'étais dans ma maison et j'attendais que la pluie vienne, by Jean-Luc, then Juste la fin du monde in this same theatre at Vidy, and after having led a workshop based on Pays lointain at the Théâtre Ouvert, with the Noyau of actors made up of the students of the class of 2000 from the Paris Conservatoire, I believe that I owe to this writer, I can say it today, that even if I cannot claim to have tamed this wild cry which troubles me just thinking about my final exit, at least I am permitted, before the great silence, to hear the little music of my life.

Joël Jouanneau