ENGLISH VERSIONS
Welcome to the English-language section of my literary world.
Writing has always been, for me, a way of exploring what lies beneath the surface of things — memory, silence, time, the fragility of existence, and our place in the universe.
Until now, my work has primarily been available in French, the language in which my stories and poems were born.
Today, I am opening another door.
Little by little, some of my writings will also become available in English, allowing them to travel beyond the borders of their original language and reach new readers.
My poetry collections, novels, stories, and other literary projects will gradually find their place here in English translation.
These translations are not intended simply to replace French words with English ones. My goal is to preserve the voice, rhythm, atmosphere, emotion, and silences that shape each work.
The French editions will always remain the original heart of my writing, but I hope their English versions can take on a life of their own.
The first works are already beginning this journey, with more to follow.
Whether you discovered my writing in French or are encountering it here for the first time, I invite you to enter this universe at your own pace.
Read a few lines.
Stay for a story.
Pause between two poems.
And perhaps, somewhere between the words and the silence, we will meet.
My novels begin where certainty ends.
A road not taken.
A secret buried too long.
A life altered in a single instant.
A memory that refuses to remain silent.
I write about ordinary people caught in the invisible machinery of fate — people who love, fail, betray, endure, remember, and sometimes become strangers to themselves.
Some stories are rooted in Quebec, its history, its landscapes, its silences. Others drift toward darker territories, where guilt, justice, identity, and memory blur the line between truth and illusion.
Time is never entirely still in my novels. The past returns. History bends. Chance becomes destiny. What seems insignificant may become the very thing that changes everything.
My characters do not always find answers.
Sometimes they find only another question.
And perhaps that is where every story truly begins:
in the fragile space between what happened,
what might have happened,
and what can never be undone.
My poetry lives in the almost invisible.
A light moving across a floor.
A name slowly fading.
A silence between two words.
The trace left behind by something already gone.
I write about time, memory, disappearance, chance, and the quiet forces that shape our lives without ever announcing themselves.
My poems often begin with very little — a gesture, a shadow, a breath, a fleeting image — and follow it toward something larger: absence, consciousness, the universe, the fragile mystery of being alive.
I am drawn to what escapes us.
What almost happened.
What remains after we leave.
What survives only in memory.
What cannot be explained, but can still be felt.
My poetry does not try to provide answers.
It listens.
To silence.
To uncertainty.
To the faint echo of things disappearing.
And somewhere between the ordinary and the infinite, it tries to hold on — for just a moment — to what was never meant to stay.