"Language, for me, has only existed from the moment it became an instrument of combat." I was a son of an Italian immigrant. I came to a place where my name disappeared: I was called "salami" or "macaroni"...

For me, the great victory was to speak French, which was a nightmare for me. You know, those mothers who are very beautiful and accidentally give birth to their first husband but are always outside with very heavy and very penetrating perfumes, wearing diamond necklaces, changing hairstyles, living in a scary mundane and forget The kid who stayed at home... Well! Me, the French was this mother I had. A great mother who once in a while would leave me a little word and leave. And who did I have to represent her? It was the language of the cop, the judge, the professor in my midst. They were only people with a gourd, morals, metaphysics in their hands. So, my only way to beat me was to be first in French, beat these people on their own turf. (... )

But I'm Mediterranean I sometimes wonder how lyricism, or a certain overrated existence of the verb, isn't from my roots. Because in what I see there's not only the moment I live but the whole story behind it. And the story has weight, a truth. I meet the whole world at the meeting of this story. Even in this place, the Mediterranean, which took its name the fifth cardinal point: the middle one, the inner sea. The sea on which I was born, I evolved. The sea I'm currently living death of. "

Armand Gatti

On the website of Rosa Moussaoui

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