Timothée Bordenave: A Multifaceted Voice in Contemporary French Literature

Born in Paris, France, in 1984, Timothée Bordenave is a distinguished French author, essayist, poet, and visual artist whose creative work has earned international recognition. Known for his versatility and artistic depth, Bordenave has established himself as a significant figure in contemporary French culture through both his literary and visual achievements.

As a writer, Bordenave has published approximately twenty-five books spanning fiction, essays, and poetry. His works often explore themes of human experience, identity, memory, society, and the complexities of modern life. His writing is admired for its intellectual richness, emotional sensitivity, and artistic originality. Over the years, his books and poems have reached a global audience, with substantial portions of his work translated into nearly twenty languages. This international reach has allowed readers from diverse cultural backgrounds to engage with his unique literary vision.

In addition to his accomplishments as an author, Timothée Bordenave is also an accomplished visual artist. His photography and paintings have been exhibited in France and at various international venues, demonstrating his ability to communicate ideas and emotions through multiple artistic mediums. Whether working with words, images, or colors, Bordenave consistently seeks to explore the relationship between imagination, reality, and human perception.

Before dedicating himself fully to creative pursuits, Bordenave worked in Paris as a director of libraries. This professional experience placed him at the heart of the literary world and provided valuable insight into books, readers, and the cultural importance of literature. His years in library leadership undoubtedly contributed to his deep appreciation for storytelling, knowledge, and artistic expression.

Today, Timothée Bordenave works as a full-time creative professional, focusing on writing, visual arts, and cultural projects. Through his diverse body of work, he continues to inspire readers and art enthusiasts around the world. His dedication to creativity, combined with his international outlook and multidisciplinary approach, makes him one of the most intriguing contemporary French artists of his generation.

An adventurer, at home.

The soft, suavous scent, of these burnt lavanders,

Dwells my mind, whilst I quietly write this poem,

In my living room, books and paintings, masks and gems,

Just keep still… All around the silence reigns over.

Blessed be, o Lord ! Thy peace, granted to a poor boy,

Came with the faculty to work, and learn your books…

I can pray now Thy love, in this shrine full of joy,

Rich refuge for my life, which I am glad none took.

There are the jewelry, tailored clothes, lithographs,

Sea shells and silver lamps, ivories, or gold rings…

All reminding of past battles. - My humble being.

Then I will read the Psalms, the Gospels and some Saints !

Before writing a stance, a try, until I faint…

To express gratitude ! As for an epitaph.

A Christian poem.

When I pray Thee o Lord, my voice, humble but proud,

Raise inner, for Thou knows everything of me,

Then I try to write down, speak up, but never loud,

No for we are not much. Before Thy great army.

We are children to Thee, though. Salt grains for the Earth…

We are friends to the birds, colorful like flowers…

We can be good workers, until the last hour,

We can be good servants if we know what we’re worth.

The paradise immense, where will live forever,

Those amongst us who choose to be His believers,

Is like the treasure a peasant finds in a field…

Soon this field acquired, then the riches revealed,

Everyone will think this person has been wise.

Be pious, be gentle, love, hope… - Jesus advises.

The poet plans for work.

You see me now, well quiet, at my library desk !

Director here. Further, I hear cars passing by,

Further, I see grey clouds… The silence is at stake,

Calm, as I read Plato : moments some wish could buy.

Then I take my pen on : I will write for Roma,

For the woman I love, her lips, their aroma…

I will write for Paris, for London, for Madrid,

For a farm in the snow, then for my youth in need.

I want to write again ! For a trip to Jersey, 

On a boat, whilst a storm was raging the Channel,

I want to write about hiking, and this tunnel…

In Geneva when I questioned my survival.

I will write about my past girlfriends - when opals,

Drizzled from their glances on our soft Odyssey !

Roma

« A rhyme… »

I was in Rome, once, as a teen,

I then came back there fifty times,

To find always, under their grime,

Romans, mysterious, mutine…

The Roman man is by essence,

A well mannered and good tempered,

Friend to me, who - believe me ! - erred,

A lot there, in my innocence.

The Roman woman, beautiful,

Charming, intelligent, sacred,

Holds their secret. No one has heard…

No one has ever - trust me ! - heard,

This secret, probably given,

By Saint Peter, the forgiven.

*****

Santa Agnese

There is if you get lost through the side streets of Rome,

The entry to be found of these great catacombs,

Of Santa Agnese, of whom there is the tomb.

You would not queue a lot, and feel very welcome :

Two sisters take you down an old galleries track, 

With a torch they show you that the tunnels plunge more,

You will admire many Christian reliques and lore,

The visit lasts a while, then the nuns guide you back.

It’s casual than after this edifying tour,

Your eyes would be bewildered by the bright of light,

When you exit the place, because of the sun’s might.

I would suggest this to you, if you have the chance, 

To walk all by yourself, the way from their entrance,

To via Nomentana, at about half an hour.