ABSTRACT
Jean-Pierre Brisset escapes from Emerson's imprisoning, frozen view of language as 'fossil poetry'. Brisset's fossicking round antique seashores and pools keeps language, like a frog, alive and kicking. All commentators on Brisset appropriate and profiteer from him, like Jules Romains and his ill-intentioned boon companions. Brisset puns not only out of need—in order to prove his points by pointed paronomasia—but also out of superabundance, for the sheer hell of it. Unquestionably, the demon analogist Brisset is more often better to think about, to take off from, than to read. The most prevalent tone in Brisset's writing is one of jubilation and certitude. He is not a misery-monger but a yea-sayer, even when he is angry at the obtuseness of the rest of people. Brisset feels unassailable and, as for people, he cannot be safely catalogued or cosily straitjacketed.
