But precisely when childhood is defined as a miracle, we protest that this miracle is nothing other than a premature accession to the adult's powers. [...] the entirely bourgeous notion of the child prodigy (Mozart, Rimbaud, Roberto Benzi); an admirable object insofar as it fulfills the ideal function of all capitalist activity: to gain time, to reduce human duration to a numerative problem of precious moments.

Minou Drouet's texts in this sense appear as the antiphrasis of all poetry insofar as they flee that solitary weapon of writers, literality

it is this weapon alone which can strip the poetic metaphor of its artifice, reveal it as the fulguration of a truth, won over a continuous nausea of language

its beauty, its truth proceed from a profound dialectic between the life and death of language, between density of the word and the ennui of syntax

in a contagion of dithyrambic images

[...] there is no danger in calling Minou Drouet's poetry strange if we recognize it from the first as poetry. Literature, however, only begins out in front of the unnamable, facing the perception of an elsewhere alien to the very langauge which seeks it out. It is this creative doubt, this fecund death which our society condemns in its "good literature" and exorcises in its bad. To insist at the top of our lungs that the Novel be a novel, that Poetry be poetry and the Theater theater, this sterile tautology is of the same order as the denominative laws which govern, in the Civil Code, the ownership of property: here everything coorporates in the great bourgeois task, which is finally to reduce Being to Having, the object to a thing.

A propitiatory victim sacrificed so that the world will be bright