Oil on canvas, London, United Kingdom
Granville needs to have that naïvety to certain social conventions that Mersault has, that on reading seem so awkward, yet provoke the reader to consider their own approach of these in its aftertaste…
I dig my hands into my pockets. It’s cold here.
In one, scrunched up gloves. The other sometimes has receipts, that I chuck away when I rediscover them.
And a Paris metro ticket stub. Why have I still got this? It’s of no use to me. It took me somewhere: Gare du Nord to Réaumur–Sébastopol maybe?
It kind of hurts. The streets here are so deprived. The faces… There’s no romance here. Now, every time I stick my hand in my pocket, I dream of somewhere else - that can’t be good for me.
[It’s either keep that pang, or let myself become numb to these streets]
I have almost given up on András. He has arrived at the Austrian border, after leaving Nusi for the last time. The buses are lined up, to New Zealand, to the States, to Switzerland; Jon Ronson has arrived in Göteborg, a dead end in the mystery of the author behind Being or Nothingness; Granville, stepping from the fringes of life in Sevilla, sits petrified at the table of a Nervion café, waiting for Señora Rosales; and Meursault lays on a buoy with Marie, unaware (unlike me) that he is retaking every step toward his final sentence.
Words Make the Infinite Finite, a hand-printed accordion book by Swiss book artist Romano Haenni, released in 2008. read more…
Debussy tiene ese extraño efecto en mi, esa sensación de soledad infinita, de que todos nacemos solos y morimos solos, de la búsqueda de aventuras y de no atarse a nada, de un amor del estilo de orgullo y prejuicio.
Me hace sentir en búsqueda.
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