"Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a hooker , or a lottery vendor: its three most common personnifications. What destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it yourself." (Carlos Ruiz Zafon – Shadow of the Wind, p.233)
What is it about life that we fear so much? Why are we so afraid of change and fluidity?
Recently I have found myself having a crazyness inner chord I have not been aware so far of sheltering, as if I was afraid of it, as if I had had it removed from the public light, because it was no good. In some ways, I still think it is indeed no good at all. Yet at denying this chord in me, I have probably also worked at strenghthening it... and today I awake fidgety all over and the feeling does not go away. How do you deal with moves such deep into you. With an inner fluidity that calls in for you going away from yourself and feeding inner demons?
This issue had already arisen some years ago. At the time I remember a friend telling me I had shadows behind my eyes. I put it at the time to that recent painful memories were difficult to deal with. Yet maybe there is more to this than that? Now I realise change is upon me and that one way or another I will have to let these shadows gain some access to outer light. I will have to face my self -- or run to self-destruction. Yet what about those who love me and whom I love?
martes, 19 de junio de 2007
martes, 5 de junio de 2007
La Difference entre Etre Amoureux et Aimer
Le sujet de ma journee, et des mes dernieres journees, ce depuis une semaine.
Comment savons-nous si nous aimons pour de vrai ou juste de passage pour quelque temps? Quelle est la difference entre 'to love' et 'to be in love with'? Un des livres roses que je feuilletais hier semblait suggerer qu'il y aurait une difference fondamentale entre ces deux notions. Pour moi, je ne sais pas, ou bien pour etre plus precise, je ne sais plus.
Apres quelques annees dans une relation, je me sens en passe de rever a aller voir si l'herbe est en effet plus verte ailleurs, ou bien si ce n'est qu'un de ces dictons idiots qui vous empoisonnent la vie quand vous commencez a avoir des doutes sur les comments et pourquois qui vous ont amenee a vivre avec une personne en particulier hors de la masse que nous frequentons tous les jours. Maintenant et si le monde n'est pas meilleur ailleurs, repondre a ce questionnement vaut-il la peine de sacrifier des annees de pacification avec le monde des amourettes?
Comment savons-nous si nous aimons pour de vrai ou juste de passage pour quelque temps? Quelle est la difference entre 'to love' et 'to be in love with'? Un des livres roses que je feuilletais hier semblait suggerer qu'il y aurait une difference fondamentale entre ces deux notions. Pour moi, je ne sais pas, ou bien pour etre plus precise, je ne sais plus.
Apres quelques annees dans une relation, je me sens en passe de rever a aller voir si l'herbe est en effet plus verte ailleurs, ou bien si ce n'est qu'un de ces dictons idiots qui vous empoisonnent la vie quand vous commencez a avoir des doutes sur les comments et pourquois qui vous ont amenee a vivre avec une personne en particulier hors de la masse que nous frequentons tous les jours. Maintenant et si le monde n'est pas meilleur ailleurs, repondre a ce questionnement vaut-il la peine de sacrifier des annees de pacification avec le monde des amourettes?
Those Damned Books I Cannot Forget: What Happens When You Read Frank Herbert's Cycle of Dune
"Books are not made to believe but to be subjected to inquiry. When we consider a book, we mustn't ask ourselves what it says but what it means, a precept that the commentaries of the holy books had very clearly in mind."[1]
My favourite authors are Patrick Suskind, for his Perfume, James M. Barrie, for Peter Pan – I am an old child –, Tahar ben Jelloun,[2] Umberto Eco,[3] J.M.G. le Clézio – I have never known his full name, but does it matter?[4] – Michel del Castillo,[5] Arturo Perez-Reverte,[6] and Frank Herbert.
Reading these authors has accompanied my catching up of age throughout the years. Of course there has been plenty of other readings – there was a time for instance when I was devouring Agatha Christie. I have had also some temporary fancy for Dan Brown – who hasn’t? – etc, etc, etc, etc. Yet only* the above authors mean something special to me, sometimes maybe simply because I have read them at the so called ‘wrong age’, but who knows?
Among those I have read too early, from Tahar ben Jelloun I have learned of the importance of sensuality, if you want to understand your feelings. At reading Eco, I have fallen in love with libraries, bookshops, words and erudition for its own sake. With Le Clézio, I have learned of the need of change so as to live. From Michel del Castillo I have learned satirical humour, and that appearances are never, or very rarely only, direct references to reality. From Perez-Reverte, I have learned that the love of books is not equivalent to dislike for mankind, that, in fact, books are written as much for the sake of the art as for the sake of man, and that these two loves combined do not mean that you are a humanly worthless library rat, well on the condition that you respect those who are not as literate as you might be. From Herbert I have learned about politics, religion, technology and the nature of mankind.
As for Barrie, whom I have read at a too mature age, he has taught of the treasure of the innocence of childhood. As for Suskind, his introduction to The Perfume has taught me that even the worst of ugliness can be sublimed into timeless literary gems,[7] if one takes the time, and used the right words for it.
In the above list, two authors stubbornly refuse to let themselves fall into oblivion. Whatever I do, they always came back to my mind, one way or another. These authors are Arturo Perez-Reverte, whose Club Dumas I have read so many times I do not recall how many, and whose chronique in El Pais I religiously read every week, and Frank Herbert about whom I write this note.
Herbert started for me as a teenage obsession. While most of my classmates were making collection of glossy magazine photographs of popstars, my personal quest was with the collect of as many Frank Herbert’s books as possible. They were not an easy to access merchandise. For some time I could not find any. Then one day at browsing a ‘bandes dessinées’ bookshop, science fiction novel section I bumped into ChapterHouse Dune, which I devoured straight away, wondering what the heck was this development of Dune, without Dune any longer, without Fremen, and with a Leto II son of Paul who was called the Tyrant. The weirdest passage was the Garden closing with Marty and Daniel. Still Dune was still there, not in Sheena, but in Duncan, in Murbella, in this universe obsessed with the idea of spice and human perfection and politically controlled religion.
Still I ended up very puzzled by what Dune was according to Chapterhouse by contrast to Dune per se. Also there were many questions to be answered. What happened to Dune? Who was the Tyrant? What happened to my beloved Fremen, Paul, and Chani? To Spice? To the Imperium? In other words finding Chapterhouse led me into an even frenzier search for the other books I was missing.
Despite trying to get them in order, the next one I found was Children of Dune, same shop, Saturday afternoon shopping. Disappointed somewhat: I wanted Dune Messiah. Anyway I start reading. What do I find: Paul blinded by atomics, and gone to the desert, Alia ruling an Imperium of which political stability laid with a religion based on the Missionaria Protectiva, so well presented as completely made up in Dune, Paul’s children, Leto and Ghani, two abominations that did not seem to much to be abominations at all, just gifted children.
A suivre
[1] Quote from U. Eco, The Name of the Rose, in R. J. B. Bosworth, Explaining Auschwitz and Hiroshima, xii.
[2] Author of L'Ecrivain public, L'Enfant de sable, La Nuit sacrée, Les Yeux baissés,
Le premier amour est toujours le dernier.
[3] Author to The Name of the Rose and Foucault’s Pendulum
[4] For his Désert and Printemps et Autres Saisons
[5] For his Mort d’un Poète
[6] Because of his El Club Dumas, very especially, La Table de Flandes, El Maestro de Esgrima, La Piel del Tambor, La Carta Esferica, and La Reina del Sur. He also authors a weekly chronique in El Pais.
[7] The Perfume, by Patrick Suskind, pp.3-4. “In the period of which we speak, there reigned in the cities a stench barely conceivable to us modern men and women. The streets stank of manure, the courtyards of urine, the stairwells stank of moldering wood and rat droppings, the kitchens of spoiled cabbage and mutton fat; the unaired parlors stank o stale dust, the bedrooms of greasy sheet, damp featherbeds, and the pungently sweet aroma of chamber pots. The stench of sulphur rose from the chimneys, the stench of caustic lyes from the tanneries, and from the slaughterhouses came the stench of congealed blood. People stank of sweat and unwashed clothes; from their mouths came the stench of rotting teeth, from their bellies that of onions and from their bodies, if they were no longer very young, came the stench of rancid cheese and sour milk and tumorous disease. The rivers stank, the marketplaces stank, the churches stank, it stank beneath the bridges and in the palaces. The peasant stank as did the priest, the apprentice as did his master’s wife, the whole of the aristocracy stank, even the king himself stank, stank like a rank lion, and the queen like an old goat, summer and winter, for in the eighteenth century there was nothing to hinder bacteria busy at decomposition, and so there was no human activity, either constructive or destructive, no manifestation of germinating or decaying life that was not accompanied by stench.”
My favourite authors are Patrick Suskind, for his Perfume, James M. Barrie, for Peter Pan – I am an old child –, Tahar ben Jelloun,[2] Umberto Eco,[3] J.M.G. le Clézio – I have never known his full name, but does it matter?[4] – Michel del Castillo,[5] Arturo Perez-Reverte,[6] and Frank Herbert.
Reading these authors has accompanied my catching up of age throughout the years. Of course there has been plenty of other readings – there was a time for instance when I was devouring Agatha Christie. I have had also some temporary fancy for Dan Brown – who hasn’t? – etc, etc, etc, etc. Yet only* the above authors mean something special to me, sometimes maybe simply because I have read them at the so called ‘wrong age’, but who knows?
Among those I have read too early, from Tahar ben Jelloun I have learned of the importance of sensuality, if you want to understand your feelings. At reading Eco, I have fallen in love with libraries, bookshops, words and erudition for its own sake. With Le Clézio, I have learned of the need of change so as to live. From Michel del Castillo I have learned satirical humour, and that appearances are never, or very rarely only, direct references to reality. From Perez-Reverte, I have learned that the love of books is not equivalent to dislike for mankind, that, in fact, books are written as much for the sake of the art as for the sake of man, and that these two loves combined do not mean that you are a humanly worthless library rat, well on the condition that you respect those who are not as literate as you might be. From Herbert I have learned about politics, religion, technology and the nature of mankind.
As for Barrie, whom I have read at a too mature age, he has taught of the treasure of the innocence of childhood. As for Suskind, his introduction to The Perfume has taught me that even the worst of ugliness can be sublimed into timeless literary gems,[7] if one takes the time, and used the right words for it.
In the above list, two authors stubbornly refuse to let themselves fall into oblivion. Whatever I do, they always came back to my mind, one way or another. These authors are Arturo Perez-Reverte, whose Club Dumas I have read so many times I do not recall how many, and whose chronique in El Pais I religiously read every week, and Frank Herbert about whom I write this note.
Herbert started for me as a teenage obsession. While most of my classmates were making collection of glossy magazine photographs of popstars, my personal quest was with the collect of as many Frank Herbert’s books as possible. They were not an easy to access merchandise. For some time I could not find any. Then one day at browsing a ‘bandes dessinées’ bookshop, science fiction novel section I bumped into ChapterHouse Dune, which I devoured straight away, wondering what the heck was this development of Dune, without Dune any longer, without Fremen, and with a Leto II son of Paul who was called the Tyrant. The weirdest passage was the Garden closing with Marty and Daniel. Still Dune was still there, not in Sheena, but in Duncan, in Murbella, in this universe obsessed with the idea of spice and human perfection and politically controlled religion.
Still I ended up very puzzled by what Dune was according to Chapterhouse by contrast to Dune per se. Also there were many questions to be answered. What happened to Dune? Who was the Tyrant? What happened to my beloved Fremen, Paul, and Chani? To Spice? To the Imperium? In other words finding Chapterhouse led me into an even frenzier search for the other books I was missing.
Despite trying to get them in order, the next one I found was Children of Dune, same shop, Saturday afternoon shopping. Disappointed somewhat: I wanted Dune Messiah. Anyway I start reading. What do I find: Paul blinded by atomics, and gone to the desert, Alia ruling an Imperium of which political stability laid with a religion based on the Missionaria Protectiva, so well presented as completely made up in Dune, Paul’s children, Leto and Ghani, two abominations that did not seem to much to be abominations at all, just gifted children.
A suivre
[1] Quote from U. Eco, The Name of the Rose, in R. J. B. Bosworth, Explaining Auschwitz and Hiroshima, xii.
[2] Author of L'Ecrivain public, L'Enfant de sable, La Nuit sacrée, Les Yeux baissés,
Le premier amour est toujours le dernier.
[3] Author to The Name of the Rose and Foucault’s Pendulum
[4] For his Désert and Printemps et Autres Saisons
[5] For his Mort d’un Poète
[6] Because of his El Club Dumas, very especially, La Table de Flandes, El Maestro de Esgrima, La Piel del Tambor, La Carta Esferica, and La Reina del Sur. He also authors a weekly chronique in El Pais.
[7] The Perfume, by Patrick Suskind, pp.3-4. “In the period of which we speak, there reigned in the cities a stench barely conceivable to us modern men and women. The streets stank of manure, the courtyards of urine, the stairwells stank of moldering wood and rat droppings, the kitchens of spoiled cabbage and mutton fat; the unaired parlors stank o stale dust, the bedrooms of greasy sheet, damp featherbeds, and the pungently sweet aroma of chamber pots. The stench of sulphur rose from the chimneys, the stench of caustic lyes from the tanneries, and from the slaughterhouses came the stench of congealed blood. People stank of sweat and unwashed clothes; from their mouths came the stench of rotting teeth, from their bellies that of onions and from their bodies, if they were no longer very young, came the stench of rancid cheese and sour milk and tumorous disease. The rivers stank, the marketplaces stank, the churches stank, it stank beneath the bridges and in the palaces. The peasant stank as did the priest, the apprentice as did his master’s wife, the whole of the aristocracy stank, even the king himself stank, stank like a rank lion, and the queen like an old goat, summer and winter, for in the eighteenth century there was nothing to hinder bacteria busy at decomposition, and so there was no human activity, either constructive or destructive, no manifestation of germinating or decaying life that was not accompanied by stench.”
The Grey Ballad
Morning are grey.
Days are grey.
Nightfalls are grey.
Nights are colourless,
Trapped under the greyness of wet skies.
The sun is pale.
The moon is always overdressed,
In a grey uniform.
The air is heavy,
And the rain refuses to fall,
And the curtains better stay close
To stop grey to invade white walls.
Oh how I am all in the grey,
Everyday, every moment, everywhere.
Oh how I am all in the grey.
I am all in the grey because grey is the colour of the world here.
Rain drops are grey above my head,
For they are too small to be blue.
Rivers are grey,
Of the grey sky that falls upon them
Because the sands and rocks
They flow on are grey.
Even the ocean is grey,
But not a tempestuous grey,
A morn grey.
Walls are grey,
Even the most red-bricked of all
Trees are grey,
Because the grass is grey as well
And shines out its greyness
Didn’t you know that the world was grey?
Oh how I am all in the grey,
Everyday, every moment, everywhere.
Oh how I am all in the grey.
Blacks are grey.
Red is grey.
Purple is grey.
All colours are grey.
Green is the greyer of all.
For it is the sibling of grey.
Didn’t you know?
Oh how I am all in the grey
Everyday, every moment, everywhere
Oh how I am all in the grey
Clothes are grey.
Hats are grey,
Over grey hair,
Under grey umbrellas,
Topping grey coats,
Grey scarfs,
Grey pullovers,
And grey socks.
Didn’t you know people are grey too?
Oh how I am all in the grey,
Everyday, every moment, everywhere.
Oh how I am all in the grey.
I don’t like grey,
Except when it lightens up,
Torn out by sunset,
Burnt by some touches of purple and orange.
I don’t like grey,
Except in the eyes of this man whose glance one day penetrated my soul.
I like the colour of sand.
I like blue, purple, orange, browns, greens, deep reds.
I like the colour of light,
Even when it is dark,
Even when it is night.
I like the colour the naked moon,
To watch these scars we scratched it with
At too much glancing at it.
Oh how I long leaving the grey
And returning to the colours
Of these places where water is not.
Days are grey.
Nightfalls are grey.
Nights are colourless,
Trapped under the greyness of wet skies.
The sun is pale.
The moon is always overdressed,
In a grey uniform.
The air is heavy,
And the rain refuses to fall,
And the curtains better stay close
To stop grey to invade white walls.
Oh how I am all in the grey,
Everyday, every moment, everywhere.
Oh how I am all in the grey.
I am all in the grey because grey is the colour of the world here.
Rain drops are grey above my head,
For they are too small to be blue.
Rivers are grey,
Of the grey sky that falls upon them
Because the sands and rocks
They flow on are grey.
Even the ocean is grey,
But not a tempestuous grey,
A morn grey.
Walls are grey,
Even the most red-bricked of all
Trees are grey,
Because the grass is grey as well
And shines out its greyness
Didn’t you know that the world was grey?
Oh how I am all in the grey,
Everyday, every moment, everywhere.
Oh how I am all in the grey.
Blacks are grey.
Red is grey.
Purple is grey.
All colours are grey.
Green is the greyer of all.
For it is the sibling of grey.
Didn’t you know?
Oh how I am all in the grey
Everyday, every moment, everywhere
Oh how I am all in the grey
Clothes are grey.
Hats are grey,
Over grey hair,
Under grey umbrellas,
Topping grey coats,
Grey scarfs,
Grey pullovers,
And grey socks.
Didn’t you know people are grey too?
Oh how I am all in the grey,
Everyday, every moment, everywhere.
Oh how I am all in the grey.
I don’t like grey,
Except when it lightens up,
Torn out by sunset,
Burnt by some touches of purple and orange.
I don’t like grey,
Except in the eyes of this man whose glance one day penetrated my soul.
I like the colour of sand.
I like blue, purple, orange, browns, greens, deep reds.
I like the colour of light,
Even when it is dark,
Even when it is night.
I like the colour the naked moon,
To watch these scars we scratched it with
At too much glancing at it.
Oh how I long leaving the grey
And returning to the colours
Of these places where water is not.
Premier Jour avec un Blog
Hello les gens
Apres bien des deliberations, avec moi-meme, je viens de me decider a creer mon Blog, aller savoir pourquoi mais cela me parait une bonne idee en ce jour ensoleille dans le nord-ouest britannique.
Ceci ne sera pas un Blog serieux, mais plutot une plate-forme qui me servira a ecouler mes humeurs, bonnes ou mauvaises, joyeuses ou tristes, et les consequences litteraires variees qui en decoulent - eh oui ceci est un acte tres 'selfish' comme on dit ici en Angleterre. A faire tellement de petites notes dans plein de petits carnets, il me vient que, peut-etre, au vu que je suis trop paresseuse que pour me tenter comme ecrivain (ou bien serait-ce ma tete qui est 'fucked up' par parler deux langues a la fois), me creer mon petit coin a moi sur le net ou je rassemblerais les divagations ecrites creees par mes moments de colere, joie, tristesse etc est la meilleure facon de ranger mes textes. Allez savoir si j'ai tort ou raison. Je vous donne mes textes.
Irene
Apres bien des deliberations, avec moi-meme, je viens de me decider a creer mon Blog, aller savoir pourquoi mais cela me parait une bonne idee en ce jour ensoleille dans le nord-ouest britannique.
Ceci ne sera pas un Blog serieux, mais plutot une plate-forme qui me servira a ecouler mes humeurs, bonnes ou mauvaises, joyeuses ou tristes, et les consequences litteraires variees qui en decoulent - eh oui ceci est un acte tres 'selfish' comme on dit ici en Angleterre. A faire tellement de petites notes dans plein de petits carnets, il me vient que, peut-etre, au vu que je suis trop paresseuse que pour me tenter comme ecrivain (ou bien serait-ce ma tete qui est 'fucked up' par parler deux langues a la fois), me creer mon petit coin a moi sur le net ou je rassemblerais les divagations ecrites creees par mes moments de colere, joie, tristesse etc est la meilleure facon de ranger mes textes. Allez savoir si j'ai tort ou raison. Je vous donne mes textes.
Irene
A Propos de Cadiz
Me acuerdo de otro sitio
Donde el sol se queda luciendo
Y la vida ruidosa
Llenando mis orejas de paz tranquila
Asi estaba ayer
Y estara manana
Me acuerdo de mercadicitos
Llenando mis ojos
De colores ajenas
Y de olores cambiantes
Asi estaba ayer
Y estara manana
Me acuerdo de paseos
Por el lado del mar
Por baluartes y alamedas
Bajo las sombras de los ficus
Asi estaba ayer
Y estara manana
Me acuerdo sentirme
Leyendo sentanda sobre
Sillones demasiado calientes
Que me tranquilizaron
Asi estaba ayer
Y estara manana
Me acuerdo de dias de lluvia
Y de paraguas
Y de cafes tranquilos
Tomados con amigos del momento
Asi estaba ayer
Y estara manana
Tranquilizate, mujer,
Tu corazon no se acabara
De recordarse
De estos otros momentos mas apasionados
Donde el sol se queda luciendo
Y la vida ruidosa
Llenando mis orejas de paz tranquila
Asi estaba ayer
Y estara manana
Me acuerdo de mercadicitos
Llenando mis ojos
De colores ajenas
Y de olores cambiantes
Asi estaba ayer
Y estara manana
Me acuerdo de paseos
Por el lado del mar
Por baluartes y alamedas
Bajo las sombras de los ficus
Asi estaba ayer
Y estara manana
Me acuerdo sentirme
Leyendo sentanda sobre
Sillones demasiado calientes
Que me tranquilizaron
Asi estaba ayer
Y estara manana
Me acuerdo de dias de lluvia
Y de paraguas
Y de cafes tranquilos
Tomados con amigos del momento
Asi estaba ayer
Y estara manana
Tranquilizate, mujer,
Tu corazon no se acabara
De recordarse
De estos otros momentos mas apasionados
Mauvaises Humeurs du Matin
Ce matin, je me me suis levée, étrangement en paix. Comme si toutes mes angoisses du jour d’avant s’étaient effilochées avec les dernières brumes de noirceur de la nuit. Bien sûr, elles ne s’en étaient pas allées, mais plutôt couchées profondément a l’intérieur de mon corps, afin de me donner un peu de ce repos que jamais je n’atteins ici. Mon mal de tete d’hier soir reprend bien vite. Ma tête fait mal ces jours, à me dire qu’il est normal que je comprenne cette langue étrangère dans laquelle je me réveille tous les matins. Mon corps refuse cette normalité. Il hurle à pas doux que je suis en exil, loin de mon pays, si il est que j’en aurais un, et ma tête résonne de mots étrangers poétiques dormants. Tentant de chasser ces mauvais reves, je prépare un café, instantané – le bon cafe coute cher, trop cher, et puis on ne vend pas de percolateur ici, ni meme de filtres d’ailleurs. L’odeur chimique s’installe dans mon nez, et j’exhale involontairement ce commentaire : « There are many things you do not get used to, pas vrai ? ». L’odeur du café, la taille trop grande la tasse – ce n’est pas une tasse, mais une « mug » –, les barbouillements sonores de la radio, le fait que la boulagerie d’en-bas n’ouvre pas le dimanche la porte à des croissants frais, me font mal. Le monde entier me fait mal. Les voitures torturent ma droiture de mains. Pourquoi persistent-elles à rouler à gauche ? Et puis les gens de meme. Pourquoi prendre les escaliers par la gauche ? Quelle est donc cette maladie de gaucherie qui entame ce lieu ? La radio est morne, pleine de silences et de politesse incongrue a cette heure du matin ou les bruits de la vie devraient reprendre leurs droits. Pour ce qui est des postes de musiques, ils font du bruit plus qu’autre chose, du bruit electronique, issu de voix electronises et inarticulees de chanteurs qui n’ont pas de vocabulaire. J’ai envie d’aller au café du coin, mais ne bouge pas..... Pourquoi me confronter a la morne face d’un serveur cache derriere son bar par peur de me toucher, ou meme d’ouir mon desir d’un cafe. Il me faudrait aller au bar et regarder cette machine bruyante ou du cafe insipide est dilué de trop dans des tasses trop grandes, et servi avec ce visage hypocrite de l’employe de service de derriere le bar qui se demande pourquoi au nom de Dieu je n’ai pas demande un the a la place. Aussi, pourquoi au nom de Dieu ne porte-je pas de vetements roses hideusement inassortis a des cheveux blonds artificiels comme toutes les filles qui babillent autour de moi ? Non, je me sentirais hors lieu, au mauvais endroit, pire qu’avec la radio qui pepille ses betises a mes oreilles.
Temps de m’habiller, je suppose. Est-ce moi ou ce monde qui m’entoure qui parle la ? Je ne suis pas sure. Apres tout, il est dix heures, dimanche matin. Le dimanche est le jour du Seigneur, le jour du repos, me dit-on ? Bon, OK, mais pas ici. Ici il n’y a pas de seigneur, pas de religion, a part peut-etre la religion de la bienseance, du confort et de la commodite. Dieu que je peux en avoir marre de l'Angleterre parfois.
Temps de m’habiller, je suppose. Est-ce moi ou ce monde qui m’entoure qui parle la ? Je ne suis pas sure. Apres tout, il est dix heures, dimanche matin. Le dimanche est le jour du Seigneur, le jour du repos, me dit-on ? Bon, OK, mais pas ici. Ici il n’y a pas de seigneur, pas de religion, a part peut-etre la religion de la bienseance, du confort et de la commodite. Dieu que je peux en avoir marre de l'Angleterre parfois.
Haikus
La Pyramide du Louvre
S’engonce
Dans sa robe de gala
Stockport, 18-2-2007
Les toits creneles
Dans le matin fatigue
Me rappellent l’hopital
Sinistre de Soljenitsyn
Manchester, 20-2-2007
S’engonce
Dans sa robe de gala
Stockport, 18-2-2007
Les toits creneles
Dans le matin fatigue
Me rappellent l’hopital
Sinistre de Soljenitsyn
Manchester, 20-2-2007
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