me, Amos Oz has a good place on the lists, she thinks she can lure me with secular-progressive Jewish literature; two pages and I was sound asleep). The title of the article: ‘The Battle for Tolerance.’ Tagline: the sentence from the Japanese guy,
I hear the note of hope that echoes in your words.
Hope of what, Genevieve? What is it these people hope? The great minds of the century. So absolutely convinced they’re on the road to somewhere. So thrilled, poor guys, to be predicting some ultimate achievement (the very idea is grotesque). What is it they hope? What sort of progress? Peace? A horizon with no hidden chasms, no contradictions. No people.
The peace of dead souls. Every day the world shrivels me. A world of word-twisters. Of optimists done up in tutus. Genevieve, I’m crazy about your laugh. Genevieve, what could we scheme up tonight, the two of us? I’m going to order another bottle. Let’s drink. Time marches on, nothing is real except this moment. Let’s drink and let’s laugh. And scheme up some piece of madness. I’m your man tonight.”
“Yes,” she says sadly, “nothing is real except this moment. Why do the people we love not understand this? I remember there was this song by Léo Ferré,
the
beautiful years race by, use them my poor love. . . .
It’s impossible to put words to your feelings because every phrase already belongs to another time and everything you find to say is empty and out of date and a lie. My friend, I’ll be glad to drink with you this evening as much as you want, but since you love my laugh, look at this for a catastrophe, my eyes are full of tears.”
I long to stand up, take her in my arms and kiss her eyelids. I don’t, inhibited by some petty sense of shame.
Then, my dear, I set out to help her regain her good humor. To get us out of our gloom, I deploy all my gifts as a clown. Naturally you are summoned up as part of this festival, along with your sister and her pharmacist, but I keep you in reserve for the finale.
I begin with Monsieur Tambourini. Tambourini is Lionel’s manager. I tell Genevieve about the catastrophe of the curtains, which she grasps immediately, wonderful woman, and segue into the drama of the shutters, which you don’t know about. I told you about the catastrophe of the curtains. In addition to the catastrophe of the curtains or I should say as companion piece to the catastrophe of the curtains, Lionel went through the drama of the shutters, refusing categorically that they be taken down to be repainted. To know the importance of
the window
in Lionel’s life is to measure just how testing any instability in the life of objects can be to him. Lionel refuses to have his shutters taken down and sends for Tambourini. He immediately starts yelling, Monsieur TAMBOURINI, Monsieur TAMBOURINI, you want me to die! The literary critic in him rejects the violence of this introduction, You’ve killed my crescendo, he says to himself, but so what and he keeps going at the same pitch, you want to rob me of my shutters for a fortnight, my wife has just robbed me of my curtains to put up others which aren’t yet lined which means they’re not even there yet, which means that between you and my wife, Monsieur Tambourini, I have been reduced to a state in which I can no longer create in my own home the consolations of darkness, the CONSOLATIONS OF DARKNESS! Monsieur Tambourini, Monsieur Tambourini, I handed him his Tambourini, said Lionel, as I tell Genevieve to make her laugh, you understand a name like that, you can’t make it up, Monsieur Tambourini, it’s out of the question and stop trying to gargle with that expression Co-op Board, a Co-op Board is a collection of assholes and I don’t belong to it and if they’re assholes enough to pay 4,900 francs per window for a lick of white paint I’m glad for you all but don’t count on me, Monsieur Tambourini, don’t count on me to goosestep through the building! I’m yelling in the restaurant and
I hear the note of hope that echoes in your words.
Hope of what, Genevieve? What is it these people hope? The great minds of the century. So absolutely convinced they’re on the road to somewhere. So thrilled, poor guys, to be predicting some ultimate achievement (the very idea is grotesque). What is it they hope? What sort of progress? Peace? A horizon with no hidden chasms, no contradictions. No people.
The peace of dead souls. Every day the world shrivels me. A world of word-twisters. Of optimists done up in tutus. Genevieve, I’m crazy about your laugh. Genevieve, what could we scheme up tonight, the two of us? I’m going to order another bottle. Let’s drink. Time marches on, nothing is real except this moment. Let’s drink and let’s laugh. And scheme up some piece of madness. I’m your man tonight.”
“Yes,” she says sadly, “nothing is real except this moment. Why do the people we love not understand this? I remember there was this song by Léo Ferré,
the
beautiful years race by, use them my poor love. . . .
It’s impossible to put words to your feelings because every phrase already belongs to another time and everything you find to say is empty and out of date and a lie. My friend, I’ll be glad to drink with you this evening as much as you want, but since you love my laugh, look at this for a catastrophe, my eyes are full of tears.”
I long to stand up, take her in my arms and kiss her eyelids. I don’t, inhibited by some petty sense of shame.
Then, my dear, I set out to help her regain her good humor. To get us out of our gloom, I deploy all my gifts as a clown. Naturally you are summoned up as part of this festival, along with your sister and her pharmacist, but I keep you in reserve for the finale.
I begin with Monsieur Tambourini. Tambourini is Lionel’s manager. I tell Genevieve about the catastrophe of the curtains, which she grasps immediately, wonderful woman, and segue into the drama of the shutters, which you don’t know about. I told you about the catastrophe of the curtains. In addition to the catastrophe of the curtains or I should say as companion piece to the catastrophe of the curtains, Lionel went through the drama of the shutters, refusing categorically that they be taken down to be repainted. To know the importance of
the window
in Lionel’s life is to measure just how testing any instability in the life of objects can be to him. Lionel refuses to have his shutters taken down and sends for Tambourini. He immediately starts yelling, Monsieur TAMBOURINI, Monsieur TAMBOURINI, you want me to die! The literary critic in him rejects the violence of this introduction, You’ve killed my crescendo, he says to himself, but so what and he keeps going at the same pitch, you want to rob me of my shutters for a fortnight, my wife has just robbed me of my curtains to put up others which aren’t yet lined which means they’re not even there yet, which means that between you and my wife, Monsieur Tambourini, I have been reduced to a state in which I can no longer create in my own home the consolations of darkness, the CONSOLATIONS OF DARKNESS! Monsieur Tambourini, Monsieur Tambourini, I handed him his Tambourini, said Lionel, as I tell Genevieve to make her laugh, you understand a name like that, you can’t make it up, Monsieur Tambourini, it’s out of the question and stop trying to gargle with that expression Co-op Board, a Co-op Board is a collection of assholes and I don’t belong to it and if they’re assholes enough to pay 4,900 francs per window for a lick of white paint I’m glad for you all but don’t count on me, Monsieur Tambourini, don’t count on me to goosestep through the building! I’m yelling in the restaurant and
Similar Books
