open.
Yes there is: death. Talk about a surprise!
It’s the first day of the autumn term. I’m leaving. People in the street are rushing about, thinking about the new (academic/office) year. Their arms are full of new things and their heads are buzzing. A new timetable, a squared A4 notebook. Same old shit.
They look happy to be resuming the course of their lives. I’m leaving, and you won’t be seeing me again.
I only despise them insofar as I’m like them.
They come from Bon Marché, carrying big orange handbags and wearing really expensive perfume. Rive gauche. That isn’t mine. No, it’s not my element. I may like it nonetheless, the women are prettier there.
Does Berlin have a Left Bank?
So many lives I will not touch, that I’ll never understand. We want to write about men.
As if it were a matter of experiencing something, we leave, tail first.
When Armand arrived in Berlin, it was raining. The grey dome over the city was spitting out its regularly spaced phlegm. It was almost possible to believe that you could avoid the raindrops by darting between them. The sky is mocking you, that’s an omen. Armand’s sky was rainy but intangible, the sort of rain that doesn’t soak your head. But at some point a fat drop forms and hits the tip of your cigarette with its full weight. Sometimes, with a bit of luck, you just end up smoking something slightly damp, but other times, fate strikes so hard and so accurately that the cigarette has had it. You take a drag, and all you get is a sappy taste through the filter. You light up another and life goes on. Nothing has changed; but it’s there,the little taste of artificial sap tickling your throat. At least there is that nice sound, the psst of water on the tip, like when you toss a butt in a plastic cup at a student party. It’s one blini among many, a toast to be savoured.
Armand was walking through the raindrops, a new cigarette between his lips. He’d got off the plane and collected his bag. That weighed him down a bit but not too much; it was very flimsy material from which to construct a new life: some books, a computer, trousers and a pair of shoes.
He thought about taking a taxi. But what address would he have given? He’d take the underground. At least you could trust it; there were maps, a vague idea of the city – the names of stations. Some inspire trust and others don’t. Armand’s drift through Berlin would be psycho-geographical. He wanted to lug his bag where his spirit led him, follow streets that would inspire him, avoid others, no regrets, and never go back.
He took the S-Bahn, watched the passengers, counted stations. He’d get off at Mehringdamm; he’d been told that Kreuzberg was a nice area.
When he came out of the U-Bahn, it was still raining, still morning. Armand was hungry. He took shelter under the frontage of a fast food joint. Enthusiastically, he ate a hamburger alone, rightup at the restaurant window, watching the rain. The scene should have been desperately sad, but Armand liked it; he was free, no one watching him, in a new city.
The rain was easing off nicely. Armand put down his tray on one of the trolleys that a cleaner would have to move later. He left the burger joint.
He walked for a bit. Then, as it was still raining, he found a café. He ordered an espresso and a croissant. The barman realised he was French.
Armand went to the room upstairs, where you could smoke.
Arrived in Berlin today. It’s raining. Finally found a café where you can smoke. It’s not unpleasant. Four blondes bedside me. I should describe it better, but what’s the point since this notebook is only for me?
Just because, for form’s sake; a purely personal aesthetic; a way of imagining one’s existence; nothing more. Yes, it may be as simple as that, imagining the aesthetic direction of my own life.
This place is quite nice (the upstairs room, I mean). Smoking, drinking coffee among German girls.
Sense that all my habits
Yes there is: death. Talk about a surprise!
It’s the first day of the autumn term. I’m leaving. People in the street are rushing about, thinking about the new (academic/office) year. Their arms are full of new things and their heads are buzzing. A new timetable, a squared A4 notebook. Same old shit.
They look happy to be resuming the course of their lives. I’m leaving, and you won’t be seeing me again.
I only despise them insofar as I’m like them.
They come from Bon Marché, carrying big orange handbags and wearing really expensive perfume. Rive gauche. That isn’t mine. No, it’s not my element. I may like it nonetheless, the women are prettier there.
Does Berlin have a Left Bank?
So many lives I will not touch, that I’ll never understand. We want to write about men.
As if it were a matter of experiencing something, we leave, tail first.
When Armand arrived in Berlin, it was raining. The grey dome over the city was spitting out its regularly spaced phlegm. It was almost possible to believe that you could avoid the raindrops by darting between them. The sky is mocking you, that’s an omen. Armand’s sky was rainy but intangible, the sort of rain that doesn’t soak your head. But at some point a fat drop forms and hits the tip of your cigarette with its full weight. Sometimes, with a bit of luck, you just end up smoking something slightly damp, but other times, fate strikes so hard and so accurately that the cigarette has had it. You take a drag, and all you get is a sappy taste through the filter. You light up another and life goes on. Nothing has changed; but it’s there,the little taste of artificial sap tickling your throat. At least there is that nice sound, the psst of water on the tip, like when you toss a butt in a plastic cup at a student party. It’s one blini among many, a toast to be savoured.
Armand was walking through the raindrops, a new cigarette between his lips. He’d got off the plane and collected his bag. That weighed him down a bit but not too much; it was very flimsy material from which to construct a new life: some books, a computer, trousers and a pair of shoes.
He thought about taking a taxi. But what address would he have given? He’d take the underground. At least you could trust it; there were maps, a vague idea of the city – the names of stations. Some inspire trust and others don’t. Armand’s drift through Berlin would be psycho-geographical. He wanted to lug his bag where his spirit led him, follow streets that would inspire him, avoid others, no regrets, and never go back.
He took the S-Bahn, watched the passengers, counted stations. He’d get off at Mehringdamm; he’d been told that Kreuzberg was a nice area.
When he came out of the U-Bahn, it was still raining, still morning. Armand was hungry. He took shelter under the frontage of a fast food joint. Enthusiastically, he ate a hamburger alone, rightup at the restaurant window, watching the rain. The scene should have been desperately sad, but Armand liked it; he was free, no one watching him, in a new city.
The rain was easing off nicely. Armand put down his tray on one of the trolleys that a cleaner would have to move later. He left the burger joint.
He walked for a bit. Then, as it was still raining, he found a café. He ordered an espresso and a croissant. The barman realised he was French.
Armand went to the room upstairs, where you could smoke.
Arrived in Berlin today. It’s raining. Finally found a café where you can smoke. It’s not unpleasant. Four blondes bedside me. I should describe it better, but what’s the point since this notebook is only for me?
Just because, for form’s sake; a purely personal aesthetic; a way of imagining one’s existence; nothing more. Yes, it may be as simple as that, imagining the aesthetic direction of my own life.
This place is quite nice (the upstairs room, I mean). Smoking, drinking coffee among German girls.
Sense that all my habits
Similar Books
