no longer a man but a parcel, heavy and inert, and arrangements were being made for its transport.
All in a day's work. It was six-twenty.
3
The Old Marketplace Game
I know it's crazy but I've decided to stay in Rouen this weekend. Tisserand was astonished to hear it; I explained to him I wanted to see the town and that I had nothing better to do in Paris. I don't really want to see the town.
And yet there are very fine medieval remains, some ancient houses of great charm. Five or six centuries ago Rouen must have been one of the most beautiful towns in France; but now it's ruined. Everything is dirty, grimy, run down, spoiled by the abiding presence of cars, noise, pollution. I don't know who the mayor is, but it only takes ten minutes of walking the streets of the old town to realize that he is totally incompetent, or corrupt.
To make matters worse there are dozens of yobs who roar down the streets on their motorbikes or scooters, and without silencers. They come in from the Rouen suburbs, which are nearing total industrial collapse. Their objective is to make a deafening racket, as disagreeable as possible, a racket which should be unbearable for the local residents. They are completely successful.
I leave my hotel around two. Without thinking, I go in the direction of the Place du Vieux Marché. It is a truly vast square, bordered entirely by cafés, restaurants and luxury shops. It's here that Joan of Arc was burnt more than five hundred years ago. To commemorate the event they've piled up a load of weirdly curved concrete slabs, half stuck in the ground, which turn out on closer inspection to be a church. There are also embryonic lawns, flowerbeds, and some ramps which seem destined for lovers of skateboarding - unless it be for the cars of the disabled, it's hard to tell. But the complexity of the place doesn't end here: there are also shops in the middle of the square, under a sort of concrete rotunda, as well as an edifice which looks like a bus station.
I settle myself on one of the concrete slabs, determined to get to the bottom of things. It seems highly likely that this square is the heart, the central nucleus of the town. Just what game is being played here exactly?
I observe right away that people generally go around in bands, or in little groups of between two and six individuals. No one group is exactly the same as another, it appears to me. Obviously they resemble each other, they resemble each other enormously, but this resemblance could not be called being the same. It's as if they'd elected to embody the antagonism which necessarily goes with any kind of individuation by adopting slightly different behaviour patterns, ways of moving around, formulas for regrouping.
Next I notice that all these people seem satisfied with themselves and the world; it's astonishing, even a little frightening. They quietly saunter around, this one displaying a quizzical smile, that one a moronic look. Some of the youngsters are dressed in leather jackets with slogans borrowed from the more primitive kind of hard rock; you can read phrases on their backs like Kill them all! or Fuck and destroy! ; but all commune in the certainty of passing an agreeable afternoon devoted primarily to consumerism, and thus to contributing to the consolidation of their being.
I observe, lastly, that I feel different from them, without however being able to define the nature of this difference.
I end up tiring of all this pointless people-watching and take refuge in a café. Another mistake. Between the tables there circulates an enormous Alsatian, even more monstrous than most of its race. It stops in front of each customer, as if making up its mind if it should or shouldn't permit itself to bite him.
Six feet away a young girl is seated before a big cup of frothy chocolate. The animal stops for a while in front of her, it sniffs the cup with its snout as if it were going to suddenly lap up the contents with one lick of
All in a day's work. It was six-twenty.
3
The Old Marketplace Game
I know it's crazy but I've decided to stay in Rouen this weekend. Tisserand was astonished to hear it; I explained to him I wanted to see the town and that I had nothing better to do in Paris. I don't really want to see the town.
And yet there are very fine medieval remains, some ancient houses of great charm. Five or six centuries ago Rouen must have been one of the most beautiful towns in France; but now it's ruined. Everything is dirty, grimy, run down, spoiled by the abiding presence of cars, noise, pollution. I don't know who the mayor is, but it only takes ten minutes of walking the streets of the old town to realize that he is totally incompetent, or corrupt.
To make matters worse there are dozens of yobs who roar down the streets on their motorbikes or scooters, and without silencers. They come in from the Rouen suburbs, which are nearing total industrial collapse. Their objective is to make a deafening racket, as disagreeable as possible, a racket which should be unbearable for the local residents. They are completely successful.
I leave my hotel around two. Without thinking, I go in the direction of the Place du Vieux Marché. It is a truly vast square, bordered entirely by cafés, restaurants and luxury shops. It's here that Joan of Arc was burnt more than five hundred years ago. To commemorate the event they've piled up a load of weirdly curved concrete slabs, half stuck in the ground, which turn out on closer inspection to be a church. There are also embryonic lawns, flowerbeds, and some ramps which seem destined for lovers of skateboarding - unless it be for the cars of the disabled, it's hard to tell. But the complexity of the place doesn't end here: there are also shops in the middle of the square, under a sort of concrete rotunda, as well as an edifice which looks like a bus station.
I settle myself on one of the concrete slabs, determined to get to the bottom of things. It seems highly likely that this square is the heart, the central nucleus of the town. Just what game is being played here exactly?
I observe right away that people generally go around in bands, or in little groups of between two and six individuals. No one group is exactly the same as another, it appears to me. Obviously they resemble each other, they resemble each other enormously, but this resemblance could not be called being the same. It's as if they'd elected to embody the antagonism which necessarily goes with any kind of individuation by adopting slightly different behaviour patterns, ways of moving around, formulas for regrouping.
Next I notice that all these people seem satisfied with themselves and the world; it's astonishing, even a little frightening. They quietly saunter around, this one displaying a quizzical smile, that one a moronic look. Some of the youngsters are dressed in leather jackets with slogans borrowed from the more primitive kind of hard rock; you can read phrases on their backs like Kill them all! or Fuck and destroy! ; but all commune in the certainty of passing an agreeable afternoon devoted primarily to consumerism, and thus to contributing to the consolidation of their being.
I observe, lastly, that I feel different from them, without however being able to define the nature of this difference.
I end up tiring of all this pointless people-watching and take refuge in a café. Another mistake. Between the tables there circulates an enormous Alsatian, even more monstrous than most of its race. It stops in front of each customer, as if making up its mind if it should or shouldn't permit itself to bite him.
Six feet away a young girl is seated before a big cup of frothy chocolate. The animal stops for a while in front of her, it sniffs the cup with its snout as if it were going to suddenly lap up the contents with one lick of
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