Marie Borel, p.1


for you to whom to be is
not a question and not to be
no answer

No advantage in uncovering what’s in whoever’s head. Any imbecile can stick his head in the sand, but nobody knows what the ostrich sees. I looked for something I had lost. Indeed I spend much of my time looking. Things don’t always turn out what they are, I don’t know why. A young woman passing by asks me the time. Already? she says, shocked and a little offended, as if the fact that it’s eight o’clock were my fault.

I’ve no evidence for claiming this is a beach in the South but I know it is. Under the big linden in the front yard a couple of little old men, happy and hard of hearing, were rocking. The tree their too close connection—dead, all their loves. What better escape from boredom than traveling? It was early in June. The morning threatened to wind up before it began. The old men had no idea. Even the taxi drivers felt guilty. Courtiers made clever remarks. Authentic alphabetical melodrama: I was slogging through a bog of indexes.

“Want another coffee?”