Marie Borel, p.2

Almost noon. Things that don’t happen, that we don’t realize should have happened—we’re not aware they haven’t happened. In such a promising beginning, the sensation of time plays its part, ambiguously.

He had cast a glance three weeks down the road, with as much impatience as his personality allowed. He had settled down easily, over the rubble of his childhood, into an intercourse tiresome and loveless. He was a pervert with a yen for botany, watermelon ravisher by profession, regular employee of the Hamburg-Haïfa Line. She claims he was quite virile. As if that weren’t enough, she adds that he was sincere. Who’s able to decipher the thoughts that link two separate creatures? Our dialogue you would find amusing: I mumble and she is stone deaf.