Cahier d’un retour à un pays non natal
une ville est faite pour aller dans une autre (ville)
au bout du petit matin, cette ville plate————–étalée………….
Non è certo attendendo nella piazza deserta
che s’incontra qualcuno, ma chi gira le strade
si sofferma ogni tanto. Cesare Pavese, Lavorare stanca
One passes imperceptibly from one scene, one age, one life, to another. Suddenly, walking down a street, be it real or be it a dream, one realizes for the rst time that the years have own, that all this has passed for ever and will live on only in memory, and then the memory turns inwards with a strange, clutching brilliance and one goes over these scenes and incidents perpetually, in dream and reverie, while walking a street, while lying with a woman, while reading a book, while talking to a stranger… Suddenly, but always with terri c insistence and always with terri c accuracy, these memories intrude, rise up like ghosts and permeate every bre of one’s being. Henceforward everything moves on shifting levels – our thoughts, our dreams, our actions, our whole life. A parallelogram in which we drop from one platform of our scaffold to another. Henceforward we walk split into myriad fragments, like an insect with a hundred feet, a centipede with soft-stirring feet that drinks in the atmosphere; we walk with sensitive laments that drink avidly of past and future, and all things melt into music and sorrow; we walk against a united world, asserting our dividedness. Henry Miller