principalmente
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7.3.06
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I am at home, listening to Van Morrison singing When the leaves come falling down and I think I hear him say that life is a street in Paris soaked by the rain. I'm in my house in Barcelona. I like Paris and this book that will accompany me throughout my life. I will never loose it and it will never belong to anyone else, I'd prefer to destroy it than to leave it to someone. I listen to Van Morrison and I remember a friend whose ideal in life was to be in a bar at night, see the banana leaves sway, feel the wind and watch the lights of the trains disappear into the distance. My ideal would be like my friend's, except that the bar would be in a Paris street soaked by the rain and would be listening to Van Morrison singing those songs, which, as Handke says, contain the song of an old lady, a woman, a child and a man: the voice of a man.
Sometimes my sense of irony reaches Paris itself and then I find myself liking New York, I think of Duchamp. I think that my life has always been a mistake and that instead of living in Barcelona and being in love with Paris, I should always have lived in New York, in Duchamp's apartment, for example. With the company of this book, of course, which will always be mine. And there I should have listened to Van Morrison singing to a street in Paris soaked by the rain and seen the world move, felt the wind and seen the lights of the trains moving to eternity, day after day. I like eternity. And I like this book, which will always be mine.
Sometimes my sense of irony reaches Paris itself and then I find myself liking New York, I think of Duchamp. I think that my life has always been a mistake and that instead of living in Barcelona and being in love with Paris, I should always have lived in New York, in Duchamp's apartment, for example. With the company of this book, of course, which will always be mine. And there I should have listened to Van Morrison singing to a street in Paris soaked by the rain and seen the world move, felt the wind and seen the lights of the trains moving to eternity, day after day. I like eternity. And I like this book, which will always be mine.
anónimo, tinta sobre papel
Posted by carolina | 8:30 PM | E-mail this post 