Paris Without End, the Novel
Some call this shadow I’m Brailing walls in Paris down rue Jacob night, having
satisfied both cultural & sexual curiosity, within visual pulse of the neon deus ex
machinas, reptilian instincts keen to the jazz dizzying dervishing whirlwind Id.
Again, limestone weight of Time coupled with glass desublimation of the city’s
combinatory early & late architectures, I should have died there in that shadow.
That night. But simply changed life forever. Lucky breaks a writer gets to cover
up, fashion in a different context, flesh long since having a true voice of its own.
There it is. Remember the pink Epernay sign along the alleyway way over on the
right bank where Madame was frank, & to the point, “This one, & Champagne?”
I took both. Always take both. Early repressions demand a return of taking
everything offered, & then a bit more, paying in due course. She was a beauty
from Martinique, solid as a brown wood carving by Gauguin, & just as supple in
lines: physical, aesthetic, psychic, linguistic, masochistic, painful to watch &
touch at the same Time. When I told M. Duras about her at the jazz club on
rue Saint-Benoît she was intrigued, wanting to know more with each drink, so I
embellished, for her sake. Oh, it was rough & tumble, subtle & crass, crevasses
opened & bled. For her sake, I said. When they picked me up, when they arrested
me, I didn’t protest, got what I deserved. Served my Time. Every trip to the city
only served to amass experience for the novel, which I call Paris Without End.
Named after a drawing at the Pompidou, a saga, an epic, the list of characters has
grown to hundreds; connections & disconnections multiply on every page. No
one dies. It’s not that kind of thing with plots built up for the benefit of the
reader. It’s almost a true story, almost Pagan with the pseudonymic author not
believing in Death.
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