Aerea in the Forests of Manhattan
Emmanuel Hocquard
Language: English
Pages: 119
ISBN: 0910395896
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
L'Homme qui rit de Victor Hugo (Les Fiches de lecture d'Universalis)
The Misanthrope, Tartuffe, and Other Plays (Oxford World's Classics)
separately, refused to come and animate the statue, pointing out that that perishable mass was not worthy of it. The bus moves alongside the river. The bus is full of reflections and flowers. God then sent his vizier Gabriel to play a tune on a flute near Adam's body. The bus is full of flowers; my glass is full of bourbon. At the sound of the archangel's instrument, the soul forgot its fears. It was touched and began dancing around the statue. In a drunken gesture, it entered Adam's body through
my feet in the chaos of dead leaves. Empty recollection; which can't be tied to anything. Afterwards, there was the squirrel. Afterwards, there was once again the expanse of dead leaves on the ground, the lapping of the water, the fast-moving clouds above the Hudson, the wind. There was once again the blue sky and the noon light reflected back by the heavilyomamented facades of the buildings that lined the river. 76 HALOES AND GLORIES A few feet away from me under a tree, a motionless
don't go to sleep there in the sun: an unforeseeable surge could well carry you off, too. Although the clock in the cafe never showed the exact hour-because the face no longer had its glass, the con107 AEREA IN THE FORESTS OF MANHATTAN tinuous stirring of the air by the vanes of the fan opposite it had to be slowing down the motion of the hands-it was after eleven in the evening when a clamor arose from the direction of the sea. The clouds that had gathered over the Rio were darkening the
on the terrace of the open-air cafe, face to face at a table under the spring leaves. We were alone at that hour, still morning, occupied by our daily match under the trees with their newly limed trunks, away from the bursts of voices from the streets and the din of the cars. "I've noticed that you don't change, Adam. You remain a prisoner of your images. Nothing distracts you from the incessant coming and going that tosses you back and forth among them." Below our cafe under the trees, on the
David, who rents out his services as chauffeur to pay for his ornithology studies, always even-tempered, even last night coming back from an outing on the Mississippi, smiling in the midst of the shouts of his drunken passengers and agreeing to make a detour, at one o'clock in the morning, down a bumpy road across the corn fields in search of a case of beer in a drugstore he knew. Observing his face by the light of the dials on the dashboard, I suddenly thought that his unchanging smile boded no
