"Un cititor trăieşte o mie de vieţi înainte de a muri. Omul care nu citeşte trăieşte doar o singură viaţă." – George R.R. Martin

Quote of the Day – August 8, 2017: Let's steal melons – Nora Iuga

Adriana's right when she says I live in a rocking chair. I started it this morning – here in Zug, people get up early and swim in the lake at night at minus 6 degrees – I made a trip to the station: I never went in the march to step in as usual, I listened to Pipi I wanted to see what pleasure people can find when they walk. I'd be tempted to write an essay on the walk, because it would all be pure invention. I don't know what a purposeless walk – I'm surprised i can endlessly carry inner mono-dialogues, when I think all the time how many jars of Activia Danone I would have to do for a week, how many rolls of toilet paper I should buy, where there's a more convose hairdresser I'm able to paint my eyebrows and what gift bags to choose to the taste of Müllerhaus and the musician I met, nine months ago, at the train station in Zurich – I could have a baby during this time – God, how the days turn… By the way, the Hungarians translated: Oh, les beaux jours de Beckett Die glücklichen Tage, which I find completely besides… I've always smelled that these cute Teutons who make such a case of their superiority are very bad in terms of shades. At Herta, for example, this handicap is very obvious (I walk around the room and talk to myself aloud to get used to dentures – dizziness increases, heart rate increases – I pretend everything is in place), all he sees is black and white. The color gradients in the solar spectrum don't even exist for her, and if they are, then just like kinky scornels, put there to retouch the photo. For Herta between truth and lying there are no intermediate steps… What's a mezzanine, she wonders, and what's the use? But I don't feel like talking about Herta, I'm talking about getting out of the physical evil that keeps me company for several hours of the day. This monastic paradise, with access to the lake, to abyssal sunsets, to homemade bread, baked in the oven, as big as the wheel of the chariot and stuffed with sunflower seeds and potatoes, it's not good for me, it's so terrestrial. I need the city, because a metropolis is more easily invented: the city is like a plane, it's closer to fiction than the village, because the plane is also a invented bird… Oh, my brains, you're going crazy again just now that I'm pulling on you to ask me funny questions to make me laugh. When I laugh, I convince myself that I'm not dying: it's like when I do makeup, but between laughter and death I'm an infinity of nuances, so… Let's just leave it. The chance-of-chance discussions with the Swiss on the street are as curious as shirts dressed upside down. I asked a lady yesterday at about sixty-five years old where the train station is. He pointed his finger right forward and finally to the right. "That's where you find white flaming stockings," he said. Consternation. He had no Alzheimer's face. "Okay, but I don't want stockings, I want to get to the station." "I know, and then you turn right, you'll see hats… beautiful". The dialogue in Lenzburg was even more strange: "Do you know where Bachstrasse is?" Petrified face, perplexed look. "Bachstrasse… no". "There, where a stream flows, there's a bridge…". "Oh, a water." "Yes, a water." "Drinking or washing?" Am I on another hemisphere? Maybe that's why his brain has his hemispheres. And to think that Switzerland is the richest country in Europe. But there's a few broken wires left in this anapoda. I didn't finish what I had to say about the musician, not about the birth, nor about the seduction of the walk – of the area, in which nothing fits like a prosthetic tailored to another pattern. And that's when you make it up. Let's say a walk is when you leave yourself in the intention of the road, when you go blindly by amputating your instinct like a stray after the bag with chops, not like a German shepherd, trained to choose the route of heroin. If I got pregnant when I was ten, I'd leave the baby, I wouldn't be crazy to tear my doll to pieces… Is it? I know, I'm unconvincing, but I can't live in the world if I don't think all the people look like me, if I had gotten pregnant with the musician, this should have been a biblical projection: let's say I was Sara and the musician was Boz, or Abrahaam, or Ezra, and we had children. At auntie's age, we would have taken it all for the opposite test, because even the Swiss hadn't invented the watch. I'm not going back out of the way to reread my ranks. I'm not doing that Lot for fear of getting stone… Everything I wrote today is written in some kind of coma, I don't want to think about what's going to happen tomorrow. I got the zurich tickets in my pocket. And how happy I was with that musician who sang to me Plaisir d'amour and I was reading his poems and flashing our eyes like we showed our sexes… How come that crazy Nora B hasn't shown up yet? When I'm dying, they don't show up at all. He's ferocious, he thinks he's going to survive me.

The book Let's steal melons can be purchased from:

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