Have we talked ourselves out of fiction? Is this the one long last goodbye to – "the extended narrative without any rules", the end of all the excitement with her, la liseuse?
Have we finally come to a standstill? And in the face of this. Earth-shaking, trembling, hardly one brick left on top of another, tiled roofs slipped, gabbles like ribs sticking up into the sky, shop signs at crazy angles, and dust still hanging in the air. Watching for Van Gogh’s woman to slowly turn the page. Except, she isn’t reading. And this isn’t a story.
This isn’t a story, but an almost irresistable desire to curl up, close the eyes and fall asleep. The armchair is turned towards the wall upon which row upon row of books on shelves appear to glow shades of green and orange and yellow. Strong sunlight floods into the room. The eye casually sweeps over the inhabitants, searching for Van Gogh’s other young woman, the one sat in the armchair with the book open on her lap, her head slightly inclined down. Viewed from behind, she is reading, or… du roman. But she cannot be found.
Long Silence –
Has the shaking finally stopped ?
Long Silence -
Has all the writing ceased?