On a cold, dour morning I am reminded that the territory of walkingtalkingwriting could be thought of as a ground of alienation: variously named, the wilderness, the city, the urban, the moor, the mountain, the gutter. There is in addition a necessary tension between the gutter and the palace; a polarity in which the flaneur is prince (or princess). Wherever there’s the gutter, there’s also the palace; come out of the comfortable, protected hotel and join the promenade of the streets.
I see these two men march vigorously through the cold, dour, November morning. Both strung out (one might say) between middle age and something older. March vigorously, embedded in conversation, alive to the crowded street, the whip of rain: old friends, old enemies, one foot in the secular, the other in the religious. Two characters can be discerned: sweet toothed devil and holy man.
A further element, that of:
“danger . . . “
A spice.
Belgrade and Istanbul happen to perfect for the purpose.
ak