It is no longer lunchtime, notebooks and books are closing, now the world is starting, until the taps are reopening the next morning. In my garden it shows the naughty clusters now formed by the wild daisies, a coastline all the fluctuations behind the green grass.

Its area Savoryout of the Parisnear Versailles, is full of artificial lakes made centuries ago by a local noble to water its gardens and fields, the closest to the author’s home is Ursine’s pond. So go for lunch at Pergola restaurantwhere he had celebrated his 80th birthday. On the road he immediately identifies a dark patch like pressed shells, is the dried residue of a frog that was melted by a car. He puts it as a loot in his pocket. A tour of the world means for him the discovery of the most insignificant and contemptuous things. His whole work is the titanic attempt to create a new epic writing to perpetuate the negligible and slippery.

On the way she stops only to talk to a foreign woman with her gossip, old manslaughter. We see from afar from afar the pond and the mountain behind it, the wooded slopes are divided into two color territories, on the left, a green -mixed green, on the right, a green green which. The sluggish green, he explains, is the unruly vegetation, the intense is the advanced vegetation, Goethe had even a word to differentiate each other. I remember that he had written the novel “in the afternoon of a writer” twenty -five years ago. The hero, a writer, is passionately devoted every day after writing to the secondary of the world, because in the secondary the grain of the primary is nesting. On the shore we are short in front of a blossomed, yellow lavourn. In Pergola Fish, Petit Chablis, Calvados, memories. Only when the coffee machine is spoiled.

So for espresso in the café opposite the train station. All the beggars know him, he knows the story and the haunts of everyone. He devotes them time, transforms them into lords. Until a lady skyscraper gives up her girlfriend on the table and rushing to the famous writer who has unfortunately recognized. We are attacked in a state of advanced over -stimulation three times in total, one to get acquainted, one to announce an event for Germany where it would be great for the author to attend and a third to correct the time of the event that had confused in her disturbance. “Write about her,” Peter Handke tells me, “she’s sure she’s bored.”