Saint Roquentin de Clamence ate boiled mutton with apricot jelly, the folds of his mouth slithered with pork grease. Maximilien François Marie met Saint Roquentin de Clamence in Targovishte-Turgovishte in 1927, both men in search of a muleteer who ate everything with sugar molasses. ‘…when the world comes to a spinning halt, its axel broken in two, the firemen will be the only one’s left standing…’ said Maximilien François Marie. ‘…then who will fill the fire-buckets…?’ asked Saint Roquentin de Clamence. ‘…the muleteers…’replied Maximilien François Marie, ‘…of course…’ said Saint Roquentin de Clamence, ‘…the muleteers…’.
That evening, under a feral yellow moon, the man in the hat left for home, his mouth bitter with regret and other people’s lies. Far, far away in the township of Moşilor a man ate his paper hat, chomping it into confetti. On the other side of far, far away a man in a bosun’s cap ate a pile of shredded paper, washing it back with a tableful of Moşilor’s Brandy. That morning, at exactly 27½ minutes past the hour, a man decided to put an end to his sorrows, thrashing himself over the head with a Pop-siècle placemat, taking out a chunk of his skull and a picture on the wall behind him.
‘I’ve done nothing of any use in my life, or at least nothing that would be recognized as such, and I’ve traveled more or less to the same places that every other Spaniard has. Writing is the only activity that distracts me and makes me forget the very unfunny drama of every-day existence’ – Camilo Jose Cela.
That evening, under a feral yellow moon, the man in the hat left for home, his mouth bitter with regret and other people’s lies. Far, far away in the township of Moşilor a man ate his paper hat, chomping it into confetti. On the other side of far, far away a man in a bosun’s cap ate a pile of shredded paper, washing it back with a tableful of Moşilor’s Brandy. That morning, at exactly 27½ minutes past the hour, a man decided to put an end to his sorrows, thrashing himself over the head with a Pop-siècle placemat, taking out a chunk of his skull and a picture on the wall behind him.
‘I’ve done nothing of any use in my life, or at least nothing that would be recognized as such, and I’ve traveled more or less to the same places that every other Spaniard has. Writing is the only activity that distracts me and makes me forget the very unfunny drama of every-day existence’ – Camilo Jose Cela.
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