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:/A froth of acacia blossom hangs above the pavement. I can only see three young ladies who might want to pick clusters of them: they will not be able to reach. I'd find it natural enough to come to their assistance, but what would they think, and then what about me as I perform an unsteady leg up? So I wait for them to disappear before I plunge my arms into the bubbling cool milk of these giants of the Petite-Ceinture. The blossoms smell like haylofts from a summer of raining downpours (I remember the summer of '43), like Senior Service cigarettes, the neck of a young girl and a camomile - in short, they smell first and foremost like acacias. They are so innocently white, so fragile, that I fill my saddlebag with some reluctance: the elastic strap is going to snap in the rue d'Alesia and get tangled up in the chain, and this will add prosaic complications to the rest of the day, when what I had in mind was to change my life drastically by offering these flowers... but I digress, or more particularly, I anticipate. I haven't even reached the corner of the rue de Patay near the Pente douce restaurant; I am still only starting on the descent towards the last hanging kitchen gardens of the rue Regnault, and there it is in the misty distance of a dreamed-of Africa, of horizons photo-engraved like a geography atlas, absurd but ineviatble, nameless, senseless, useless, that fresh-blown fragment of the absolute, the mountain peak in Vencennes zoo. Post a comment in response: |
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