Matei Visniec Mansarda La Paris Cu Vedere Spre Moarte. 3 likes. Book. Matei Visnec is the author of Mansarda la Paris cu vedere spre moarte ( avg rating, 0 ratings, 0 reviews). Mansardă la Paris cu vedere spre moarte | Popular fiction | Romanian | | The Romanian Bookshop.
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Typically Parisian music played on a barrel organ. He starts to set up his telescope on a tripod. My name is Emil Cioran. Does that mean anything to you? How could I possibly be a photographer?
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I was told to come here for the photo. A photo for a publishing house. Time is an illusion, I know, but punctuality is important. Would you like to have a look at the sky through my telescope?
For just one franc, you can look for five minutes. Things look really close, and you can see them in the most amazing detail. You can even see the craters on the moon. I think it would bring on one of my dizzy spells. Do you know what time it actually is? I forgot to put on my watch, and even my hat.
Has it begun to get dark yet, monsieur? Usually, when it rains, I have to hurry back, otherwise the mansardaa would get damaged. Is it getting darker now, monsieur?
The sky looks absolutely empty. On the screen are projected images of the Jardin de Luxembourg, with a blind man turning a barrel organ and a woman feeding the pigeons. Suddenly, the pigeons fly off. You remind me of someone I used to know, a long time ago. The Donmaru sisters, in Sibiu, in Transylvania. But you have been coming here to feed the pigeons for several years.
I only ask because something quite extraordinary happened to me this morning. Well, and why not? You live in two little rooms, right at the top. Last year, in Mansaeda if I remember correctly, I went for a long walk by the sea, at Dieppe. The tide was out, and I walked for about four hours.
Can you tell me where it is? Do you like this garden?
Well, at least I remembered that. When I left the Gallimard office, I had no idea where I was meant to go. Just like an actor who suddenly forgets his next line, a really important line. Right, my kingdom for a few crumbs of my memory.
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But I do like to walk here and, out of pure spite, to think only truly banal thoughts: I have to admit that I sometimes feel like a murderer amongst all these people. While they continue to speak, remaining motionless, they begin to sink gently into mansardw ground.
And when it rains, it becomes really unbearable. The earth turns into slime. Pause Do you know something?
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You, with your daily visits here to feed the pigeons, you are clearer in my memory than the place where I live. It does me good to talk to you like this. But you have to admit that these city birds get stupider by the day. I think that city birds fly less than vrdere birds. Maybe they started out that way. Perhaps there was, at the very beginning of time, a species that was completely free, and knew how to fly. But then certain individuals in this manwarda became more and more lumpen, more and more lazy, more and more just plain stupid.
They worked out how to get rid of their wings, and came down to earth. I maorte your memory. The earth has now swallowed them almost completely and we can see only their heads. Why do you make all those crumbs?