mild for the complexity of our minds, come, letâs go over there, I think they have something more substantial.
At the drinks table, I asked for a double whiskey with two cubes of ice, and when I had it in my handâI had decided to forget my doctorâs warnings for a whileâI was ready to listen to Kosztolányi, who asked me if I knew his city, Budapest, to which I replied, yes, I do, and whatâs more, I said, I consider it one of the most beautiful in the world. In an antique shop in the Jewish ghetto, near the synagogue, I bought a small model plane made of metal, which I still have on my desk, next to my books of poetry. The man responded by striking himself on his stomach, thatâs good, poets and aviators, of course, Saint-Exupéry and all that, very good, and then he said, you just mentioned an antique shop, which struck a chord with me, my passion is for things of the past, objects created by hands that are no longer with us but are now just ash or earth, anyway, Iâm sorry if Iâm waxing lyrical, youâre a writer and thatâs why I allow myself such license, my interest is in those things that have a patina on their surface that could be the patina of memory, the air of times gone by, and you must be wondering, listening to me, do objects have a memory? I hasten to say, yes they do, of course they do, you just have to know how to approach them, how to put your hands around a statuette or a piece of porcelain and listen; that is when, suddenly, there appear images, things that were lived, words that echo, souls that are no longer with us, people who once populated this old world and surrounded themselves with beautiful things in order, no doubt, the better to bear the essential tragedy of life, which is its brevity, donât you think so? As I was about to answer he continued speakingâI realized that his questions were rhetoricalâand said, you are one of the most interesting people at this conference and Iâm going to tell you why, itâs because youâre new, I mean, new to these biographical debates, many of us have met before on other stages, doubtless less dramatic ones, Iâll give you an example, do you see that man over there? he said, pointing to a bald man, thatâs Edgar Miret Supervielle, the famous bibliophile, you probably saw him on the list, and well, he and I usually meet at antique book fairs, philatelic or antiques trade events; I can tell you heâs a thoughtful and highly cultured man, with a keen nose for business and an uncommon ability to spot a lie, but heâs a genius, believe me, a real genius. On hearing this I felt a certain unease, realizing the extent to which I was an impostor in this group, so I said, thank you for considering me interesting, Iâm here to learn about all of you. Suddenly Kosztolányi, who was clearly not listening, said, come, my friend, I see Supervielle has been left on his own, itâll be a pleasure to introduce you. The man arrived and held out his hand, which I shook firmly; then he repeated my name and said, ah, I know you, youâre the writer, the only one among us who writes fiction, isnât that so? a true artist, and I said, well, if we abide by the traditional definition perhaps yes, although I believe that any act of writing has . . . a connection with the shadowy areas where esthetics lie. Kosztolányi got excited and said, very good, shadowy areas! thatâs what I call speaking, this is the beginning of a true friendship and that deserves another drink, donât you think? of course it does.
With our glasses full, I asked Supervielle if he lived in Israel, and he replied, yes and no, I have a house in the Negev Desert, to the south of Jerusalem, and an apartment in Paris, which is my base for some of my European business, but my family is spread around the world, one son in New York, another in Costa Rica and a daughter in Buenos Aires, can you imagine,
At the drinks table, I asked for a double whiskey with two cubes of ice, and when I had it in my handâI had decided to forget my doctorâs warnings for a whileâI was ready to listen to Kosztolányi, who asked me if I knew his city, Budapest, to which I replied, yes, I do, and whatâs more, I said, I consider it one of the most beautiful in the world. In an antique shop in the Jewish ghetto, near the synagogue, I bought a small model plane made of metal, which I still have on my desk, next to my books of poetry. The man responded by striking himself on his stomach, thatâs good, poets and aviators, of course, Saint-Exupéry and all that, very good, and then he said, you just mentioned an antique shop, which struck a chord with me, my passion is for things of the past, objects created by hands that are no longer with us but are now just ash or earth, anyway, Iâm sorry if Iâm waxing lyrical, youâre a writer and thatâs why I allow myself such license, my interest is in those things that have a patina on their surface that could be the patina of memory, the air of times gone by, and you must be wondering, listening to me, do objects have a memory? I hasten to say, yes they do, of course they do, you just have to know how to approach them, how to put your hands around a statuette or a piece of porcelain and listen; that is when, suddenly, there appear images, things that were lived, words that echo, souls that are no longer with us, people who once populated this old world and surrounded themselves with beautiful things in order, no doubt, the better to bear the essential tragedy of life, which is its brevity, donât you think so? As I was about to answer he continued speakingâI realized that his questions were rhetoricalâand said, you are one of the most interesting people at this conference and Iâm going to tell you why, itâs because youâre new, I mean, new to these biographical debates, many of us have met before on other stages, doubtless less dramatic ones, Iâll give you an example, do you see that man over there? he said, pointing to a bald man, thatâs Edgar Miret Supervielle, the famous bibliophile, you probably saw him on the list, and well, he and I usually meet at antique book fairs, philatelic or antiques trade events; I can tell you heâs a thoughtful and highly cultured man, with a keen nose for business and an uncommon ability to spot a lie, but heâs a genius, believe me, a real genius. On hearing this I felt a certain unease, realizing the extent to which I was an impostor in this group, so I said, thank you for considering me interesting, Iâm here to learn about all of you. Suddenly Kosztolányi, who was clearly not listening, said, come, my friend, I see Supervielle has been left on his own, itâll be a pleasure to introduce you. The man arrived and held out his hand, which I shook firmly; then he repeated my name and said, ah, I know you, youâre the writer, the only one among us who writes fiction, isnât that so? a true artist, and I said, well, if we abide by the traditional definition perhaps yes, although I believe that any act of writing has . . . a connection with the shadowy areas where esthetics lie. Kosztolányi got excited and said, very good, shadowy areas! thatâs what I call speaking, this is the beginning of a true friendship and that deserves another drink, donât you think? of course it does.
With our glasses full, I asked Supervielle if he lived in Israel, and he replied, yes and no, I have a house in the Negev Desert, to the south of Jerusalem, and an apartment in Paris, which is my base for some of my European business, but my family is spread around the world, one son in New York, another in Costa Rica and a daughter in Buenos Aires, can you imagine,
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