Babylon René Crevel

ISBN:

Published: 1988

Paperback


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Babylon  by  René Crevel

Babylon by René Crevel
1988 | Paperback | PDF, EPUB, FB2, DjVu, audiobook, mp3, ZIP | | ISBN: | 6.62 Mb

Boredom, the stepson of pride: the repetition of facts and gestures, the collection of untruths by which those called grown-ups live, these one childhood had sworn never to accept.I have to pretend to be sorry about romantic expectations hung on one person, as if they were the moon and stars.

Maybe I dont do it that well but it continues to happen. Someone would have to hang around with a person they didnt want to share the only life (probably) theyll ever get. The rest of it, loneliness and a wistfulness to be seen. Turn the hands and youre the you you could believe in. All of that stuff. I dont get the life unexamined if you can go, Well, Im married so thats all good. I felt for the mother who is left by her husband and her beautiful cousin. Her daughter enacts their moon and the sun with the small world at her fingertips. They have bitterness for breakfast and Told you so for second breakfast.

Her small head goes to bed pushed down by a life that wont go on, obsessed with Cynthia. Shes obsessed by Cynthia as the winner. I couldnt help feeling for the loser, not knowing how to want for herself. I can see her becoming one of the suspected poplar trees, scenery. I lived the little girls life, though.

My earliest memory was celebrating freedom from my father but many more after were the paths of the end. Marriage, a stamp of approval from a penis, I dont know. I dont get it. I can think Thats not fair! for the grandfather. His wife, Amie once more. She takes her daughters new man.

If people were for the taking, if they are I dont see them. I would rather be a beast somewhere, my eyes running over mysterious fields somewhere else. I go cow-eyed more than ever when someone blames the person sitting next to them because their dreams didnt come true.

Such bullshit. Princes, queens, wild dreams of owls become fish. She has an awakening and maybe it was the glamorous Cynthia with her narcotic sight. A young maid is related to Russian bears stalking jet planes. Drinking kerosene and run away. Her gardener rules with fists of ham. She murders him and they, the man, will kill her. The little girl still grows up under glass of fish, bright in spots. I dont know if it is the sex that lights their life.

Im not seeing any ends there (only the beginnings). The mother is married off to the tiny Mac-Louf. Run away to Africa where no one is listening to your endings. She must have been a poplar tree to them too because does anyone remember there was a child.

Mac-Louf does some do-gooding and the apartment gets a charity maid. The young negroe misses the hands on her tits, the groaning in grasses. I cant get too excited either way. I get a bad faraway feeling thinking about what could happen to those very young girls, later on. If they had wanted to, if anyone asked. I doubt that the stonings of the little girls one reads about today would have happened if there werent outsider Mac-Loufs about in the first place to talk too much about what someone else was doing.

Its like some vast ocean somewhere, Im not invited (I dont want to open the door again to ponder if I felt so bad for the abandoned wife because Im also not pretty, so also not going to see where the Cynthias lie in exotic sheets of some fleshy bliss blissful owing to you dont have to think about it).

The satellites pick up the heat life when theres a howling, an in time. I dont care if the maid lived happily ever after with her man with the hands. The grandma aging out of herself again. The fevered negress taken for a prostitute. Cynthias drug dealer with the suit case is much less than her stealing three drops of the red-heads perfume to pretend to be her. I loved their outside.

I get the feeling Crevel felt a lot like I did when its just a bit of silence in the after. I dont know if the little girl ever lives outside the glass. I have a feeling she ran out of air to breathe inside their rooms just by waiting for the Cynthias to suggest.... something.

I dont know. I never had an idea of what else was supposed to happen when beautiful people ran away for something other than what they know.In a red and gray city, you will have a colorless room with silver walls, its windows open to the clouds, whose sister you are. It is in the wide open sky that one must seek the gestures of your fingers, the shadow of your face.Max Ernst contributed nineteen photograms.

The black on black showing up outlines in an x-ray. A humanoid is marionetted on itself, a crown dehaloed is above. A fence like a most paranoid vertical blind with a sun rising behind. Cynthias face made up. Birds of a feather to fate. I liked that they feel like they could be made again out of your own room and paths.Im suspicious of the translator, Kay Boyle.

I could be a jerk. Theres a fuss in my North Point Press copy about the ages worked on it. I have this image of Crevel as like me. The letting go is the drive and the pull, you know? You write to live at least a little further than the unthought thoughts.

Also, shes got an autobiography about her and some other dude called Being geniuses together. I am going to read one of her novels in case Im a jerk. I never know how to explain the vibe of a good or bad translation. Its all bullshit since my language grasp is nothing to write about. But I wonder if the feeling I get that the removal is in a foreign listener is from translations. Not all the time just in an awkward turn.



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