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The Mock and other superstitions

issue 2, winter 2009 quarterly journal of writ ten words Anecdotes as New Theory* What would we be without the help of things which do not exist? Olivier Castel 4 Chronology, Alex Cecchetti 11 Description, Charlotte Moth 12 The Veils of Axaxaxas, Michael Dean 1 4 Glimpses, Marcelline Delbecq 20 Description, Charlotte Moth 2 2 Cortinas de Carne, Simon Fujiwara 28 Extracts from Matteo Terzaghi and Marco Zürcher’s Da qualche parte sulla Terra 3 4 Dialog, Alex Cecchetti 35 Description, Charlotte Moth 36 Books of Mine That David Took When He Moved Out of Our Apartment, Sarah Elliott 13, 21, 39  F/M’s hand-written interpretation of Pierre Guyotat’s Body of the Text 2

*  Titled after a conversation with Maria Fusco


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What would we be without the help of things which do not exist?

In 1960 Lawrence Weiner detonated explosive charges to make a series of small craters in Mill Valley, Northern California. raymond roussel

The government of the Maldives has begun raising funds to buy land abroad, in case rising sea levels submerge its low-lying coral islands. muumipapan urot yot


The Italian town of Ancona has the highest number of cinema screens per inhabitant, at one hundred and thirty for every thousand citizens. louise weiss It is snowing on Mars. But on Earth, almost no one cares.

Borges once joked to a visiting Swede that Venice was also known as the Stock­holm of the south. censor The periodic inversion of earth’s magnetic field will gradually diminish its ability to protect itself from space radiation. Geomagnetic storms and solar winds will affect electrical net­works and satellite control, and the phe­nom­enon of the Northern lights will become a daily occurrence all over the world. giorgio silverio In the final lines of Jean Giraudoux’s Electra, Narses searches for a word to describe the beginning of a new day in the midst of destruction and desola­tion. Electra tells her to ask the beggar who replies: “That has a beautiful name, Narses … That is called dawn.” carl laporte

sofia coppola Mallarmé wrote and edited the newspaper La Derniere Mode. All the articles in every section were written under pseudonyms. olivier castel Momoko, a humanoid robot produced by Mitsubishi, has co-starred in a per­for­ mance of an experimental play at Osaka University in Japan. The play, written by Minako Inoue, is yet to be named but could be performed publicly in 2009. hideki mathumoto Because of its miles of neon-lit casinos and full-scale indoor reconstruction of Venice, the Macau peninsula has become known as the Vegas of the East. censor The Original of Laura: Dying is Fun

According to the theory of supersym­metry, every particle in the universe has a slightly overweight but invisible twin. olivier castel In June a fire that started on set during filming at Universal Studios, Los Angeles spread to several other film sets including those used to shoot the films Back to the Future. paul & marc & raymond

casper perrin yoakum During early October in the town of Celebration, Florida, imported leaves fall four times per day, and from late November until New Year’s Eve, ten-minute long mechanical snow showers occur every evening at regular intervals. joe laurence —Olivier Castel

Oscar, a five-year old black Labrador, had thirteen golf balls removed from his stomach after eating them over a period of six months during walks near a local golf course with his owner Steve. francis frederick Astronomers had hoped to find ice on the south pole of the moon but data from a Japanese space probe has con­firmed that although temperatures are low enough no ice exists. carl laporte

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Chronology i The duel An old man challenged a young man to a duel, and he said ‘I’ll be back in no time’ And in the meantime the last United States soldier leaves Vietnam, the World Trade Center opens, And Pablo Picasso dies, And President Georges Pompidou dies, And Ordine Nuovo bombs demonstra­ tors in Brescia, killing 6. And Turkey invades Cyprus, And Gerald Ford becomes the 38th president, And Ali knocks out Foreman, And professional stuntman Evel Knievel fails to cross the Snake River Canyon in Idaho. The first public service information system is started by the BBC, And the Arecibo radio telescope sends an interstellar radio message to-­ ward a Great Globular Cluster. The message will reach its destination around the year 27 000. A skeleton from the hominid spe­c ies Australopithecus Afarensis is dis­ covered and named Lucy and at the same time the World population reaches 4 billion people, And then Onasiss dies, And Pier Paolo Pasolini dies too. The first commercially developed su­ per­computer, the Crai-1 is released, And Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom sends the first royal e-mail, And Apple Computer Company is formed, And at the same time The Ramones

release their first self-titled album, And Agatha Christie dies, And Werner Heisenberg dies too. A train crash in Schiedam kills 24 people, And an earthquake hits Friuli killing more than 900. The Supreme Court of the United States rules that the death penalty is not inherently cruel and is a constitu­ tionally acceptable form of punish­ ment, And the Viking 1 Lander successfully lands on Mars. Niki Lauda crashes in the German Grand Prix, And the Big Ben is damaged and stops running for over 9 months, And the Ebola virus outbreaks in Zaire, And the old man came back with two knives. They were not the same size, one was much bigger. He put them on the table and said to the young man “Well, now, choose your weapon.” ii Pipes A man decides to write down all the events, the deaths, the wars and nu­ merous other accidents that happen in the world every day, every month, every year. He decides not to include in the list the events, the deaths, and the wars that concern him. It happens one day that, for certain reasons, he allows his pen to stain his fingers. From that moment onwards he doesn’t come back to his intention. At that time the man

had collected more than 700 notebooks, a meagre number com­ pared to all the accidents, the events and the wars he had not been part of, and the deaths that did not touch him. That same day he brought the writings to some experts, he brought them as if not his own. The experts judged them, archived them and categorised them un­­der the name of ‘anonyms annuals’. And Anaïs Nin dies, And the Snow falls in Miami, And Jimmy Carter succeeds Gerald Ford, And Sandro Penna dies, And Freddie Prinze shoots himself or maybe not. —Mom, I love you very much, but I can’t go on. I need to find peace. —I love you, Kathy. I love the baby, but I need to find peace. I can’t go on. And Andrés Caicedo dies too. And a dozen armed Hanafi Muslims take over 3 buildings in Washington DC, killing 1 and taking 130 hostages, And a KLM collision with a PanAm Boeing 747s kills 583 over the Canary Island. And the man reads this news on a train to Palermo. He tears the column from the page, folds it and in­serts it in his pocket. He reads it once again at his arrival in the station, and then gets rid of it. And the chewing gum man dies. And in the papers across the globe a hooded man with stretched arms ap­pears, in his hands a small gun directed straight on a dark mass in the distance, behind him two men seem to mime a pink panther’s step. The man writes down ‘clumsy danc­ ers’ on that very page and sends it to


his doctor. The hooded man in the picture is ac­c used of killing Antonio Crusta, a policeman, during a demonstration in Milan. And Star Wars opens in cinemas, And Vladimir Nabokov dies and the Big Ear receives a radio signal from deep space.

It lasts for 72 seconds and will never been detected again. And Elvis Presley dies, and Groucho Marx dies too. And the Voyager 1 is launched, And German Autumn kills 3 more, And when Hamida Djandoubi is exe­ cuted by guillotine in France, the man is in Lyon, with no money to travel; his destination could be Marseille, perhaps Madrid. And the Red Army Faction members com­­­mit suicide, or are murdered, in Stammheim prison. And smallpox is eradicated from the world. And Hong Kong police forces attack the headquarters of the Independent Commission Against Corruption. And Never Mind The Bollocks is released, And the Atari 2600 game system is released too, And a storm in Athens kills 38 people, And when the tomb of Philip ii of Macedon is discovered, the man is on a ship to Morocco, he writes just


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few lines on a piece of paper. A couple of weeks later, at whatever address, someone receives the letter. On the paper is written: I imag­ine it would have been there. And the First three nodes of internet are connected, And Charlie Chaplin dies. Near Bombay a Boing 747 crashes into the ocean, killing 213, And Chile supports the policies of Pinochet, And someone is born further south than any other human being, And Ethiopia declares the West Germany ambassador ‘Persona non grata,’ And in Ireland, Rose and Eddie get married in prison but are not allowed to see each other again. Together they executed the first-ever helicop­ ter bomb­ing raid in the British Isles, with four improvised milk-churn bombs, which all failed to go off. And a bomb explodes outside the Hil­ ton Hotel in Sydney and kills two garbagemen, a policeman and sever­ al other people. And the man works at the harbour, amid men twice as big and three times younger, and then one night he sees the knifes and then the guns. And some electrical workers find the remains of the Great Pyramid of Tenochtitlan in the middle of Mexico City, And Salvador Dalí paints L’Harmonie des Spheres, And France bombs Mururoa in a nu­ clear experiment, And what’s left of Charlie Chaplin’s body is stolen, and all that the man owns is in a white paper bag and so he leaves the harbour and gets on the

road again. And Rhodesia attacks Zambia, And Larry Flynt is shot and para­lyzed in Lawrenceville, And Palestinians kill 34 Israelis in the so named Coastal Road Massacre, And Israeli forces invade Lebanon, And Aldo Moro is kidnapped by Red Brigades. Dick Smith of Dick Smith Foods tows a fake gigantic iceberg to Sydney Harbour made of firefighting foam and shaving cream. He promises fresh pure water ice cubes for ten cents each, then it starts to rain and the shaved cream melts in the dock’s water. And the production of a neutron bomb that kills people but leaves build­ings intact is postponed, And the body of Aldo Moro is found in a parked car. And Charlie Chaplin’s coffin is found 10 miles from the cemetery it was stolen from, and that very same day someone recognises the man as well, and when his doctor meets him in a cafe in the heart of Istanbul, he has a fake name and clothes a few sizes too big. And Argentina wins its first Football World Cup. And Ethiopia begins a massive of­fense in Eritrea. And in UK Louise Brown is the first human born through in vitro fertili­ zation. And in Iran 400 are killed when Muslim extremist arsonists set fire to a crowded theatre. And when the man comes back to his town, to his house, they ask for some explanation in re­ gards to a large scar on his arm. He an­swers that he has always had it,

The Mock then once again he finds himself reading the news in the papers. And the Shroud of Turin goes on pub­­lic display for the first time in 45 years, and the man remembers having noted in one of his books the first time it was showed; then he goes back to the small boxes on the table, gets the med­icines in between his fingers, notes down the stains on his skin and the chemical oval’s whiteness. And U.S. Army Sergeant Walter Robinson ‘walk’ across the English Channel in 11 hours and 30 minutes, using homemade water shoes. And the 263rd Pope comes with the name of John Paul i and dies after 33 days and the man awakes as the plane lands in New York’s John F Kennedy Airport. And Iranian Army troops open fire in Teheran, 122 dead, 4000 wounded. And Vietnam attacks Cambodia, And a train derails in Shipman, Virginia, killing six, injuring 60, and the man is in Virginia too, on another train, on another track. He reads the news the day after. And in China, Train 87 from Nanjing to Xining collides into train 368 from Xi’an to Xuzhou killing 106, injuring 218. And Indira Gandhi is arrested and jailed for a week for breach of privilege and contempt of parliament. And the man sleeps the best he can, where he can and he has nothing to eat and may­be he is in Florida, but could be even fur­ther north. And the beloved Chicago citizen John Wayne Gacy confesses that he raped and killed 33 boys. The con­fession surprises the entire city, as Gacy is a


family man, adored by people all over town. He used to throw many block parties for his neighbours and friends, entertaining children in a clown suit and makeup, under the name of ‘Pogo the Clown’. And The Spanish Constitution is ap­ proved ending 40 years of military dictatorship. And abortion is legalized in Italy for first time. The French tanker Betelgeuse ex­plodes at Bantry in Ireland; 50 are killed. And The Pittsburgh Steelers defeat the Dallas Cowboys 35–31 at the Super Bowl. Brenda Ann Spencer opens fire at chil­ dren playing in a school playground across the street from her home in San Diego, killing 2 and wounding 8. I do not like Mondays she says. And Ayatollah Khomeini returns to Tehran after 15 years of exile, And Sid Vicious dies, And Pluto moves inside Neptune’s orbit for the first time known. So the man doesn’t feel too good, he suffers from terrible migraines and travels as a clandestine on a truck, inside of oil pipes. All he can see of the world fits in a circular section of sixty centimetres in diameter. After 3 days he is in Texas and deaf in one ear. And Josef Mengele dies, but his bod­y will be found years later under the name of Wolfgang Gerhard, And Jean Renoir dies too. And the People’s Republic of China invades northern Vietnam, And the Sahara Desert experiences snow for 30 minutes, And Voyager I photos reveal Jupiter’s rings.


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Hawker Siddeley Trident crashes into a factory in Beijing, killing 200. The Penmanshiel Tunnel in the UK collapses, killing two workers. Sultan Yahya Petra ibni Almarhum Sultan Ibrahim Petra, the 6th Yang di-Pertuan Agong of Malaysia, dies in office. He is replaced by Sultan Haji Ahmad Shah Al-Mustain Billah ibni Almarhum Sultan Sir Abu Bakar Riayatuddin Al-Muadzam Shah, Sultan of Pahang. A Soviet laboratory accidentally re­leases airborne anthrax spores, killing 66. A tornado hits Wichita Falls, Texas, killing 42 people, and in the hospital, a jaw fracture camouflages the man’s accent so they think he is American. When asked about the tornado that trans­ported him for 5 miles inside a phone box, he answers he has been shot to Texas by the Beach Pneumatic Transit Company of New York in 1869. He is convinced that the company pro­m­­ised him a two hour trip to Phila­delphia inside a pneumatic tube but the travel lasted decades. To the young Amer­ ican doctor he tells every detail of the passenger compartment and of the underground pneumatic net that reaches all commercial cities in the United States; a system that can send mail, parcels and travellers at the speed of 700km per hour inside tubes of 2.5 meters of diameter, just by using a powerful air compressor. The identity of the patient still remains unknown. And the Lama Deshin Shekpa visits Nanjing and is awarded the title Great Treasure Prince of Dharma. And when President Jimmy Carter is

attacked by a swamp rabbit while fishing in his hometown of Plains, Georgia, the man wakes up and speaks French perfectly, or this is what the young doctor annotates with the testi­mony of his assistant. Neither of them knows the language, but the prodigy is sufficient to make it possible to keep the patient on university ex­penses. And Paul Sébillot dies, And Union Cavalry troopers corner and shoot dead John Wilkes Booth in Virginia. Margaret Thatcher becomes the new British Prime Minister and in a farm in Florida a pig is slaughtered, in its stom­ach is found the remnants of a passport; the picture is published in the papers. With these bites of pass­ port still permeated with enzymatic liquids, two policemen arrive at the hospital; the young doctor forbids any inter­rogation to his patient. The Woolworth in Manchester, Eng­ land’s city centre is seriously dam­ aged by fire; 10 shoppers die, And Thomas Blood, disguised as a clergyman, attempts to steal Eng­ land’s Crown Jewels from the Tower of London. And for the second time the European doctor goes on trav­ell­ ing; 9 hours on a plane and 4 inside a police car across Texas. His task is to bring back the man. Once in the hospital, he explains clearly to the young Ameri­c an doctor that his man suffer of ambulatory auto­matism and doesn’t really speak French. This man is a liar, he explains, a beg­ gar, a robber, a clandestine who’s only purpose is to wander. And The Federated States of Micro­ nesia becomes self-governing,

The Mock And Bartolomeu Dias dies, And John Wayne dies too. And Kiribati declares independence from the United Kingdom, And Jetón Gustavo Díaz Ordaz, Mex­ ico’s President, dies, and the man pro­bably remembers that he noted in his books the assault on the unarmed stu­dents 11 years before. And soldiers take the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, And Iraqi President Hasan al-Bakr resigns and Vice President Saddam Hus­sein replaces him. And citizens in Leeuwarden, Nether­ lands strike against a ban on foreign beer. And the man is drinking a tea and get­­ ting used to his wife who notes down his every word, and to his doctor who archives all these notes, and to his own name printed on medical jour­nals. In one of these notes that his wife has meticulously written is reported a dream; he is mutilated, his legs and hips substi­ tuted with a single stone block form a Greek statue of a Harpy. Half man, half statue he escapes from cannibals on a motorbike. And Cetshwayo, the last king of Zu­lu, get captured by the British. And Grazia Deledda dies, And a fire breaks out in London and burns for three days, destroying 10 000 buildings, And two families flee from East Germany by balloon, And Bob Marley’s album Survival is released, And the day that does not exist comes and is not noted in the calendars in Italy, Poland, Portugal and Spain. And the Whirlpool Galaxy is dis­


covered by Charles Messier. And the electric generator at Hoover Dam goes into full operation. And Antioch surrenders to the Mus­lim forces after the Battle of Iron Bridge. And Lisbon is destroyed by a mas­sive earthquake and tsunami, killing 90 000 people. And a tidal wave in the North Sea devastates the coast from Holland to Jutland, killing more than 1000 people. And a deadly earthquake rocks Shemakha in the Caucasus, killing 80 000 people. And the second Eddystone Light­house is destroyed by fire. And Peggy Guggenheim dies, And the Soviet Union invades Afghanistan, And the construction of the Brook­lyn Bridge begins. And Zimbabwe gains independence from the United Kingdom, And Robert Mugabe becomes Prime Minister. And Yugoslav President Tito dies. And Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back is released, And Syracuse is captured by the Mus­ lim Sultan of Sicily And an earthquake destroys Quetta, killing 40 000, And Titus and his legions breach the middle wall of Jerusalem, And a devastating fire destroys onethird of Moscow, And the Big Ben is damaged and stops running for over 9 months. And after a downfall of rain, the dark clouds break and the sun appears sur­rounded with scarlet flames, a spinning disk in the sky, and with whirling mo­tion approaches the


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earth, strongly ra­diating heat, and this is witnessed by 70 000 people in the Cova da Iria, Portugal. And Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca becomes the first known European to set foot in Texas. And Cicero reads the last of his Catiline Orations. And Richard Chase, the Vampire of Sacramento, kills himself by over­ dose on the San Quentin prison death row. And the Ayatollah Khomeini is wel­ comed back into Tehran after nearly 15 years of exile. And a hydrogen bomb known as the Tybee Bomb is lost by the US Air Force off the coast of Savannah, Georgia, nev­er to be recovered. And in a suburban cemetery, two crouching men take measurements in the mud, making trigonometric calcu­lations on damp notebooks, planting iron stakes in the soft ground. They have done this for many years. If asked the purpose of their geometries, they tell of their daily search to identify where the man who was writing an­nuals has been buried, because his body lies without a gravestone. They believe he has done something of great im­ portance, something that we should re­­member. —Alex Cecchetti

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Description The hotel was not on the sea front, but a road back, positioned opposite a pet­ rol station. Immediately when entering it could be seen that the interior had not been changed since it had been built, leaving it with a time capsule feeling. It might be a perfect retreat for 1940’s or 1950’s en­thusiasts who go away on weekend ral­­lies with their vintage motors or may­­be rock and roll weekends. Some­ how this ‘knowing’ of the hotels authenticity had not been discovered, mak­­ing it feel like a kept secret enabling it to avoid a sense of fakeness or Disney theme feeling. Small modifications and no more had been made in order to keep certain essential elements functioning such as the hallway radio, this was an old fashioned bakerlight type, the music that could be heard was not from it but the 1980’s twin cassette that was placed on top. The hotel was full of gadgets the closer you looked that no longer func­tioned, these were left, not replaced or upgraded. The dining and breakfast room was a complete surprise. Mirrors flanked either end creating a form of perspective that leads into infinity. A selection of large plastic plants that at first glance could be mistaken for real ones lined the stair well. The sidewalls were made from a varnished wooden panelling that accommodated decretive features such as artificial lighting for a series of smaller colourful bouquet like plastic plants that were placed at the walls centre in receding alcoves that had mirrored back panelling.

The ceiling was really the overrid­ing spectacle. It consisted of an inbuilt structure that spread over the total surface area of the room and was used to create a form of ambient light­ing for the space. Made of repetitive cast plaster sections it looked more like a suspended abstract sculpture with fluorescent up-lighting. It was painted a bright orange-red. —Charlotte Moth


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The Veils of Axaxaxas “… then proliferate with all city writers, any surface was palimpsest with slogans of jurisdiction and signature choreographs. Years of all city writing united and then the flags or shrouds of Axaxaxas that simultane­ously quoted the complexion of any of these surfaces and restated the surface of this all city and seen writing, in charcoal, powder black, flesh pink and chrome.” Axaxaxas is credited with originating the “veil” style of graffiti writing, also known as “shtumms”. “The veils of Axaxaxas were referred to, at the time, as stumms, as though the keeping of a silence in the form of a frieze wrote out a different politic in seen silence.” “We all wanted his veils to write on, the veils of Axaxaxas became stage curtains. We started again.” “Axaxaxas painted with spray because it marked without so much as a touch. The flesh pink skin tones cartooned touch in the veil of a work which produced an effect similar in description to a supernatural viscous substance exuded from the body of a medium. Silver chrome pretended to disappear into circumstances of reflection and powder black charcoal touched equally upon any surface revealed with a veil, the tactility of a hundred people having said something on metal and wood and glass.” “… and you knew Axaxaxas by his veils …” —Michael Dean



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It’s autumn, almost winter, she’s walking on 21st Street towards the canal for the sheer pleasure of walking, clad in an organza coat bought that very morning in a secondhand store run by a man with a very soft voice. Her old coat is in a large bag and her shoes are shiny. She sees him coming towards her wearing a dark coat, there’s only him, and her, in the long street, not a car passes as they slowly walk towards each other. He draws near. She recognizes him. She recognizes his face. He draws closer. She wonders if it’s really him, she tells herself that he hasn’t grown older. Her eyes meet his as he passes by on her left close to the wall, hands in the pockets of his dark coat. She walks on holding her breath, clumsily pretending she hasn’t seen him, then she turns round to be sure. He’s vanished. lou reed, 21st Street, ny

Got to the airport too early after watching the city whizz past beneath the Airtrain – one doll’s house after another and another – two or three yellow buses, deserted crossroads, two big cars, an ‘open’ neon sign, a ‘free delivery’ neon sign, a ‘24hrs’ neon sign and nobody on the sidewalk. The terminal is gigantic, it’s not the one writ­ten on the ticket, a woman screams that she won’t pay 220 dollars for an extra suitcase and why not eat pizza with a white chocolate mocha covered with whipped cream? The two flights for San Francisco aren’t delayed, there are too many people, the minutes pass in slow motion for more than two hours. It’s raining cats and dogs. After doing the rounds of the boarding gates, first walking forwards then backwards, pushing a trolley bearing her purse only, she catches a glimpse of him behind the glass, arriving at the counter with a couple of backpackers, wearing a black shirt and city shoes. He doesn’t have a suitcase, just a backpack which he holds tight to his left shoulder while the stewardess checks his ticket. He’s very close, on the other side of the glass, she could pretend to bump into him with her almost empty trolley, but boarding has started. jim jarmusch, jkf airport, ny


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She leaves the bathroom to talk to him, sits on the huge bed blushing a little even though there’s no way he can see her. He’s in Los Angeles, she’s in Paris, where the weather’s fine, no, we haven’t spent too much money but it’s a lie, what time is it? Breakfast time for him who’s in a diner, where he’s just ordered ‘French toast’, he says it’s funny telephoning France with an order of French toast in front of him on the counter of a diner which she pictures to be chromed, surrounded by red mole­skin stools, where the waitress on roller-skates probably spins about enough to make you dizzy, short skirt under her plastic apron masquerading as lace. He asks if she likes French toast, she says she doesn’t and that she can’t understand why it’s called French toast, unless because it’s meant to be made with stale bread, he laughs, she blushes a bit more, puts down the receiver and goes back to the bathroom, extremely on edge.

While she wanders about upstairs looking for the original soundtrack of Nenette et Boni which seems to be a new French film for which she’s seen posters hung all over the store, among the garish albums with bubblegum titles, she hears him getting annoyed with a sales assistant, just behind her, diminutive but muscles like Her­c ules, wearing a leather jacket and a similarly threadbare pair of jeans, with a Jap­anese woman with very long hair, who could be his daughter and who follows him without a word, even smaller than he. He is really mad. The uniformed salesman does everything in his power to reassure himself that he’s not about to lose a cus­tomer, who is, what’s more, a monument to rock ’n roll. But he’s only listening to the sound of his own voice. The young Japanese woman and one or two customers have formed a cluster which now heads for the exit, driven by his raised voice, steered by his angry gestures, and this whole little world leaves the record store just when she decides not to buy the original soundtrack of Nenette et Boni before see­ing the movie.

dave grohl, telephone conversation, Hotel Lutetia, Paris


iggy pop, Virgin Megastore, Times Square, ny


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There’s still no one at the bar of the café where she’s taken the habit, during a lunch break that’s decidedly too short, of ordering an elaborate sandwich which she chews without conviction, lost in thoughts that help her to avoid her own reflection in the huge and averagely flattering mirror covering the wall in front of her. The dark sil­houette, which has moved slowly along the window, pushes the glass door and then closes it again to stop the draughts. She glimpses him out of the corner of her left eye but hasn’t yet turned her head. She recognizes his voice, that voice which made her keel over when she was twelve years old, and thought she might pass him one day at Porte de Vanves, that voice that, to her surprise, she hasn’t forgotten. She turns her head slowly leftwards, her eyes inevitably meet his, because she is the only person at the bar, emphatically shows him that she has seen him without show­ing that she’s recognized him, and catches a glimpse of the dimple in his chin. He pays for his sandwich, leaves the bar closing the door behind him, then heads for some place she will never know about, probably to eat his sandwich in peace.

Swaddled in a coat that doesn’t do up, hands frozen in fake leather gloves thoroughly ill-suited to the whims of western Europe’s weather, on a winter’s eve, she walks into a gallery with an awning over the snowy street with the idea of getting warm and discovering the works of an artist she doesn’t yet know, even though he has a French name. The neon lights give the impression of seeing the sun again, the public already hazy through the fumes of a stiff drink she’s downed herself, in a certain quantity, to raise the temperature of her toes and her cheeks, decked out in front of a series of small prints which call to mind the Anemic Cinema by the artist who shares her initials and three quarters of her first name. The spirals of color might make her dizzy if she was more focused, but she is a bit elsewhere. She strolls in the space taking off her gloves but not her hat, casts furtive glances at the people round her, but certain that she doesn’t know any of them, and heads behind one of the partitions, thinking that the show carries on there. He is right opposite her, motionless, he gives her a slight smile and keeps looking at her while she lowers her gaze and feels her legs starting to tremble. She hasn’t had time to realize that he is simply in a frame.

hippoly te girardot, rue de Grenelle, Paris willem dafoe, Torstrasse, Berlin —Marcelline Delbecq


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Description The light level was quite low as the time of day was approaching dusk. Turn­ing a side street away from the main road the surrounding area be­c ame silent. A few lights inside the houses were turned on making the win­­­dows glow. There were many trees and bushes surrounding the buildings some evergreen and others with skeleton branches as all but a few leaves were gone. From the pathway there was a view into the houses, the layout of the gar­ dens although having distinct bound­ aries between neighbors felt similar to a communal space from the open plan design, various vegetable patches and low fences. The modular repetition of the architecture made each house in­ dividual parts of a whole with their small porches that lead onto patios. Walking to the front of these houses the facade of trees fell away, instead the jutting angular box shapes became more apparent and eye catching, their fences higher creating a level of privacy and a barrier of protection against the outside world. Looking around this set of houses the neighboring buildings had a similar aesthetic. These were individual build­ ings of two and three stories with larger gardens, they looked relatively plain, it was only on closer inspection that you saw how a kitchen window was care­ fully designed or a doorway through its frame was of a particular style, making a connection with other elements in the building. Through continuing to walk around the buildings it became

more like a village, an ensemble of architectural specimens. —Charlotte Moth



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Cortinas de Carne (Meat Curtains) Foreplay This story was based on a series of interviews between Simon Fujiwara and his father that took place between 1984 and 2007. Hotel Munber, Catalonia, June 1974. The purpose of this story is to tell to you about the erotic interlude that occurred between me and the curtain that hung in the room I occupied at the Hotel Munber, but before I begin, I want to go back to an era before my time at the hotel, before I was born even, to relate to you the sad story of Munber as it was told to me by Sr. Bada on my first evening at the bar. The hotel stands at the corner of two dusty roads, one leading to the mountains, the oth­ er to the sea, with a bar at the front that has two long windows keeping watch in both directions. In its heyday it was the central watering well for an unlikely rabble of patrons; labourers, local entre­­preneurs, gypsy ladies and lorry drivers who congregated in the boozy saloon to speak in Catalan, their mother tongue, at a time when such liberties were a crime in Spain. In this sense the bar was a safe house but it was also a searchlight that scoured the local towns and villages for dissidents and de­generates, welcoming them in. Mun­ber was the last outpost of hope where stories and tales, schemes and con­spiracies filled the air as thick as the

smoke under the dim lights and stand­ ing prou­d­ly on the street corner, it was a burning beacon of resistance in the endless night that Franco had cast over the people. But I was never to meet the heroes of the romantic scene, for just a few months before my arrival, the bar was swept with a series of sieges and ravaging raids that would flush through the vermin and root out the rats, leav­ ing tables with no drinkers and a bar with no staff. It was at this time that I applied for a job at the hotel and was informed already by evening post that the position of General Manager was mine, should I want it, and that I should start immediately. With no interview, no Spanish and a foreigner to boot, I knew I was entering festering fields but I was also in no position to turn down a job with lodgings and food, as what awaited me at home was far worse. And so there I was. Shit Swivelling Sing-Song By the time I began to work there, life as it once was at the bar had ceased to be and whilst only the most resilient of rodents could still be found at the bar, increasingly the soldiers came to occu­ py the watering den as their own. Of the old patronage only Sr. Bada had won the respect of the occupying soldiers, a fact that owed in part to the sig­nificant wealth he had accumulated in the cesspit extraction industry. Yet de­­spite the shit-swivelling seeds of his pow­er, Bada alone was permitted to

con­­tinue in his native tongue and, so long as the soldier’s drinks were kept full, he would even on occasion be allowed to rattle out an old song from Mun­ber’s golden days, delivered to the rhythm of Cabezon’s metal tray. My sur­vival there depended on remaining impartial to the politics played out at the bar, but even with this knowledge I could not hide how I enjoyed the char­ismatic Sr. Bada – a man so indelibly drench­ed in liquor at all times of day, so macho, so cantankerous, and yet so charmingly unaware of himself – and his stories of the bar – the injustice, the oh-ppression – by the climax of the tale I would be ready to fly the flag myself. But we never did anything about it, because we knew the consequences, and this is what made me sympathise with him the most, what I saw in myself in him. That for all his protests he was no revolutionary, but, like the rest of the vermin, more waste from the Franco ma­chine, a self-crowned king of the un­derworld, a masturbating, foul mouthed, womanless emperor, filthy rich from the business of filth. Suffice to say, it was a curious state of affairs when I arrived, and although the heroic picture of the former days had been erased with a single hand, a new life blossomed among the ruins, one that was equally eccentric in its combina­ tion of patrons. For not only had the Franco soldiers invaded the bar, but by the early years of the 1970’s a different kind of army began to invade, this time from England, so that while the frosty holidaymakers sat back in satisfaction, swallowing summer sangria, the locals sat among soldiers and swallowed their pride, and in this way life at the bar was, at least on the surface, bearable for


everyone and on occasion even fun. My Castle of Carnality If you have read other anecdotes from my erotic life at the Hotel Munber, you will have heard how the fascist state, through its reign of terror, had castrated me, had lopped off all protrusions of outer sexuality. Prepared with end­ lessly varying excuses and denials I braced myself should, one evening, a shameless maricon mince into the bar, all eyes, all lips, and expose me before the public, before the police. And so my mind churned, and I planned and I crafted until I had tied my groins into a knot and for a time my sexuality conveniently ceased, just disappeared, until it returned to manifest in the most unexpected way. By my third summer I was in the thick of it. It’s true that a kind of mania had overcome me, for I became possessed with things that had previously held no significance for me, and certainly had yielded no erotic pow­er over me before. No object in the hotel, small or large would escape my attention – Lamps and spindles, door handles and dado rails, surfaces, tex­ tures, patinas and grooves were all employed with increasing ingenuity in my crafty rituals that took place after closing time. With a small tube of Vaseline concealed at all times in my left key-pocket, I was the lord of a castle of carnality and drunk with the power, I adventured into countless base acts, scenes of power and sub­ mission, mas­ters and slaves, and bore my sup­pressed urges onto the innocent objects in ever inventive ways – always taking the great­est care to wipe away the traces of abuse before falling into


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bed with the rising sun. Such was the state of my erotic affliction by 1974, but please un­­derstand that at no point did I choose this sordid route but where I failed was in never choosing against it. Sooner than I knew I was cocooned in a self-spun empire that had become both a palace and a prison. I was lead by some mysterious cause and I acted without question, which I was beginning to realise was not a unique predicament. Each time Franco tightened his throt­ tling vice on his county, he chastised the people like an adolescent son, but in his efforts to curb a nation’s libido, he created a nation of perverts. What had lain dormant in the belly of the peo­ple now rose and flourished with a new intensity - bestowed for the first time with a name of its own, sin had found a home. So even in my acts of rebellion, I knew that I too was playing the part of a delinquent son to my tyrannical father, Franco, and it is only now I can confess that in this role I felt, for the first time, a deep sense of pur­ pose in my life. Paternal Patterns I had not yet considered the fabric fea­ tures of the hotel a part of my erotic topography, for even in my state of sex­ual awareness, I failed to see the prac­tical application of curtains into my set of tricks. In retrospect I now see that the seeds of my new erotic fixation were sewn in childhood, as is so often the case, and I can recall to this day with great clarity the image of the curtains of my boyhood nursery. Stitched in endlessly repeating pat­terns, they depicted an idyllic medie­val scene of hunting men with

spears, skip­ping fauna, and walled towns with turrets enclosed by moats. At night the pictures illuminated in the yellow street­light beyond and on stormy nights the trees would sway and cast shadows against the curtains crushing and destroying – as my boyish imagi­nation would have it – the towns and the peoples of my kingdom. By con­trast the curtains in my room at the Hotel Munber were plain, and the only patterns that decorated them at night were the wrought iron window bars silhouetted by the streetlamps and occasional passing car. My room was a simple cell on the backside of the complex, and consisted of a single bed that abutted – through lack of space rather than design - a tall window that was cov­ered day and night by the heavy drapes. On the floor beside the bed was a small brown carpet covering cool terracotta tiles, and on the plain white walls a porcelain sink and mirror. The first of April was the anniversary of the Franco victory of the civil war, and the bar at was filled with bunting and Fran­ co regalia as it was chosen to host the local celebrations this year. Whilst the scene of blind-drunken soldiers falling over each other was not a sight reserv­ ed only for these festive days, today was unique in that it was accompanied by the fanfare of marching bands and swarms of children dressed in national costume that by dusk ran wildly about the car park dodging pools of vomit. I spent the day in the dark solitude of my room, running high with a deliriously sweaty fever that had gripped me as the final preparations for the big day were completed. The holiday passed in a haze of muffled brass, crying children and distant calls from the kitchen

The Mock where Paquito and Cabezon alone at­ tended to the hoards of visitors. As night fell my fever rose, throwing me deeper into a delirium that would peak in the middle of the night when the incident surely occurred. Fragmented memories hang in the sick, stagnant air of that delirious night, and although I hold no certainty of witnessing the incredible act, I can think of no other motive that would drive me to copulate with the curtain. Handlebar Bar Rodeo I can’t locate when it happened exactly, but the music in the bar had stopped so the morning must have been ap­proach­ ing. A ratting against the win­dowpane tugged me from a restless sleep, but I managed only half an eye before falling back into my state. When the second sound struck, I was brought fully to, as it involved a prolonged scrap­ing sound, back and forth across the window bars. Naturally I assumed that someone was calling for my at­tention, and so lan­ guidly I kicked back the sheets and made towards the win­dow. But when the figure of a man sud­denly appeared silhouetted in the win­dow I stopped, for it was not the friend­ly form of Cabezon’s swollen head, but the out­ line of a soldier, as I could make out the distinctive shape of his beret. For a few short moments I watched the shadow, rocking gently back and forth, gripping the window bars for support, and satisfied that it was just another drunk­ ard pissing on the bins, started back to my place a­­mong the wrinkled sheets. But when the head of a second figure rose from under the sill, the realisation struck that I was actually witnessing


a lewd affair that was on closer inspec­ tion even more outrageous and more devious than it first appeared, as the sec­ond figure was also sporting the sig­ nature beret. Frozen in my bed and growing increasingly aroused, I watch­ ed the shadows play out against the curtain in disbelief, and had my cock not have reacted so affirmatively, I would certainly not have trusted my eyes. As the two lovers closed in to em­brace, my dick rose rigid and stood straight up against my stomach, throb­ bing. Still I dared not move, for even the smallest noise could disturb the show which, so clearly outlined in the crisp backlight, not only played on the curtains before me but was cast across my own body as well, so that the sol­ diers were, in a manner of speaking, copulating over my own flesh. When their kissing ceased and their mouths unlocked, the taller figure took the hands of the smaller stocky soldier, and easing him around to face the window now, planted each hand onto a window bar, which the young soldier then gripped tightly. The commanding guard took his position behind the now bending boy, and cocking his head to his large hand spat into his palm a number of times before moving his hand to a hidden place between them. Now the folded man threw his head back and his spine arched in pleasure as the older guard stood in still concen­ tration with his head cast down. Grad­ ually, the standing soldier eased him­ self into his mate, and beginning with slow rhythmic strokes, thrust his sil­ houetted hips into the doubled man’s ass. As the bodies gained confidence and moved together with ease, my eyes flit about the room, taking in every


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detail of the scene. The figures were cast crisply against the hanging linen and I shifted further into place so that their rocking torsos moved across my perspiring chest and stomach. As I watched the shadow dance, the picture of my boyhood curtains flashed into my mind and my mouth curled into a devious grin. Now I gripped my cock, and as their brutish act intensified, I rose to my knees, no longer caring for the consequences of being heard. By this point the elder male was hunched further over his companion, and find­ ing any solution to deepen his thrusts, had taken grip of the same window bars to aid his urgent cause. In the abandonment of the situation I too edged closer to the plane of action and began to run my hands wildly over my chest and stomach between taking long strokes on my cock. As the shad­ owy beast writhed with two backs, I felt a hot churning in my laiden balls and I could see that they too were approaching an ecstatic finish as now both bodies pulsated as a single shadow pressed flat against the bars. Without control I threw myself at the thick curtain and pressed into the fabric until I felt the cool glass through the folds and was inches from the virile soldiers. As the heavy thudding came to yield an animal, gut-wrenching groan echoed around the yard and tremorred through the glass and I in answer thrust into the curtain for the last time and spurted streams of fever­ish cream into the dripping folds.

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So overwhelming was the climax and so dizzying the sport that I fell imme­ diately into the rutted sheets and dis­ solved into a deep and satisfying sleep from which I did not awake until the next afternoon. When my eyes finally opened the room glowed orange in the evening sun and shards of golden light fell on the damp sheets that were strewn across the floor. First standing then stretching, I felt the strength had returned to my arms and legs, and my fever subsided. I moved to the sink I threw water over my face and neck and tugged lightly at my cock pulling back the skin. After drying myself with a fresh towel I fell back to bed and lit a Dunbar, leaning against the cool wall and gazing about the room. It was then that I noticed a curious thing; on the wall there was a dark formless stain that appeared as a kick from a dirty shoe, but the mark ran vertically and was somewhat too large and certainly too high to have been made by a foot. In curiosity I rose to touch the mark as if to brush it away, but as my hand moved towards the spot, the spot disappeared, and the shadowy trick showed itself. Suddenly my skin was mottled with a prickly tingle and a feeling of hot lava ran down my throat, as it was not until then that I remem­ bered what had occurred. As my legs became weak the room faded into an intense light and I grappled and fought to focus on images which slipped con­ stantly away. Then I remembered the curtain and knowing it was the only proof of the sordid tale I turned to­ wards the bright opening with squin­

ting eyes. Casting a hand over my brow I made towards the light and craned my head closer to the curtain where sure enough, I found the evidence. At the level of a tall man’s crotch, in the wrinkled folds of the heavy golden drapes, a shady dark patch smeared the curtain like an abstract gesture frozen in time. And already pulling at my cock, I played with the evening breeze warm over my buttocks, and feeling myself enveloped in the golden light I came back into the curtain again and again, repeating my pattern, remarking my mark, which is how it became a unique spot in the hotel. —Simon Fujiwara



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At that same moment X’s friends fell a mysterious presence. The widow turns joint feet and has the clear feeling that he is there, on the churchyard, smiling, with a new hat pulled down the head.

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At that same moment two twins of opposite polit­ical orientation leave the ballot paper into the box. One vote right, the other left. From a formal point of view, their ideas cancelled each other. So what’s the point of coming to blows during family’s lun­c hes?

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At that same moment a handshake seals the peace between two former wrestling champions, meeting at the funeral of a referee, in overcoat, no more in pants as during the apex of theiar career. The referee’s wife, both of them’ lover already, is on house-arrest under suspicion of having strike the husband with a left hook.

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Are you dead? No, not yet Will you tell me when? Of course

Everything that there’s not? Everything It’s not a nice place then It is not a place

Are you looking at me now? Of course I am looking at you I’m afraid Me too

Are you sure we don’t become stars? What we become is not important We become something Yes, something like dust, I think, but this is not what is important So what then? That we become Who told you all these things You, many years ago, then you forgot

How old were you the first time? That I died? Yes Your age Do you think I will die soon too? No And the others? I don’t know Will you die with your eyes open? Maybe It will seem like you are looking at me You can close them if it bothers you It won’t bother me

Are you dead? No, not yet You cannot die without telling me Alright Good Good —Alex Cecchetti

I am not dead yet I know If I speak I can’t be dead I know Are you always afraid? Yes What are you thinking? Someone said we are crazy for doing this Don’t listen to them I don’t listen to them Good Is there light when you die? No, not very much And are there people? There is everything that is not here

The roof was the highest point of the building, it was in the shape of a cone with a rounded top, made from con­ crete. The use of this material extended throughout the rest of the building making it look as though it might have been constructed as one piece. As though its entire shape could be a cast form. At the edges where the roof joined the supporting walls no hard lines could be seen, instead there was a smoothed curve. If the cone roof had a function it was hard to tell. Perhaps in the summer months this building was used as a cafe, although there were no adver­tisement signs on the inside or the outside to indicate this. The garden was overgrown but the path way quite clear. Creeping plants such as ivy covered a considerable sur­ face area of the building creating a dis­ tortion of boundaries in the structure at ground level. The windows were boarded up apart from a small back win­­dow and the large shop/patio win­ dow at the front that extended from ground to roof level. Looking into the back window all that could be seen before objects became indistinguish­ able in the darkness was a small moun­ tain of badly stacked chairs. The front window had a very pro­ minent feature that was a metal secu­ rity grid, it covered the windows total surface area and masqueraded as an ornate decoration that followed an in­ tri­c ate angular pattern. In this window piles of dusty mattresses could be seen and a few upturned tables. The patio area extended outwards down a subtly inclining slope, followed


by a low concrete wall. The situation of the building was exposed to the elements. The wind played on the sur­ rounding pampas grass, its height reached at some points the same height as the lower roof area and magnified the smallest of breezes. —Charlotte Moth


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Books of Mine That David Took When He Moved Out of Our Apartment (an excerpt from An Annotated Bibliography of My Library) buchanan, scot t, ed. The Portable Plato, Penguin (New York, 1978) I bought this book in 2006 from Myopic Books. The cover has squares of light blue, black and a rusty orange colour, the text is white. There is a small drawing in the rusty orange colour of a young man wearing a toga with one arm out­ stretched. I bought this book so that I could read a section from Phaedo about the death of Socrates.

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donovan, molly, Christo and Jeanne Claude in the Vogel Collection, New York: National Gallery of Art (Washington, 2003) My friend Phoebe gave me this book for my birthday in 2003. She bought the book from a used bookstore and I am fairly sure that she didn’t know who Chris­ to and Jeanne-Claude were at the time, but she thought it looked interesting. Or perhaps she knew that Christo and Jeanne-Claude were some of my favourite artists at the time. On the cover of the book is a photograph of a sketch for Valley Curtain, which was collaged with real fabric. I looked at this book a lot when it was first given to me. I was particularly interested in Christo and Jeanne-Claude, then. I haven’t looked at it recently. I have only looked at the photographs in this book and have not ever bothered to look at the essays at all, which is indicative of my general attitude towards the quality of writing in books that have a lot of pic­ tures in them.

curtis, william j.r., Modern Architecture Since 1900, Phaidon (London, 1996) I bought this book in 2006 from Powell’s Books in Portland Oregon. The cover is grey and has a black geometric design on the front. This book has really lovely pictures of modern architecture in it, which I occasionally flip through and look at. I have never read any of the essays. dickinson, emily, The Poems of Emily Dickinson, r.w. franklin ed., Belknap Press of Harvard University (Cambridge and London, 1999) I was given this book for Christmas in 2007 after having asked for it. Usually I don’t ask for things for Christmas but the people I spent the holidays with asked me to ask for something, so I asked for this (I also asked for a blue striped shirt and pictures of people dancing). On the cover is a photograph of four red tulips, two in focus, two out of focus. The text is white. The cover irritates me every time I see it. It is exactly how I don’t want to think about Emily Dickinson. I would rather the book have a white cover with black type, in a very simple sans serif. This volume includes all of Dickinson’s poems but not their variations. In the book I left a photocopy of a passage Benjamin’s Paris, Capitol of the Nine­ teenth Century. My favorite Dickinson poem is this one: A Door just opened on a street – I – lost – was passing by– An instant’s Width of Warmth disclosed – And Wealth – and Company – The Door as instant shut – And I – I – lost – was passing by – Lost doubly – but by contrast - most – Informing – Misery –

filliou, robert, Dieter Roth, An Anecdoted Topography of Chance, ed. daniel spoerri, illus. Topor, Trans Emmet Williams, Atlas Press (London, 1995) Joseph Grigely recommended this book to me when I proposed to write an annotated bibliography of my personal library as my final paper for his class in 2008. Sean then gave me his copy of this book, which incidentally was given to him by Julia. On the cover are photographs of the previous three editions of the book on its cover, which are cut out and pasted in a column. There are shadows added around the pictures of the book covers to make it look as though the books were all photographed together on the same surface. Also on the cover are four drawings, which are also in a column. There is a drawing of a man’s face made out of letters, an Arc-like boat, a stylized beehive, and a three dimensional looking number four. In the back of the book is a foldout page on which is printed the drawn outlines of the objects which were on a particular table at a specific time. The text of the book is annotations (or ‘anecdotations’) for every shape on the table. My favourite entry is for the Carton of Socosel, (a kind of fancy salt) for which Spoerri lists every passage in the Bible that references salt. kafka, franz, The Complete Short Stories, Schocken Books (New York, 1983) I bought this book in 2004 for a class I took on Beckett and Kafka. The cover is shiny black. At the top of the cover in matte black lowercase sans serif typeface (maybe Futura?) is the name of the author; towards the bottom of the cover in shiny white, Apple Chancery-ish looking typeface is the title of the book The Complete Short Stories, also in all lower case. In the middle of the cover is a picture of a pen nib, which is tinted bright yellow, and separated into five sections. I read most of the stories in the book for the class. Most memorably, A Hun­ger Artist and The Vulture. I think that my professor Adam Novy perma­ nently influences my understanding and appreciation of Kafka; in particular by

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his somewhat depraved sense of humour. Incidentally I met David for the first time in Adam’s class, although we didn’t become friends until the following year. hawking, steven w., A Brief History of Time, Bantam (New York, 1988) I bought this book in 2006 for a class Issues in Post Modern Poetry. The cover is blue and features a colour photograph of Hawking. I read the chapters about black holes for the class and haven’t read anything from this book since. I like looking at the diagrams in this book, although I rarely read about what the diagrams represent. Below is a diagram that I copied from the book, omitting the ex­planatory text. salinger, j.d., Nine Stories, Little, Brown (New York,1997) I bought this book in 2002 from Rainy Day Books after my high school boy­ friend, Jamie, recommended it to me. The cover is almost entirely white with the exception of the upper-left corner where there are seven stripes across the corner, all different colours, arranged in roughly backwards rainbow order. The title and author are printed in a black, all caps serif typeface. I remember that Jamie particularly liked A Perfect Day for Bananafish whereas I liked To Esseme with Love and Squalor best. shakespeare, william, King Lear, Penguin, (Middlesex, 1972) This book belonged to my mother and I took it with me when I moved to Chicago for school in 2004. The cover features an image that looks to be from a woodblock print. The image is of a bearded man wearing only a loincloth, hold­ ing what looks to be a sword or a gun. Someone has coloured part of the man’s body in with graphite. I have read this copy of King Lear several times; the last time being in 2004 or 2005. I especially like the part when Lear is wandering in a field, after he is blind, and believes he has jumped off a cliff. Or is it Gloucester? I don’t remember, really. I got into an argument with Matthew about this a year ago but haven’t bothered to look into it. —Sarah Elliott

ps: David insisted I note that he fully intends to return all of these books


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The Mock and other superstitions Quarterly journal of written words contributors Olivier Castel, Alex Cecchetti, Michael Dean, Marcelline Delbecq, Sarah Elliott, Simon Fujiwara, Charlotte Moth, Matteo Terzaghi / Marco Z端rcher edited by Francesco Pedraglio designed by Paulus M. Dreibholz very special thanks to All contributors, Paulus M. Dreibholz, Franziska Richter and all Briset studio, Maria Fusco, Caterina Riva, Pieternel Vermoortel, Edizioni Periferia contact Printed with the support of: FormContent (

The Mock and other superstition - ISSUE 2  

Anecdotes as New Theory (Titled after a conversation with Maria Fusco) With: Olivier Castel, Alex Cecchetti, Michael Dean, Marcelline Delbe...

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