December 3, 1951
The famous Parisian café society, the literati, lends itself accurately to the many descriptions writers have made over the last century. Everyday for three to five hours I would sit outside surrounded by an array of humanity: French, German, Swiss, Russian et al. putting pen to paper, drawing and painting. I’d attempt to express the tales that continually ran through my little mind…but something was missing…heart or deep passion?
Something or someone was missing…
I was tired of the French communists believing that it was “the” answer to the world’s problems.
I refuse to join their meetings but they’re relentless…
Stalin and Hitler were always neck and neck in the evil stakes, but history focuses on the German’s…Stalin makes Hitler look like a school ground bully. But the French intellectuals were either socialist or died in the wool Marxists’… what fools they are. It seems that good intentions (in ignorance) are paved to Hell.
The new year was approaching and I was determined to finish my book..
My beautiful partner and son had plenty of money, as she came from Austrian aristocratic stock, and her family managed to maintain their wealth. She loved me and our son and she continued to support me in my writing pursuits.
So I would return to our little flat and she would be reading to Karl in French, English, German or Russian, depending on the night, and I would arrive with my M.S, half drunk, self absorbed, selfish and grumpy.
Margi would always insist on reading my day’s work.
On that night she was not happy, as I had written not a single word because of self pity and alcohol, and because on that particular day, artistic neurosis took precedence.
My excuse, as always, was “writer’s block.
Magi kissed me tenderly and said, “Tomorrow you’ll write pages of beautiful prose, right? Now love, Karl.
Karl was Magi’s son from an unfortunate encounter during the war, but I loved him like he was my own.
My little boy was not only special, but a miracle. At four years of age he’d ask, “Dada, French or English?”
Thus we would read a book in the language of my choice, usually English or French.
The little man would fall asleep…and I would too.
Then everything changed.
The famous Parisian café society, the literati, lends itself accurately to the many descriptions writers have made over the last century. Everyday for three to five hours I would sit outside surrounded by an array of humanity: French, German, Swiss, Russian et al. putting pen to paper, drawing and painting. I’d attempt to express the tales that continually ran through my little mind…but something was missing…heart or deep passion?
Something or someone was missing…
I was tired of the French communists believing that it was “the” answer to the world’s problems.
I refuse to join their meetings but they’re relentless…
Stalin and Hitler were always neck and neck in the evil stakes, but history focuses on the German’s…Stalin makes Hitler look like a school ground bully. But the French intellectuals were either socialist or died in the wool Marxists’… what fools they are. It seems that good intentions (in ignorance) are paved to Hell.
The new year was approaching and I was determined to finish my book..
My beautiful partner and son had plenty of money, as she came from Austrian aristocratic stock, and her family managed to maintain their wealth. She loved me and our son and she continued to support me in my writing pursuits.
So I would return to our little flat and she would be reading to Karl in French, English, German or Russian, depending on the night, and I would arrive with my M.S, half drunk, self absorbed, selfish and grumpy.
Margi would always insist on reading my day’s work.
On that night she was not happy, as I had written not a single word because of self pity and alcohol, and because on that particular day, artistic neurosis took precedence.
My excuse, as always, was “writer’s block.
Magi kissed me tenderly and said, “Tomorrow you’ll write pages of beautiful prose, right? Now love, Karl.
Karl was Magi’s son from an unfortunate encounter during the war, but I loved him like he was my own.
My little boy was not only special, but a miracle. At four years of age he’d ask, “Dada, French or English?”
Thus we would read a book in the language of my choice, usually English or French.
The little man would fall asleep…and I would too.
Then everything changed.
No comments:
Post a Comment