The alternative history of writers: 3

August 18, 2008

I met Georges Perec in the Cafe Bouquiniste yesterday. He was scrunched onto the futon in the art corner, nursing an espresso and a cigarette and a notebook. Black candyfloss hair, Marty Feldmanesque eyes: it was definitely him. I ordered a coffee and sat nearby and started writing myself (these words, these ones right here). My coffee arrived and it happened that we looked at each other.

“What are you writing about ?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” he shrugged. “Everything, nothing. The ordinary. All the absolutely ordinary stuff.”

It seems that for some writers there is no alternative history. Or that there is nothing else.

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