Hotel Médiéval has three levels on top of the groundfloor. It is situated it the center of Avignon, not that far from Place de Pie and La mémoire du monde, a bookshop largely focused on editions from Christian Bourgeois and Les éditions du minuit. Here I traced no less than three dozen of Beckett publications, all of it edited by Editions du minuit, a large amount of Queneau and Echenoz novels and an eminent amount of volumes by Deleuze, Duras and Perec. Donc, voici, j'écris pour Libération. First sentence of L'été 80 by Marguerite Duras: Je suis sans sujet d'article. Mais peut-être n'est-ce pas nécessaire. Je crois que je vais écrire à propos de la pluie. Il pleut. Depuis le quinze juin il pleut.
It is fascinating rather to read on Anonymus first half 21st century, from a review that I received while overlooking some truly gorgeous mountain scenery, le Canigou, clouded - the usual scenery during summer down here in Vallespir, Siel told. Colette had send me the review and asked if I per chance could write something on its author. She too had noticed that it once again had been qualified as arrogant and irritating, qualifications undeliberately that level it to that miserable rank of masterpiece, as most of any of that - to name but some of the many qualifications none of its authors care for - irritates, apart from more splendid features making gunsmoke and fun of itself or anything else.
A half a dozen of British and Australian tourists settled in the garden, or so-called garden, of Hotel Médiéval. Somewhere on third floor a window closes. Georges Perec confronts me with his most admirable smile, on the cover of a Joseph K. volume, En dialogue avec l'époque et autres entretiens. The people in the garden talk on the plans they have and the things they did, among that visiting villages and medieval churches, Paris and Italy.
The Hotel Médiéval is No Smoking area. I had been reading on Tex Avery and now the sound of one hand clapping covers the garden place: someone lightens a cigarette.