I had started to write (kind of pugnacious, impressionistic task) a story about victor before victor was born; victor&I are truly close, yet we have never met. I know about victor, as much as he knows about himself: a celibate, a recluse, a a one-man multitude., a provincial boy, with a certain resemblance to a medicine-bottle, scared of being too nattily dressed, who spent childhood in a delirium of literary exaltations; too intransigent. Sentimental too, who can’t describe a kiss without blushing.
Like a dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. I follow victor, I take notes: black clothes, “free love”, a war, love between man and woman, friendship, and the care of the earth, serious entertainment, no moral aim, no solemnity, awe; late nights of smoky jazz, everyone is addressed as “sir.” Your Excellency, it was really a beautiful time. Quite. Or . . . yes. Obviously, there's no end to it.