Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

tahar ben jalloun

things to the side. I need more of a desire to make an effort. My tastes distance themselves and are replaced by something I have always hated: indifference. I have the feeling of having been put to the side, into a reserve, in a cave. I am in a second- hand store: used furniture, piled-up dinner sets, lifeless mirrors, lamp shades without lights, plastic knick-knacks, some bad paintings, designs, reproductions destroyed by the humidity, moth-eaten carpets, an overly expensive Saint-Louis jug, a 60 ’s jukebox… and then me. Left there on a shelf, I shrivel up and make myself small. I hide myself. I no longer speak. I breathe painfully. I don’t even feel sadness or grief. I have no emotion; except the emotion of nothing. I really like Degas and his

women: some lie on their backs, others sit facing forward or crouched, others dry their legs, do their hair, scrub themselves, but their hairiness is not evident. I would know. Degas painted women as if he were viewing them through a keyhole. At that time, bodies were covered, full of grace. I note that I have no desire at all for these creatures. Erosion does its job. I would like to be dissolved like in a bad dream where everything is liquid. The whirlwind of emptiness is accompanied by carnival music. An accordion harasses me and I can’t escape it. At the present time, it seemed necessary to save my solitude. I hold it and I know neither the beauty painted by Degas nor that of Caravaggio nor the splendor of Vivaldi. I

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