Sunday, August 19, 2012
Thanks to Canned Heat and a bit of Kerouac for the title which sees me writing this in Millau – the place of the greatest bridge this side of St Peter’s Gates. As The Latest News window mentioned ( www.chronometerpublications.me ) we were in an Auvergne B&B last night. The host, Francois, appears to have done everything the 20th century hero should have done. He’s a pilot, a seagoing captain, a mountaineer, a hunter, a driver for ambassadors, a wine maker, a cheese maker and has the capacity to talk the hind legs of a herd of donkeys. Less of that and more of something else. He said he could never write, though he keeps a diary. In due course he told me about his father – a perfect little tale, which I will convey to you with all the lack of frills of Borges.
“My father was forty and knew he was going to die. He bought a coffin and placed it in the front room, near the front door. Every night he slept in it for practice for the final moment. He died when he was forty three. When the autopsy was done it was established that he was perfectly sound and there was no reason for his death.”
You see? We writers imagine our tales like card players but constantly find our hands outplayed by life. For my own yarns, longer and fleshier, go to: