Scenes from the life _ 1974 How it was


Summer Villeneuve street 1973 was it 74 Bonnie me reading Unnameable Molly Malone. Aphasia of amnesiac present of gold book pages falling. She back from Greece, anecdotes of her friend there who'd been given some money by Beckett. I thought it was a funny story , and no doubt it was a true one.
She came to me one morning that summer and she was coughing blood. She died a week later.

Bizarre life of.

Jean Genet asking friends, is it good? Is that writing? Am I a poet, he says, prefers to be called a poet. Not like the whores of ---- a we censorship here as Mona does not want to be called a whip by the territories or powers that be and determine Careers. All is fiction, Angela, that was a good practice. I am the name between the grooves in the recording studio. When looked at me across the room, and the cello player, saw this, I felt a momentary , a moment, a glimpse into, envy. Envy of bodies for each . and one another. Sawa flash into. what wont be named. cannot.

Some charming snip-snaps in The Guardian from Beckett Remembering Remembering Beckett, to be published by next month. Next month meaning April
which is the cruellest month .

One as as this:

Then, out of the blue, five or 10 minutes later, he leant across the table and said, ‘You really liked it, huh? You really thought it was good?’ This was Samuel Beckett, remember, and not even he had any grasp of the value of his work. No writer ever knows, not even the best ones. ‘Yes,’ I said to him. ‘I really thought it was good.’
Scenes from the life of Sam

This is like one of those stories that Edmund White
recounts in his biography of Jean Genet.

Genet asking friends, am I a good writer?

Am I a good writer? am I a writer? am I a poet?
what sickness is this? what charming
childlike question.

What temper of uncertainty.

Or perhaps
pure apocrypha

the gossip of literary matters.

Sweet gossip of love letters, litterture, littersure.

Shall we see our faces in the sea treasure of time.