Georges Perec - La Boutique Obscure - 124 Dreams

With a (poorly identified) woman, J.L., and (a bit later) my aunt, I’ve been invited — or have dropped in without warning — to visit L. My aunt and J.L. have made it in, but the woman and I find ourselves on a little platform that turns out to be surrounded by a ditch filled with water. First we think there’s no water, because it’s covered in water lilies and lotuses, but there is, and lots of it. How to cross this ditch? It would be difficult to jump: in all probability we’d fall into the water before even taking off.

But here is a wooden bridge. The woman crosses it easily and lands in L.’s arms. He welcomes her, saying, “stay for dinner!” as though our impromptu visit hasn’t put him out at all and he even knew we were staying. Then he reaches his hand out to me to help me cross the bridge; and it’s good that he does, because the bridge is rotten and breaks the moment I step on it, but, thanks to his help, I do not fall into the water.

“O, precious symbolism!” I cry.

/ /

I discuss plans for the conference for a moment with J.L., and then with my aunt, who tells me she’s not going, as she feels too tired; that same day she took a walk with her granddaughter and came back exhausted.

L. does not look like himself. He has a beard. He looks more like Bernard P. would if Bernard P. grew a beard. His wife looks vaguely like Bernard P.’s wife.

On a picnic table there are papers, a pair of glasses, and the book L. was reading when we arrived. It is a volume from the Pléiade, open to a story entitled “Don B.,” or “Madame B.” Which reminds me of a Stendhal story.

Eight fragments, maybe from an opera

It seems I have gone to see Nicholas Ray’s film Johnny Guitar .

I live in a house that I rent for 360 francs a year. The house is falling apart. The radiators are collapsing.

I send (surely to the landlord) a letter of apology, in which I pass the blame for the degradation of the house onto a second-class officer, while I myself am a reserve captain.

A colleague, M., comes to see me. G., another co-worker, also arrives; perhaps she is bothering us: in any case, our three-person scene gives me a great sense of displeasure.

We make several dates to meet; there are a great many of us. Departure for the procession: view of a big party. Wardrobe problem.

The opera (which I’m watching) looks nothing like it should. The stage is terribly far away.

The stage, this time very close: a large bald man, whose face conveys great tenderness, is smashing the skulls of the King, Queen, and Pope with a mace. Among the innumerable male and female extras is B.

I call Z. on the telephone.

Water town

In Philippe D.’s car. He is driving backwards; moreover, he’s in the back seat.

His parents’ accident.

(the old nanny and the matte silver chandelier)

He has just made a round trip, his hair has turned white.

This takes place in a (water) town where I am making a film with the actor Jean-Paul Belmondo. We call him on the phone. I send him a three-word message so that he understands who’s asking. Another message, maybe.

In fact, the communiqué is meant for the actor’s mistress, a very tan and callipygian woman whom I recognize, with shock, as P.L. (a man).

Crosswords

I’m talking to a friend about a project for the reissue of Politique-Hebdo . We meet two (or three) girls who used to work for the weekly and are preparing to go back there. In theory, there’s no question of my setting crossword puzzles for them. I think about it nonetheless, “in petto”; I have a number of grids at the ready and no shortage of ideas for new ones. The only question to work out would be that of fees. I think of an excellent clue for “GRANT”— his most famous children didn’t take his name . But no, silly, that’s not “GRANT,” that’s obviously “VERNE.” I find not a new definition for “GRANT” but another one for “VERNE”: A Jules who wasn’t .

My height

I’m supposed to write an item (like a Who’s Who listing) about my boss.

To make my job easier, Jean Duvignaud gives me a “window notebook,” a notebook whose hard cover has been cut out on the inside, a bit like for a passport.

The “window notebook” isn’t about my boss but about L. This is how I learn that one of his middle names is Bertrand. Flipping through the notebook, I notice that the information it contains isn’t up to date at all.

It’s a window notebook, but it’s not a current notebook .

I am at S.B.’s house. In a narrow and tortuous hall, she introduces me to her mother, mentioning my height (1.65m and a half). I correct her. I say first: 1.70m., then 1.68m. I feel desperately short.

Now there is a crowd in S.B.’s living room. Someone is telling — or maybe showing — the story of a young man who begins to levitate, earning the audience’s admiration. But he ends up falling back to the ground (regardless of how gracefully he was floating) and he rushes under a train.

Earlier, I had had a long conversation with her father, and maybe also with her uncle. Both of them were abominably drunk.

25 blows with a stick

I am giving 25 blows with a stick. It’s a performance, which Z. watches without understanding any of it.

For my part, what I understand is something like: from A to Z, where Z is the slash, the cut, the scar.

I am in Israel. The country has just gained independence. We wait for a long time in a hangar. Several trucks pass by.

There are two men in me. One is pro-Israel, the other anti-.

The anti- notices that it’s not all for the worst in Israel.

The actress, 2

An actress begins to dance and slowly takes her clothes off. She has very small breasts.

I think of my mother.

The snowplow

I have a date with Z. at the Deux-Magots.

It’s snowing.

The snow turns to ice.

Someone brings a snowplow. It emerges from the snow like a submarine’s periscope emerging from the sea.

Details about how the snowplow works.

Another (is it really another?) snowplow flips over.

Z. pays seven and a half francs for our breakfast.

The inn

I visit J.L., who has just moved and now lives near the outskirts of Paris, across from a métro station. At first glance, the house seems to be just an ordinary building; it’s next to an inn, whose sign says in Gothic letters:

VANVES INN

The apartment is actually a real three-story house (a triplex). The third floor is absolutely amazing. It’s a living room with a grand piano; gradually you realize it’s a very large room, a very, very large room: it goes on forever, its floor is a lawn that opens onto a horizon of wooded countryside.

The view is spectacular. We rave about it:

“What luck that you found this!”

“Too bad they’ll eventually wise up and begin building housing projects on it!”