We hide for a moment in a hallway.
We walk in quadruple file. An officer lines us up with a long bamboo switch. He is kind at first, then suddenly he begins to insult us horribly.
In line for roll call. The officer is still shouting but not striking anyone. At one point, each of us (he and I) is holding an end of the switch; I am overcome with panic at the prospect of him hitting me.
The universe of the camp is unbroken: nothing can be done to affect it.
Later, I burst into tears while passing a tent where children with an incurable disease are being treated. Their only chance of survival is here. I wonder if this survival doesn’t consist in their being turned into pills, which reminds me of an anecdote about dieting cures that work because the dieters are told to ingest pills that actually contain a tapeworm.
No. 18: August 1970
Vergelesses
I am with her at a restaurant.
I look at a menu that is very extensive but contains only dishes that are both dull and overpriced (for instance, a hot dog with fries for twelve francs).
I consult the wine list and suggest that we order “vergelesses.”
No. 19: August 1970
The roll of bills
An American-style comedy. It’s one of those stories we’ve all heard before, and where we already know what happens next.
There’s a whole group of us. The police arrest us once, then a second time (but they have to let us go) and a third time, when the impunity we were hoping for no longer works.
Finally, the Chief of Police sets us free and gives us back our money.
Three famous actors, wrinkled like old Western heroes (Stewart, Fonda, etc.) are seated at a table, smiling as they handle thick rolls of dollars.
Wide shot: a roll of blue and yellow bills, differing only by the digit: $500, $500, $100, etc., a long stretch of $1 bills in the middle, then back to large denominations.
In the meantime, I learn that I’m going to be a father, then that I am: the child was born, I wasn’t even told.
I walk down a long hallway, trying to think of a suitable name: it needs to be very short (like Jorg’) or very long. Didier, for instance, would not work.
It’s a girl. Her name is something like Didière or Denise. She has very skinny legs with socks and little white shoes. She seems rather unhappy to see me.
While kissing her, I happen to tear off a tiny piece of her tongue in development (flesh not yet fully firm). I worry that this will harm her growth.
It’s not my wife who is looking after the girl but rather a friend of hers.
No. 20: August 1970
C.
Weekend in Dampierre. C. and one of his friends arrive. I talk to him about a project for a television adaptation of The Raise. Someone else proposed a similar project to me recently.
C. tells me he’s the one behind the project, that he had talked about it to (neither one of us manages to remember the name).
(I don’t remember anything else when I wake up, but all of this seems so logical that I remain convinced that the scene is plausible, even real).
No. 21: September 1970
S/Z
I go back to that bookstore where the books, most of them used, are stacked, or rather heaped, in a corner.
I’m looking for a particular book, but the bookseller says she doesn’t have it. Z. and I browse a few other titles.
I find a book; I recognize the name of the author, but nothing more; it’s a huge collection, or dictionary, of S/Z variations in the works of Balzac.
Each page has four columns:
The “attested term” and “use reference” columns give explanations, the “S” and “Z” columns indicate all the transformed words. Thus:
(Maissé is the name of a character, and Maizsé, which at first I do not understand, is — of course! how could I forget? — the name of a village in Poland.)
This goes on for pages and pages. Each term, or rather each pair, is so evident that it seems odd that it didn’t occur to anybody earlier, shocking that we had to wait for Roland Barthes to notice it.
Leafing backward through the book, Z. shows me a series of epigraphs (in red?) at the beginning of a chapter. The first says something like “Perec gives up his letters”; it’s an excerpt from an article about A Void, but I can’t find the name of the author or the name of the newspaper; I am quite pleased with it, as if this quotation were a sign of recognition (of being taken seriously).
The author of the book is a woman and I remember having read one of her novels.
No. 22: August 1970
Initials
Two of my old friends (let’s say one is Pierre B., whom I have not seen in ten years are in Dampierre. A third — he has the same name as a manager whom I hear about sometimes but have never seen — may have been arrested. Someone asks if he is G.P. No, I exclaim. Maoist or P.C., then. I take that to mean P.C.F. and remark: that’s not the same thing, though! But the other one specifies: P.C.M.L.F.
Most of the terms in this dream are like crossword clues.
No. 23: September 1970
To the South
When I wake up, only one word remains:
Marseilles
We were heading South.
We had already been there, but we were coming from another town.
No. 24: September 1970
Cats
After various perambulations, I am back in the building on rue de Quatrefages (or is it rue des Boulangers? or rue de Seine?).
I’m going from the back room to the front. Denis B. is there (or is it Michaud?).
On the ground, cats. At least three. Tiny little balls of fur. I shout: I said loud and clear that I won’t have that a cat here! I take one of the cats, walk to the door, and toss it out. Then I notice that between the floor and the door there’s a space large enough for a small cat to enter.
Anyway, the whole house is an utter mess.
The downstairs neighbor has a gigantic chimney in his house. He makes a fire and my room burns. Beneath the ashes of the floorboards you can see pieces of masonry and bits of iron from the frame. My friend asks with dismay what we’re going to do. But I’m not in the least bit disturbed and I calmly go down the list of things that need to be done.
No. 25: September 1970
Two plays
I am to be in two plays.
A recent walk-on part revealed my acting talent and I was cast on the spot.
At the moment I’m supposed to enter, I realize that I haven’t rehearsed, nor even read my part once.