Choix de la langue

BlaBlaBlog

Furious!

Furious. I am furious. Very furious. My liver is simmering, my throat is tightening, my eyes are boiling. “They” will plant windmills in our country of Caux. In beautiful Normandy. Everywhere, on land and on water, everywhere on our beautiful terrain, from Fécamp to Dieppe. Dozens, hundreds of windmills as large as the Eiffel Tower. And most importantly, they will disfigure one of the most beautiful beaches of the côte d’Albâtre, the one that inspired Berthe Morisot, Pissaro, Claude Monet, Georges Perec, and Jean Loup Sieff, rocked Brigitte Bardot and Martine Carole, seduced Brian de Palma and Brad Pitt (yes, even he succumbed!), the one that is admired on the walls of the greatest museums: the beach of the Petites Dalles. For a long time we have been fond of it, we have pampered it, we have prohibited the boors from getting their hands on it. And now they want to ravage it! 

 

So, all the lovers of the coast have awoken, become enraged, and written a petition online that one absolutely must sign…so that the natural beauty that this little beach symbolizes is saved! Come on! Check out: sauvonslespetitesdalles.com

"Les falaises des Petites-Dalles" Pissarro

Claude Monet - Les petites dalles

"Falaises de Normandie" Eugène Delacroix

 

 

 

 

 

Writing…

 

How strange writing is! 

I am in my little house near the sea and I am writing. 

The phone has fallen out of order. Not a sound. 

I am alone with Chaussette the dog. 

We have our habits. 

 

 

Wake up facing the sea and the swaying trees. 

We stick our noses outside, sniff the air, trample the grass. 

Too brisk? We go home. 

Chaussette places himself in front of the jar of treats and waits. 

The day will begin. 

My tea, his treat, a stroll, I work, he dozes. His lunchtime pâtée, my soft-boiled egg, a salad, a stroll, I work, he snores. Dinner, a moonlit walk (or not!), one last treat and we say goodnight, sleep well, see you tomorrow! 

 

I climb up to my bedroom, he curls into his basket in the kitchen, and the next morning, we begin again. 

Treat, work, stroll, treat, work, stroll, work. 

Total silence. 

And suddenly in the silence: a phrase, an idea. Fanfare! Concert! Joy! A stunned happiness when the phrase falls into my head like a calling card that one has slipped into my knowledge. 

The phrase that, because it exists, because it is worth writing, will reunite me with the world, will tell me that I am a part of this world. 

I am thus not alone in the silence. 

Find the words to fill the silence. 

The words, like proof of my existence, of the world’s existence. 

 

And to end, an image: the cover of the American version of The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles. The book will be published December 2013. 

 

And life goes on...

I have gone to say hello to my friends, the squirrels of Central Park. 

They stand in front of me, tapping the ground, waiting for a peanut or a piece of bread. Shameless! 

Since I have nothing to offer but a big smile, they shrug their shoulders and go elsewhere. 

 

Central Park South… The carriages, the public benches, the little lake, the willow trees. 

Read more ...

Return to France

Return to France, dreary, plain dreary. 

Return to Paris, long live Normandy! 

I have kept my bright pink sneakers 

I have found Chaussette the dog

I have changed the time on my watch… 

And I have learned that my beautiful Mondaine watch will walk the steps of Cannes this year. 

It will be offered to all the important people who will appear on Canal + and Le Grand Journal. As a sort of official decoration. It has been showing off a little, since then…

Read more ...

New York uptown

I like everything in New York: Uptown, Downtown, East Side, West Side, Chelsea, Soho, Tribeca, etc.! Every neighborhood has its legend, and walking around it is unique. 

 

On Madison, we stroll. The boutiques are beautiful, the windows are enticing, the pedestrians are worth their weight in diamonds, and the saleswomen lift a perfect eyebrow to assess you. 

 

Behind the smoothed and lifted faces we imagine nights of orgies, screams, refined vengeances, white lines of drugs and yellow lines always trespassed. 

 

Why? I don’t know. s

 

Read more ...