Le Grand Mystere

'The author is unknown'. So says the gloss in the preface.

So there's no information about the sad sack schufter. The groaning bad-backed misanthrope that chopped out this book. The aching creaking lump of pale flesh that wobbled gelatinously as its thin fingers pianolaed across the keyboard, or etched across the paper, tentatively, crossly, desperately. The frown-furrowed bum-scratcher, the hunchbacked kidney-stretcher, the coaster-rolling ditherer, the pen-counter, the pencil-sharpener, the rubber-rubber, the chin-picker.

Unknown.

Oje!

Don't let on.

Don't tell that crotch-howker, that nose-bohrer. Don't tell that miner of thoughts, that sayer of sayings, that harvester of the gold and the glum. That spinner and späher, that watch-and-listener. That typist. That pianist of the letter-chord.

G minor. G major. G scale, tonic, dominant, tonic, cadence, and almost-cadence.

That alphabet-tease. That word-maker. That anecdoter.

Oje!

Unknown?

Perhaps that's best.

Perhaps that's best.

For all concerned.

4/3/2008

Chateaubriand

Atala, René, 1964

p 111

http://www.lekti-ecriture.com/editeurs/Le-grand-mystere.html