April 3, 2011

to the lighthouse, from the french mountainside

∣ notes update: 20110303 ∣

Sitting at the caravan dinning room table in the middle of nowhere near Plan de la Tour, where street name and number don’t matter that much anymore for the carless traveler– there is NO WALKING DISTANCE anywhere in the vast french countryside–I was reminded of how memories would be all what we might actually hold in the long run. The dear and extremely clever Virginia Woolf revived the thought. She was the great recorder of the implicit and fleeting moments in trivial lives. Moments. Moments. Moments one does not recognise yet would flash back, off one’s guard, in the queerest hour, the most vulnerable time, the rare and not-to-be-sought tranquility. Pieces of a traveller’s disoriented moments of long long long journeys. Souvenir. Je me souviens de —

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