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Hi Charlotte,
How are things going? Did you receive the book I sent you last week?
It's a nice sunny day here. Girls walk gently in the streets. But I am obsessed by the idea of war. I see the war desire, its craving in the eyes of commander in chief Barack Obama. In the colour of Michelle's beautiful dress. I hear the desire for war in the words of minister De Crem. I smell it in the smiling breath of the pope. And in the cold eyes of his adversaries.
I feel the desire when I listen to my own heartbeat. But I never was a fighter. When I was a child, my mother slaughtered me with a leather belt when she caught me fighting with other boys, even if I was simply attacked and completely innocent. Later when I took part in demonstrations, I always was bewildered by the sight of the riot policemen with their helmets and their new long batons. Once, during a demonstration against the Greek colonels who were celebrating the anniversary of their coup at the Club des Nations in Brussels (in 1971), they captured me, beat me to death and drove me into the forest alongside the Club. A friend of mine was arrested too: they smashed his head against the trees. On the balcony on the first floor of the Club, men in dark costumes drinking white wine and champagne, shouted to the policemen: "Tuez-le! Kill him!" I was too dizzy, too far away, to notice the meaning of their words.
Hi Charlotte,
How are things going? Did you receive the book I sent you last week?
It's a nice sunny day here. Girls walk gently in the streets. But I am obsessed by the idea of war. I see the war desire, its craving in the eyes of commander in chief Barack Obama. In the colour of Michelle's beautiful dress. I hear the desire for war in the words of minister De Crem. I smell it in the smiling breath of the pope. And in the cold eyes of his adversaries.
I feel the desire when I listen to my own heartbeat. But I never was a fighter. When I was a child, my mother slaughtered me with a leather belt when she caught me fighting with other boys, even if I was simply attacked and completely innocent. Later when I took part in demonstrations, I always was bewildered by the sight of the riot policemen with their helmets and their new long batons. Once, during a demonstration against the Greek colonels who were celebrating the anniversary of their coup at the Club des Nations in Brussels (in 1971), they captured me, beat me to death and drove me into the forest alongside the Club. A friend of mine was arrested too: they smashed his head against the trees. On the balcony on the first floor of the Club, men in dark costumes drinking white wine and champagne, shouted to the policemen: "Tuez-le! Kill him!" I was too dizzy, too far away, to notice the meaning of their words.
I am ashamed I never learnt to fight. For writing has become an act of cowardice: earning money by telling stories about the world's misery. I am deeply ashamed. But I am too old now to learn fighting. I am doomed to "sit and watch the children play", waiting for my eyes to finally close their lids.I have no news from Sabine. I heard she went to the coast this weekend. She lost her job at the Lloyds Insurance Company, but she feels fine. Robbe is doing very well. He dreams of becoming a fireman.
The trees are beginning to weave green leaves.
Take care! I'll see you the 15th at the airport.
Yours, Eric
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2 opmerkingen:
Charlotte? De keizerin van Mexique?
Nee, mijn Charlotte heeft blonde vlechten.
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