Читать книгу Revenge of the Translator - Brice Matthieussent - Страница 13

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* The crowbar that here allows the stranger dressed in a large black cape to force his way, by night, into the restored Normandy cottage owned by the French writer Abel Prote, to break into, collect, or erase the data on his computer, this crowbar slipped under Prote’s white door, is running through my mind. This crowbar titillates my birdbrain. For all you need is a solid pull on the handle of this tool so that the lever raises itself at the same time, and that’s all there is to it, the door vanished, the path clear.

Thus, it would perhaps suffice for me to accumulate enough of these lines here at the bottom of the page for the white door, the thin black bar signifying the bottom, to violently swing off its hinges. My inferior remarks, my commentaries and other digressions would act, then, as my crowbar. What would I see next, after the fall of the white panel? What unknown space would we discover together? Is the asterisk the peephole permitting me to scrutinize what lies beyond, the secret passage behind the mirror?

But, until then, a doormat I remain. (Notion’s End)