Оглавление
Robyn Neilson. Ricochet
Dedication
Prologue
Terra Australis, The Nullarbor Highway
Corner of Flinders Highway and Eyre Highway, Ceduna
Australia: November 1998 until December 2008
Tilia x vulgaris, Wild Lime
Winart Street, Larraboo, May 1999
Loup’s Big Adventure, The Stuart Highway
Our Wedding, December 2008, Descartes Bay
The Hut, Chemin de Verdeleau, Provençe. Spring 2015
Quatre saisons in one room
8 Rue du Sarret, Auriol 2009
Mardi, Tuesday 16 June 2009
Return to Provençe, Summer 2015
Mapping the Chemin
Chemin de Saint Jacques and the Noresman Road
Stéphanie
George
Ilona
Of maps and mazes and mal de pays
A fraud
La Comtoise, from Auriol to Strasbourg, June 2009
Lá Célestine, Été 2015
Belvédère de la Sainte-Victoire, from Éloise to Irène
Pascal and the Angel, Rue des Peupliers, June 2009
Alsacienne Angel, Rue de la Fabrique
Mur de pierre and a girl from Drybore Road
Rue Saint Sébastien, Marseille, March 2009
Égalité, Fraternité, Liberté et…Laïcité
The Prefect and the Count
Corniche du Président-John-Fitzgerald-Kennedy
Naked David
La Canicule, Heat Wave at the Hut, 2015
Trespassing
One Tree Hill Road, Mt Dandenong, December 2008
Boulevard Victor Hugo, our third summer at the Hut, 2015
‘Les galères font le galérien’
Chemin de l’Homme Rouge, La Ciotat, 2011
The Old White Telephone Box
The Sea, La Mer
The day my legs stopped working, Sunday April 2009
Ancien Chemin de Toulon, a glamorous job
Paid work
Another visit from the Gendarmes
Chemin de Verdeleau, the move to save our arse, 2013
Our first Christmas Eve at the hut
Clutching at straws and Bali Balo: Two years later
Hiding from the huissier, the bailiff
Le Deffends, Wonderland, summer of 2015
Madness
Final Return to the hut, Autumn 2015
Déception, Autumn 2017, Australia
A foolish conceit: this is no no ordinary love
Epilogue, Winter 2017
Отрывок из книги
A lone woman sits at a scratched table in a bleak hut. Alone, but in rapture with all that is good and bad about love and solitude. She has attended to all the morning's chores, listened to La Bande Originale, and now is silent and uncertain of what to do next. The shutters are closed against the assault of the mistral. Being inside and still leads her to a kind of contemplation, an interrogation of loss: a haunting of her new husband and his family. Wondering dogs her. Not that at times she does not despise this her only friend, but she learns to be led.
Thus her memory meanders, like her wayward sewing threads: the weft of time weaving it into line, not as chronological time, but as sensory time. She imagines the donkey trails of old France, their meaning revived and rewritten each time she attempts that same route from one place to another. The woman wants to keep a record because she has little else to do. She imagines the writing will bring to her daily life a purpose; a semicolon against the unravelling. Nothing grand will be achieved, rather a steering away from the spectre of loneliness, the shadow of a spell, causing her to pause and draw deep breath in the place in which she stood.
.....
‘Yeah maybe, but first I need a shower…I stink’.
‘Well love, I’m not gonna’ agree or disagree with you on that point…tell you what…if you don’t mind roughing it a bit, I’ve got an old caravan down the back…she’s a bit rugged, but at least you’ll have a bed and a break from your tent.’
.....
