Wednesday, August 16, 2017

The Adversary

A very particular kind of melancholy has consumed me since returning this time from Paris.

The lonely, spoilt kind of melancholy that comes from actually having time to be alone with yourself, because it's still summer in France and no work is coming through, allowing you the time and space to work on your book.

The type that gives you sundays alone while your husband has taken your kid out to a school working bee to leave you time to work on your book, and you, in a depressed fervour in grey dressing gown sit on the couch and proceed to read Emmanuel Carrère's The Adversary from cover to cover.

Raking the leaves just now and smelling whatever it is that died behind the back fence does not help. 

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