Monday, November 14, 2016
A small room inside a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.
In Sarraute's final tropism, "XXIV", she begins:
They were rarely to be seen, they remained buried in their apartments, shut up in their dark rooms, watching and waiting.
They remembered everything, they kept jealous watch; holding hands in a tight ring, they surrounded him.