Recorded and edited 04/29/05 and 04/30/05.
Created at work, from sounds recorded at my desk, at work. Hopefully I was not observed.
At that instant the face of the Self-Taught Man is transformed: as if he had scented the enemy. I had never seen that expression on his face before. Something has died between us.
Feigning surprise, he asks:
"But... if I'm not being indiscreet, why do you write, Monsieur?"
"I don't know: just to write."
He smiles, he thinks he has put me out:
"Would you write on a desert island? Doesn't one always write to be read?"
He gave this sentence his usual interrogative turn. In reality, he is affirming. His veneer of gentleness and timidity has peeled off; I don't recognize him anymore. His features assume an air of heavy obstinancy; a wall of sufficiency. I still haven't got over my astonishment when I hear him say:
"If someone tells me: I write for a certain social class, for a group of friends. Good luck to them. Perhaps you write for posterity... But, Monsieur, in spite of yourself, you write for someone."
He waits for an answer. When it doesn't come, he smiles feebly.
From Nausea, by Jean-Paul Sartre