“You envy me for living here. But have you ever figured out how I really live here? Enviably naturalized, right? A true-blue Parisian. Chives in my soup. Greeted like a long-familiar person by the hotel clerk, by the concierge in the rue Jacob, by the waiters at the Flore and the Deux Magots, by the newsdealer at the corner stand, by the greengrocers in the Marché Buci. Granted, a long-familiar person with whom, for ten years now, they have never exchanged more than sporadic sentences about the weather and the lousy political situation. Of course, I also know a few Parisians who belong to a less accessible category. All kinds of movie people, not only the aloof creative ones but also the solid business kind: distributors, theater owners. I also know a lawyer, a banker, why, even pillars of culture, for instance a museum director. We call each other ‘cher ami,’ we invite each other out for lunch or dinner, with the wives, if you please. My captivating way with the ladies even gets me invited to people’s homes. I send flowers, exchange hugs, we drink aperitifs, I shine, I fondle the kids, the maid, I praise the food, admire the family porcelain, the wine, the elegant furnishings, I piss into the family bathroom sink, dry my hands on Monsieur’s towel, brush my hair with Madame’s brush—why, greater intimacy cannot be imagined, except of course the ultimate one. But that too has occurred, yes indeed. One has exchanged lewd tendernesses with the wives, même dans le lit matrimonial. The husbands were away. But even then, one parted with the feeling of having rid oneself of a burdensome obligation. At least with a sense of relief that one wouldn’t have to go through the same thing again for another six months. The form is always maintained.

“I go out of town a lot, unfortunately. Still, I come back regularly, and then I may possibly have folkloristic experiences that make it seem as if some forgotten corners of existence still had the bright lively life that, before losing the first half of my life, I once assumed was naturally present and profuse everywhere, even if (and precisely because) I myself was for the moment not taking part. For instance, my aforementioned concierge in the rue Jacob evidently couldn’t stand watching me suffer over Dawn, so she invited me to her niece’s wedding in some almost rustic banlieue out near Le Bourget. And there I could sniff the warm, wine-soured, garlic-sharpened breath of the people. Since then, I say hello to every street cleaner I see because I imagine he might have been one of my fellow revelers. We ate and drank gargantuanly. We whirled in waltzes, swinging tubs of sweaty female flesh laced up to an ironclad roundness. We avowed our mutual friendship and thumped each other so hard on the back that our tonsils slid out through our teeth. Here too, of course, it came to lewd business with one of the bridesmaids, a girl in her thirties and hence short of breath during the inspection of erogenous zones. We made a date to get to the bottom of the matter, but naturally I didn’t show up, and actually I’m sorry about it today, although one can’t be too careful in such matters. The animal triste post coitum, you know, is especially dangerous here in Paris; one gets the craziest ideas.