Read Online B007P4V3G4 EBOK by Richard Huijing - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Huijing
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barely imaginable any longer? My sole, be it luxurious problem, is
absolutely not financial in live, eat and drink for free,
and receive my monthly stipend on top of rather one of
having practically nothing to do. The entire Bibliotheca Sarrazina -
consisting, apart from my living accommodation, of four rooms, all
walls filled from floor to ceiling with volumes of
nothing but bound, blank paper. All these imposing volumes, in
leather, in linen, with tooled gold-leaf, in octavo or god-knows
how finely and variedly executed, are locked away behind sturdy
little doors with glass or mesh in front, so no one other than
myself ever takes one out.
I walk across the island a lot, which gets explained as being
'scientific investigations'; my conversation is attended to most
gravely, and everyone wishes to be on the right side of me, for
they know that I am at work on a new volume of the Description de
la vie quotidienne en Argentera. It is barely possible to obtain a
newspaper here, let alone a recent one, so that my supposed
descriptions of daily life on the island have authority ahead of
events. I generally get up quite late in the morning, have some
fruit from the garden belonging to the house, and bread that is set
out ready for me. In the afternoons I mainly stay inside, away from
the hot sun, and in the evening I will take a short walk and
subsequently dine in the only restaurant here, Pensione Minatore,
where I am given friendly but, in awe of my thoughts, silent
service. I will then sit smoking till late in the balmy evenings on
the veranda of my house which offers a view out to sea.
Honesty compels me to say that I do leaf through one of my
thousands of books at times, homing in on a title which stirs my
curiosity. Almost without exception, these are sound volumes of
splendour, full of creamy white paper. From time to time there are
questions to be answered, too: people who drop by about something, or a tourist, once in a blue moon, who wishes to view the
Bibliotheca Sarrazina. For a small consideration, I will then show
them round and without exception they will be astounded by the
temple of learning which this teeny-weeny island appears to house. At a given moment, I will have to write to Maccari in Livorno to
have some new books shipped out. It is expected, of course, that I
publish something from time to time. With the first three works I
already carried with me at the time of my arrival here - years ago,
it can seem to me, now and then - I can make do for a while,
though. Last month, my Poesies de Circonstances were released in
public. In Pensione Minatore, the notary presented me with the first
(and sole) copy and read out (ostensibly) the personal dedication
on the title page: A mon cher maitre, Dr Raoul Sarrazin, le bienfaiteur
regrette de notre tie d'Argentera. Upon which the proprietress of the
pensione burst into tears and general applause ensued. That same
evening, the book was solemnly given its place in Room IV of the
Bibliotheca Sarrazina, Case 9, third shelf from the bottom.
On rare occasions, I have tried to actually write something, a
poem or a bit of a diary entry, but from sheer awe I do not feel
capable, indeed, not even entitled to put all those white pages
surrounding me to the test. What I might say flows away at once,
as it were, in this sea of blank paper, a sea from which rises, like a
minute protuberance, the secret of Dr Raoul Sarrazin.
Belcampo
By two men who did not speak his language but who could clasp
his arms in an immovable grip, he was chucked down the stone
stairs into the darkness. There he lay and bled. With a booming
blow the iron hatch slammed shut above him.
By the reverberation he gleaned that he had been cast into a
large space. It could be a hall. He was lying on a stone floor; he
could feel damp sand here and there. There was nothing he could
see; it seemed pitch dark there. He could hear something. Shuffling
barely imaginable any longer? My sole, be it luxurious problem, is
absolutely not financial in live, eat and drink for free,
and receive my monthly stipend on top of rather one of
having practically nothing to do. The entire Bibliotheca Sarrazina -
consisting, apart from my living accommodation, of four rooms, all
walls filled from floor to ceiling with volumes of
nothing but bound, blank paper. All these imposing volumes, in
leather, in linen, with tooled gold-leaf, in octavo or god-knows
how finely and variedly executed, are locked away behind sturdy
little doors with glass or mesh in front, so no one other than
myself ever takes one out.
I walk across the island a lot, which gets explained as being
'scientific investigations'; my conversation is attended to most
gravely, and everyone wishes to be on the right side of me, for
they know that I am at work on a new volume of the Description de
la vie quotidienne en Argentera. It is barely possible to obtain a
newspaper here, let alone a recent one, so that my supposed
descriptions of daily life on the island have authority ahead of
events. I generally get up quite late in the morning, have some
fruit from the garden belonging to the house, and bread that is set
out ready for me. In the afternoons I mainly stay inside, away from
the hot sun, and in the evening I will take a short walk and
subsequently dine in the only restaurant here, Pensione Minatore,
where I am given friendly but, in awe of my thoughts, silent
service. I will then sit smoking till late in the balmy evenings on
the veranda of my house which offers a view out to sea.
Honesty compels me to say that I do leaf through one of my
thousands of books at times, homing in on a title which stirs my
curiosity. Almost without exception, these are sound volumes of
splendour, full of creamy white paper. From time to time there are
questions to be answered, too: people who drop by about something, or a tourist, once in a blue moon, who wishes to view the
Bibliotheca Sarrazina. For a small consideration, I will then show
them round and without exception they will be astounded by the
temple of learning which this teeny-weeny island appears to house. At a given moment, I will have to write to Maccari in Livorno to
have some new books shipped out. It is expected, of course, that I
publish something from time to time. With the first three works I
already carried with me at the time of my arrival here - years ago,
it can seem to me, now and then - I can make do for a while,
though. Last month, my Poesies de Circonstances were released in
public. In Pensione Minatore, the notary presented me with the first
(and sole) copy and read out (ostensibly) the personal dedication
on the title page: A mon cher maitre, Dr Raoul Sarrazin, le bienfaiteur
regrette de notre tie d'Argentera. Upon which the proprietress of the
pensione burst into tears and general applause ensued. That same
evening, the book was solemnly given its place in Room IV of the
Bibliotheca Sarrazina, Case 9, third shelf from the bottom.
On rare occasions, I have tried to actually write something, a
poem or a bit of a diary entry, but from sheer awe I do not feel
capable, indeed, not even entitled to put all those white pages
surrounding me to the test. What I might say flows away at once,
as it were, in this sea of blank paper, a sea from which rises, like a
minute protuberance, the secret of Dr Raoul Sarrazin.
Belcampo
By two men who did not speak his language but who could clasp
his arms in an immovable grip, he was chucked down the stone
stairs into the darkness. There he lay and bled. With a booming
blow the iron hatch slammed shut above him.
By the reverberation he gleaned that he had been cast into a
large space. It could be a hall. He was lying on a stone floor; he
could feel damp sand here and there. There was nothing he could
see; it seemed pitch dark there. He could hear something. Shuffling