guyn-O-mer

The German University Exchange Organization (DAAD) sends regularly books to their lecturers, a sort of cultural C.A.R.E packets.
So I discovered the pile of books in our lecturer's room: you can borrow them if you want. I left then with two books, one of them containing the last poems of Marcel Beyer.
I was curious to read them, because we spent some time together at the University of Siegen. The last time I heard from him was that he had moved from Cologne to eastern Germany.
This poems have a greographical approach, the narrator is travelling in Eastern Europe and is collecting things, beeings, observations, reflexions, through the present and the past .... Fortunately he avoids mysticism and other -isms: a sober inventory of a time travel.

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Young people of the sixties looking for ideals played by young people of today trying to find themselves, this could be in short the leitmotif of the last Philippe Garrel's movie: Les amants reguliers
By the way he keeps on talking about his family and his love affairs.

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Niezsche was nearly blind when he bought one of the first existing typewriters, Rasmus Johan Malling Hansen's Writingball that he prefered to american typewriters, too heavy for travelling like he did from Engadin to the Italien Riviera.
This typewriter was specially manufactured for blind people, who could learn very quickly its use.
"Our writing tools are also working on our thoughts.", Nietzsche typed then in a letter to Peter Gast.


And some poems too, like this one:
The consequence: later on american typewriterhistory forgot Malling Hansen and his "mecanic philosopher".

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During his stays in clinique near Bern, Switzerland, Robert Walser, discovered for the first time the sensation of a radio community, where everybody was alone listening to a speaker who hadn't any idea about the existence neither the composition of his public. He found that magic, even the absence of relationship between the listeners.
I remember an experience in Post-Franco-Spain. Accommodated by some spanish friends I admired their capacity of discussion in the midst of big noise: nearly unbearable loud television, simultanely shouting radio and crying children weren't able to disturb their reflections and discourse.

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It's gone to be my bedsidetable book. Here we go.

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The only french fiction I know that has french terrorism for subject. I saw this at the movies when it was issued. This final scene has something ambiguous, as if force of nature has to put an end to human frenzy.

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Haneke wasn't a great discovery, but the projectioniste was playing some a cappella songs to make the time before the projection more pleasant. An a cappella chant on some spinning hum and with a rare power. I didn't decipher much of the lyrics but the: "Pourquoi tu m'appelles Janine alors que je m'appelle Thérèse ..." had been engraved in my head just as the tune of: "Est-il il bien néccessaire de me dire vous plutôt que tu si c'est pour par derrière ..."
With these some fragments I found on the web that this was a pop bestseller called Camille. So I ordered my first copy protected CD, even if I had sworn never to buy such a crap more made to annoy clients than crackers.
But if you like Camille I strongly advise you to listen to Amy Denio, even more creative, perhaps less pleasant. Or it depends on the moment: Dubya and his pa

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