Have you ever heard of Le Bauriver? You must have, if at any point you’ve discovered that you are the vampire of your own heart and that if you believe that you were in hell, then indeed you were there, only to proclaim: I am the Empire at the end of the decadence. But even if it passed you by, the unholy trinity of modernité was part of my state-sanctioned curriculum of adolescence. Hmm. Le Bauriver—an asylum turned a classroom.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I can remember words I read only for a little while, so I keep the most treasured pages close.
This way, I can read them again whenever I so desire. But every now and then I ask myself,
Why have I learned how to read in the first place? And, most importantly, why have I learned
how to write? To manoeuvre more shrewdly through all the tedious little dramas of ours?
I know there were times when imagination was a threat. The visionary was nothing but a regular
at the asylum, or even better, burned at the stakes. I am not that stubborn; you can bet on it.
But ever since the winter of my birth passed, I have been looking forward to seeing another
one—the one perceived as a betrayal. Betrayal of what?
hidden pilcrow 