Before we knew it the evenings started getting cooler, and the first leaves fell from the trees and filled the gutters. Betty went to work on my last notebook and I continued to putter around here and there to earn enough money to keep us going. Everything was fine except that now I found myself waking up at night, eyes wide in the dark, brain burning, squirming around in bed as if I'd swallowed a snake. All I had to do was reach out my arm - I'd put a new notebook and pencil right next to the bed - but this song-and-dance had been going on for two days, and no matter how I racked my brain I couldn't come up with the slightest new idea. Nothing came out at all - but nothing - so every night the big writer went down for the count. He had lost his muse's phone number, the poor jerk; he'd even lost his desire to call, and he didn't even know why.
I tried to convince myself that it was a case of temporary constipation. To shake things up a little, I started doing some electrical work in the afternoons. I replaced wires, installed junction boxes, put in switches with dimmers for atmosphere - all the way up at night, then down to just a glimmer to fuck in. But even with all the puttering I felt my soul dragging. I had to stop regularly to down a beer. Only when evening came on did I start to feel better - almost normal. Sometimes I was downright joyful, the alcohol helped met through. I'd go up to Betty and bend over the typewriter"
"Hey, Betty, no use wearing yourself out - I got nothing left inside, my balls are gone..."
I thought this was funny as hell. I gave the top of the machine a good punch.
"Let's go", Betty said. "Out. Go sit down, and stop screwing around. You're talking like a jerk."
I sank down in an armchair and watched the flies fly. When it was warm I'd leave the terrace door open and toss my empty beer cans outside. The message I heard inside was always the same: where? when? how? - but I was having trouble finding a buyer for my troubled soul. I wasn't even asking for much, just two or three pages would do the trick, just something to get me started. I was sure that all I had to do was start. It was like trying to restart an old locomotive, overgrown with weeds. It was terrifying.
(Philippe Djian: Betty Blue, translated by Howard Buten, Abacus, 1988)
I tried to convince myself that it was a case of temporary constipation. To shake things up a little, I started doing some electrical work in the afternoons. I replaced wires, installed junction boxes, put in switches with dimmers for atmosphere - all the way up at night, then down to just a glimmer to fuck in. But even with all the puttering I felt my soul dragging. I had to stop regularly to down a beer. Only when evening came on did I start to feel better - almost normal. Sometimes I was downright joyful, the alcohol helped met through. I'd go up to Betty and bend over the typewriter"
"Hey, Betty, no use wearing yourself out - I got nothing left inside, my balls are gone..."
I thought this was funny as hell. I gave the top of the machine a good punch.
"Let's go", Betty said. "Out. Go sit down, and stop screwing around. You're talking like a jerk."
I sank down in an armchair and watched the flies fly. When it was warm I'd leave the terrace door open and toss my empty beer cans outside. The message I heard inside was always the same: where? when? how? - but I was having trouble finding a buyer for my troubled soul. I wasn't even asking for much, just two or three pages would do the trick, just something to get me started. I was sure that all I had to do was start. It was like trying to restart an old locomotive, overgrown with weeds. It was terrifying.
(Philippe Djian: Betty Blue, translated by Howard Buten, Abacus, 1988)
calculon3000:
I have to see that movie, damn it. Even despite the tarnishing done by the Bones man.