“‘I don’t know whether I shall write. It sometimes seems to me that writing prevents one from living, and that one can express oneself better by acts than words.’
“‘Works of art are acts that endure,’ ventured Olivier timidly; but Bernard was not listening.
“‘That’s what I admire most of all in Rimbaud—to have preferred life.’”
Days have flown by in a flash. I would have liked to write about Nice and the bonding experience that it was for us kilo interns, of my attempt to get into the Paris catacombs, of the tragedy of leaving Paris and kilo, of Florence, where I saw some of the best sculpture and had some of most incredible pasta, of Tivoli and the dazzling Hadrian’s villa, and of Rome, where I am right now, and to which no quick words will do justice.
It is for this reason that I quote lines from André Gide’s novel Les Faux-Monnayeurs (English title: The Counterfeiters) to find an excuse for not writing. My sketchbooks are filling up faster now that I don’t work 9-7, and though Andy’s camera which I have been using so far refuses to function anymore, I will use the one Angela gave me to photograph some pages really soon.
More images from Nice here. Tomorrow I head to Athens.