This is his stamping ground. Intellectual stamping now, not that
then stuffed into the front compartment of my new black
of the romantic sort, no, not since the Austen affair – but what
rucksack a dozen of these plastic buzzy bee toys, each
did it matter? It was frippery, well forgotten by all
of them a black and yellow ball with lightweight appendages
involved. Books though, well, yes, that is to say indeed!
for limbs, wings and head. Black beads of eyes jiggled within
A different thing entirely! The exchange of ideas; the
their own plastic casings, whilst too-true-to-life wings tore
higher meaning of life: the eternal journey through the
easily. I took two handfuls: I knew that the exit was close by,
jungle of words. The community was with him on this one,
and I shouldn’t have far to go to make my escape. For
oh yes indeed. Money might be made, of course, but it
this, after all, was the prize: the possibility of escape and
was beside the point, well beside the point. The point and it
the triumph of theft – a late flowering of poison-petaled
were not even speaking, and they most definitely did not
early adolescence. But these visions were always crammed
share a bed. Ah, another intellectual idea expanded through
with the whims, the sulks, the grand gestures, the doomed
a romantic metaphor! He was growing fond of shocking
love affairs; the simple intricacies of human psychology;
the local ladies with a few choice words; a scattering of
the stuff of teenage years, re-emerging like a vampire under
scatological material – all of which meant nothing, of course,
cover of darkness, as if to remind me – you are still as silly
there was no form to it. They were but words: a string of letters.
as you always were. You will never stop wanting to steal bees.
(Pierre Monceau and Jean-Pierre Sertin)
