Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Imagination's Discourse On Himself


   The structure thus designated by Imagination’s translucent index finger is the little wooden hut that serves as a box office for the Théâtre Moderne.  It leans against a hoarding, grey by day but assuming a speckled hue towards sunset, into which is cut one of the doors of the Librarie Flammarion.  Each time you cross her field of vision, a cashier sitting behind her window chants the prices of the seats and the nature of her house’s attractions, an elementary but adequate idea of which is provided by the three or four framed photographs displayed on the front of the booth.  This breast, these legs summarize the author’s intentions as clearly as do the posters at cinema entrances which feature an aimed revolver, a boat engulfed by raging seas, a cowboy strung up by his heels.  And it costs next to nothing.

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