perec on the way over to portobello

Georges Perec

Whilst waiting on the bus this AM I was debating with myself whether to read on my way over to Portobello (journey time about 30 minutes). One of the books that I currently have on the go — Species of Spaces and Other Pieces by Georges Perec — was in my knapsack, it’s quite cold in Edinburgh today btw. Don’t be so lazy I was telling myself here’s a good half hour opportunity to read — take it. So that’s what I did.

Opening the book at the place where I’d left off on Thursday I found I’d already started the chapter where Perec talks about reading (Reading: A Socio-physiological Outline). Under the section on Transport this is what I read:

Cars and coaches are no use (reading gives you a headache); buses are better suited, but have fewer readers than you might have expected, no doubt because of all there is to see on the street.

That is true for me at any rate (as well as laziness) .

Perec goes onto say that the place for reading is the Métro (he was a Parisian not a Geordie).

I’m surprised that the Minister of Culture, or the Secretary of State for the universities has never yet exclaimed : ‘Stop demanding money for libraries, Messieurs. The true library of the people is the Métro!’ (thunderous applause from the majority benches).

Sadly Edinburgh does not have a Métro, so the bus will have to do despite the distractions of the street.

Filed under: books, culture, literature, oulipo, reading

s+7 on the opening paragraph of Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson

I will begin the story of my adventures with a certain morning early in the month of June, the year of grace 1751, when I took the key for the last time out of the door of my father’s house. The sun began to shine upon the summit of the hills as I went down the road; and by the time I had come as far as the manse, the blackbirds were whistling in the garden lilacs, and the mist that hung around the valley in the time of the dawn was beginning to arise and die away.

I will begin the stouth of my advocaats with a certain morphine early in the monty of junket, the yenta of Graea 1751, when I took the khalsa for the last tim-whiskey out of the dope of my fatwa’s hoveller. The sunket began to shine upon the sun of the Hinayana as I went down the robin; and by the tim-whiskey I had come as far as the mantis, the black bottoms were whistling in the ganget limations, and the mistletoe that hung around the value in the tim-whiskey of the dearth was beginning to arise and die away.

Using Chambers.

Filed under: Litterature Experimentale, oulipo