"In my room, number 13 on the fourth floor of the Hotel Carcassonne at 24 Rue Mouffetard … is a table Vera painted blue one day to surprise me. I wanted to see what the objects on half of [it] … could suggest to me or spontaneously awaken in me while describing them; like Sherlock Holmes, who could solve a crime from a single object; or like historians who … reconstitute an entire epoch out of the most famous fixation in history, Pompeii." Daniel Spoerri, Topographie Anécdotée* du Hasard
And for some Manhattan flavour of a different kind, I am reading The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton. It's the orginal Gossip Girl and is scathingly brilliant.
"Ruling the turbulent element called home was the vigorous and determined figure of a mother still young enough to dance her balldresses to rags, while the hazy outline of a neutral-tinted father filled an intermediate space between the butler and the man who came to wind the clocks."
"Honey, the way you play guitar makes me feel so, makes me feel so masochistic, the way you go down, deep into the neck, and I would do anything, I would do anything, and Patty Hearst, you standing there in front of the Symbionese Liberation Army's Flag, with your legs spread, I was wondering , were you getting it every night from a back revolutionary man and his women, or were you really dead? And now that you're on the run, what goes on in your mind, your sisters they sit by the window, and all your Mama does is sit and cry, and your Daddy, well you know what your Daddy said Patty, You know what your Daddy said Patty? He said, he said, he said, well sixty days ago she was such a lovely child, now here she is with a gun in her hand."