Unhappiness did not swoop down on you, it insinuated itself almost ingratiatingly, it impregnated your life, your movements, the hours you keep, your room. It took possession of the crack in the ceiling, of the lines in your face in the cracked mirror, of the pack of cards; it slipped furtively into the dripping tap on the landing, it echoed with the quarter-hour chimes from the bell of Saint-Roch. The snare was that feeling which, on occasion, came close to exhilaration, that arrogance, that sort of exaltation; you thought that the city was all you needed, its stone and its streets, the crowds that carried you along, you thought you needed only a front stall in some local cinema, you thought you only needed your room, your lair, your cage, your borrow. Once again you deal out the fifty-two cards on your narrow bed. Your powers have deserted you. The snare: the dangerous illusion of being impenetrable, of offering no purchase to the outside world, silently sliding, inaccessible, just two open eyes looking forward, perceiving everything, retaining nothing. a being without memory, without alarm. but there is no exit, no miracle, no truth.
English subtitles of a french movie ''Un homme qui dort'' par George Perec. Notes from : March 8th, 2016.