Foreword 

Notice : this article is very long and was automatically translated to english from the original french version. I’ll review it someday but expect a few weird or unclear sentences
(the other articles in this blog are written either in french or in english, then translated by myself, not automatically)

The project from this article has been in my mind for a few years : it was to write, in my turn, 50 years to the day after Georges Perec, an “Attempt to exhaust a Parisian place”, on the site of his original experience: Place Saint-Sulpice.

It’s done. The text below is the result of this experiment. 

The project was to write, in my turn, 50 years to the day after Georges Perec, an “Attempt to exhaust a Parisian place”, on the site of his original experience: Place Saint-Sulpice.

It’s done. The text below is the result of this experiment. 

This text is much longer than that of Perec, and therefore undoubtedly much more monotonous. I wrote down as many things I saw as possible, without stopping to write sometimes for more than an hour. Without lifting the pen (or without stopping typing on my computer keyboard, depending on the session)

Perceptions, things heard, ideas that crossed my mind, associations, questions. 

A little in automatic writing mode. Without instructions, just like in real life. Just a place, a chair, time and Perec’s little book in my pocket.
And also my iPhone, to take some photos.

It was by comparing my production with Perec’s text that I was able to see how disciplined his was. Stripped. Almost poor. I don’t know what his approach was. I have to dig deeper to find out more.

For my part, I experienced that pure observation does not actually produce much, but that when I let the impressions produced by the things seen act on me, by commenting on them for example, it made my task of perceiving easier. more things. I conclude that an observation without personal involvement misses details and remarks that we only perceive by making a personal effort, by stimulating the observation activity.  As a simple passive witness we perceive less things. Observation is an activity that needs to be stimulated, and imagination is one way to do this. Observation is an activity, not a passivity.

Perec’s text fascinates me even more after carrying out this experiment. Because I realize to what extent he knew how to stay on the edge of the river and preserve the economy of his text, where I multiply the observations, repetitions, questions, interruptions.

As for me, I tried not to go to the degree of implication where the text would become subjective and include a speech on my part (I have nothing special to say), but I had the reflex / the need / the instinct to mobilize some practices in the form of self-stimulation (association of ideas, automatic writing without lifting the pen, comments to restart, etc.) in order to stimulate my capacity for observation in order to enrich the collection of observed facts.

I don’t know if it’s betraying the spirit of Perec to use my bulky little self and its limited creative resources to generate something a little less empty than the bulky big void that inhabited me on the threshold of the experience, but in any case, it allowed me to immerse myself in the exercise while avoiding the problem of the blank page. 

It worked too well. The result, a text undoubtedly as monotonous as the original, but much longer still…and which does not have the Perec touch, obviously. There’s not much left in total, except the very long text below.

In italics, the notes and comments after first rereading and rapid typographical correction of the text. Everything else was written at Place Saint Sulpice, within the time periods indicated and without subsequent retouching, except typography, incorrect spelling or incomprehensible sentences. I sometimes added additional line breaks to make the text breathe and make it less indigestible.

Friday October 18 10:42 a.m.

I sit down at the town hall café after walking around the square.

Next to me, a young man writes in his notebook. Is he there for the same reason as me? A little further to my right, another man is writing. 

I’m on the terrace. It’s a gray and rainy morning but it’s not cold. 

The white truck that was parked opposite the terrace starts. We can now see the square. Only partly since tents are set up all around the fountain, probably for a flea market or an event of this style, as is often the case at Place Saint-Sulpice.

While walking around the square I noticed that many things had not changed since October 18, 1974. 

Note: Perec begins his text with a census of what is found on the square

A 70 bus stops.

There is still a town hall, a tax center (Pérec writes “Hotel des finances”), a hotel, a fountain decorated with statues of the four great Christian orators (Bossuet, Fénelon, Fléchier and Massillon), an object shop religious, a travel agency, a perfumery, a taxi rank, 

A 96 bus, a 70 bus.

… An Yves Saint Laurent boutique, a jeweler, ready-to-wear boutiques (Comptoir des Cotonniers, Zadig and Voltaire)

A bus 63

I’ve been sitting for about ten minutes. I notice a large number of white vans passing by. 

A bus 63

A 70 bus

It is autumn but the trees have not yet lost their leaves. 

A Lefaure and Rigaud van

A couple on a Vélib

A red-haired lady with a pink coat photographing the church

A long-haired man on a bicycle holding three dogs on a leash

Two white vans, A three-wheeled bicycle led by a black delivery man

A white “6th arrondissement school fund” van. A 96. 

Terminus place St Sulpice – partial service 

A truck painted ugly “François the potato, since 1955”. A white “Central Pizza” truck

Two elegant foreign women take photos of themselves crossing the can street behind me. 

A group of tourists sweating and taking photos despite the cool weather

A white van “2 amis.com, telecom network”

Un 96 – Terminus gare Montparnasse.

Vans. A municipal police car, flashing light lit. Cars non-stop. 

A large Transgourmet truck which parks opposite the terrace and makes a lot of noise. 

A 63. Direction Porte de la Muette.

To my left on a bench, under the trees, a woman in a gray tracksuit smoking a cigarette. A terrible truck parks right in front of me: “Heppner, Vehicle running on natural gas”. 

A man in black takes a photo of the terrace of the town hall café where I am, from the other side of rue des Canettes. 

A golden colored Audi car. I don’t have time to photograph it because of the ugly truck blocking the view.

I’ve been here for a while. The waiter still hasn’t come to see me. 

A 63 bus. A 86 bus. 

Lots of taxis. An Uber delivery person eats by bike. Lots of white vans (it’s ugly, but less than the Heppner truck from earlier)

An 86 bus

There are relatively few pedestrians. Less than cars. 

The church is cleaned. At the top of the two colonnades, protective nets, perhaps to prevent falling stones. Renovation in progress? 

The ugly truck left while I was writing. 

A 96 bus. To my right, the guy who was writing in his notebook is talking with his neighbor on the right, who has several books by Georges Perec on his table. 

Opposite, the Transgourmet truck is still there. He makes a lot of noise. I imagine he’s delivering food for the event being held in the center of the square. 

It’s 11:18 a.m. but I order a loaf and a toast. 

How many buses have passed since I arrived? 

A fire truck. 

7 taxis are waiting at the station. All black. It takes up the entire sidewalk along the center of the square. 

A bicycle delivery man with the courier.fr logo enters the rue des canettes. His brakes screech. 

While I was eating my toast, the courier went back in the other direction, at high speed. Two buses passed. 

An elderly gay couple. Orange anorak.

A couple who had been chatting in front of the church for around twenty minutes approached the terrace. She is taller than him.

A black woman, wearing a veil. Sixty.

A sidecar takes tourists around the neighborhood. They wear 50s style motorcycle helmets

A woman in black speaks with a friend in front of the terrace. Elegant. “You see this asshole every Thursday in front of me?” I can’t hear what happens next. They kiss then separate. One goes to the right, the other to the left.

There are still quite a few people who write to this terrace. 

An 86. 100% electric vehicle

A truck carrying scaffolding. 

It’s 11:30 a.m.

A young Japanese woman in a suede jacket, with a white dog on a leash.

She throws a package in the trash and walks down the street of cans

A guy who looks like Zelensky comes from Can Street. He pushes a very noisy metal cart. The long taxi line prevents cars from accessing the underground car park. 

A white taxi. The others are black. Against the wall of the church, on the corner, in front of me, a brightly colored blue electrical box. 

A black bike courier with a big trailer. 

He enters the rue des cans. He pedals while looking at his phone.

A 76 bus. A UPS truck. The taxi line empties.

A blonde woman arrives from the street of cans. I turned around as he approached because of the sound of his heels, a sound of wooden soles. 

And 70.

The blonde woman gets into a wreck that arrives just as it emerges into the square, and the vehicle leaves. She gets in the back. Probably an UBER. 

And 96

A bearded tramp on crutches asks me for money. I give him my coffee change, which I drop into the paper cup he hands me. 

He thanks me with a toothless smile. 

A couple of tourists come out of Can Street. I saw them enter there 5 minutes ago but I didn’t have time to describe them. They walk away, passing the church. They hold hands. 

And 96.

He wears a black rain hat, the kind of hat you would take for an excursion to the mountains. 

An African couple carrying bags. She with a veil that hides her hairstyle. They are absorbed in their discussion. 

Only two taxis left at the station. 

A 96. With a poster “Less waste is possible”. 

A man in light pants with a black and white checkered jacket walks in front of the church. Three women dressed in black carrying Muji paper bags pass in front of the terrace, towards rue Bonaparte. They walk at exactly the same pace. 

A young blond man in a black coat pulls his suitcase across the cobblestones in front of the church. You can hear the sound of its wheels from here.

A group of people talk in a circle for a while then move on. It looks like the start of a visit. 

A big orange truck “I run on natural gas” 

And 63

A white truck “Relais d’or, Miko ice cream”

And 70

A Eurotranspharma van

I’m cold. It’s tiring

An 86. A 63.

How many buses have I missed while people watching? How many people have I missed in census THE bus ? 

And 70. 

It’s a quiet place, but when you keep track of it, an incredible number of things happen.

A lady with bleached hair and a red jacket crosses the street between cars, carrying ski poles.

It comes to my mind that Pérec had seen Jean Paul Aron pass by. Will someone famous pass by? I saw lots of famous people on rue des canettes, from the time when I often met my parents for lunch at Maria’s, aux trois canettes. Karl Lagerfeld. Jackie Kennedy.

An H.P.C skip – waste collection

Hubert Deschamps. Jean-Michel Wilmotte. Mrs. Man Ray. 

An old gentleman in a brown suit runs to catch the bus

A guy in a cap and a big helmet crosses the street singing without looking.

To my left, a shop under construction. Lots of noise.

I’m fed up and I’m cold. I’m going to walk.

All of the above is the first writing session. It was written by hand. The rest on computer. This is not trivial. Writing by hand, I look at the paper. When writing on the computer, I let my fingers run across the keyboard and I can continue to look at the place and make observations. I haven’t checked yet, but it seems to me that from the next paragraph it is possible that the description is denser. Not necessarily more interesting (on the contrary).

October 18, 1:41 p.m.

I sat inside the town hall café because I was tired of being outside in the cold.

I am in the front row, just in front of the café window, and in fact I can see the place as a whole better thanks to the distance, despite the outdoor terrace and its structure which blocks my horizon a little.

I can see pedestrians better, in particular those who pass behind the terrace, and whom I therefore did not see this morning when I was installed there.

A 70 stops. There is a crowd of young people near the bus stop. Probably a group of students. 

In front of me on the terrace there are a few people, all in coats. I can’t find those who were there writing this morning. 

But there is a woman to my left who also writes. 

And the guy to his left too.
We talk. We are all here for the same reason. There is an event planned this evening, but it is already sold out.

I will go tomorrow. 

My neighbor is from Chicago. Its neighbor in Brussels.

But let’s start again.

I just saw Ali come in. The street vendor from Syria, who sells The World for decades. Already when I was at university in the 80s. Still the same. He enters “The World! The World!“. Same voice. Same tone. He doesn’t seem to have aged. Maybe he was already selling Le Monde 50 years ago?

Ali worked over a wide area: we saw him at the Sorbonne, we saw him at Sciences Po, we saw him on rue de l’Université when I worked there, we saw him walking past Lipp’s, around the Saint-Germain market , rue de Buci, to Gibert Jeune’s place at Saint-Michel every day he had to travel tens of kilometers with his pack of newspapers. I bought hundreds of newspapers from him. 40 years ago, not 50. When I started working and was in this neighborhood a lot.

During Covid he could no longer work. Many newspapers published articles on his case, recounting his attempts to reconvert. I stayed at a sandwich shop in the Luxembourg Gardens. I was happy to see him again with his journals, and to have him appear in MY version of the attempted exhaustion.
An article about him, from 2021 https://www.humanite.fr/medias/presse-ecrite/ali-akbar-dernier-vendeur-de-journaux-a-la-criee-parisien-change-dactivite-717829

Earlier, feeling cold, I went to visit the church. I went there several times a long time ago, when I was a student in the neighborhood, in a Catholic school. Masses were held there. Particularly for the confirmation of the students in my class, if I remember correctly. 

The church is huge. There is a piano. 

If I had not moved inside, if I had stayed on the terrace, I would have continued my project without knowing that there were so many of us reproducing Perec’s experience.

It’s both a good surprise to see that Perec has many fans, and perhaps a micro disappointment to not have been the only one to think about this anniversary.

Disappointment more than compensated by the happy surprise of meeting other specimens of Perec fans. 

Now I look at every person on the street as a potential accomplice. Does this guy who calls from the sidewalk while watching the customers on the terrace know? Or is he just a passer-by? Is it still possible to write something with this group disruption and in the middle of this organized event (even if it will remain discreet) ?

The sky is white, the light is gray. Dead leaves on the sidewalk. It’s autumn. Its light, or rather its atmosphere. The air is humid, people are wearing coats. I can see people passing by better. Quite a few people. Better dressed than in my Gare de Lyon neighborhood. 

It’s a beautiful Parisian day, at least visually. This light fits the place perfectly. It does justice to the color of the stones of the church as well as those of the buildings. We are not in the sunny postcard, we are not in the fresh and springy air of spring. It’s Parisian autumn, the gray air, the white sky, the people in coats and scarves, the cold draft every time the door of the town hall café opens (I’m right in front) .

To get away from the place a little, I went out at noon. Exited, that is to say: left the place; I went to lunch at Cassette, at the end of Rue Cassette. I had lunch there with my father already in the 80s, when there were his offices. And then with my colleagues and friends when I was a journalist at VSD, rue Cassette as well. 

I also remember coming there often with Aude, my ex-partner. 

I remember having a coffee there next to Christine Angot, who was discussing with a friend how to sell a column to Nouvel Observateur. 

In short, I am at Place Saint Sulpice, in memory of Perec’s gesture and with the intention of reproducing it, but I am also there with many personal memories. 

This shouldn’t be an obstacle. Pérec probably had plenty of personal memories there too. 

But he had one thing: 

My purpose, in the pages which follow, has rather been to describe the rest: what we generally do not notice, what is not noticed, what does not matter: what happens when nothing happens except weather, people, cars and clouds. 

Today, Place Saint Sulpice is both the best and worst place in the Universe to devote oneself to this goal. I would be better off going to any other untouched Parisian location by Georges Perec, to pick up the intention rather than chasing the fetish. 

I could even use another fetish. Why not the Grand Cerf, this café on rue de Turbigo where I found myself early this morning, which previously was called the Vélocipède, and appears under that name in Zazie dans le métro? 

I would be alone, I would not be surrounded by Perec fans, and I could describe the flow of cars, the bustle of this intersection between rue de Turbigo, rue de Palestro (my old address) and boulevard Sébastopol. I could evoke memories there, recognize people there. For me it is not a virgin land, any more than the Place Saint Sulpice, but for a project of exhaustion of place, it is a virgin place, not yet exploited, and above all a guarantee of solitude, and therefore of undisturbed literary experience. 

But hey. Here I am at Place Saint Sulpice. A 63 starts, an 86 stops. Like fifty years ago, Place Saint Sulpice is living its little life.

I look at people in the street, but not like this morning. I’m trying to identify the accomplices. Or the sidekicks. Or the competitors. I try to feel all the disturbances introduced into this place by the anniversary.

A guy walks by with a strange hairstyle. A girl in black with a fur hat enters the Town Hall café. A big man in vélib rides on the sidewalk with his saddle too low. A cook walks while reading his text messages then enters the café. A lady with a shearling jacket and sheepskin collar stands in front of me, on the other side of the window. She carries two bags over her shoulder, and a plastic bag in her hand. 

A man with a checkered jacket and a cowboy hat enters the cafe with two suitcases in his hands. One rolls, the other doesn’t. 

Two guys load and unload a black van parked at the exit of rue des Canettes. 

I no longer feel the draft when the door opens or closes. Which doesn’t mean I won’t get a cold. 

Earlier, I went to take a look at the flea market in the middle of the square. Nothing but classic: expensive objects, tiny stands and professionals who place their best pieces strategically, to better attract and then sell. 

In the middle, a wine seller. Great vintages. Expensive bottles. Clever

And a snatch of conversation. A guy in a wheelchair pushing a box “have you seen how courageous I am? And already during my second cancer I never gave up, right, have you seen?”. The guy at the stand next to him, to whom he speaks, replies “yes, yes”. We feel that they have been doing the same flea markets all year round for years. 

It’s a bit of a sad atmosphere. Like a circus. These people who settle there to attract people and earn a living. It may be a metaphor for all our lives, but not the sexy form of metaphor.  

A lady walks by with a rolling suitcase. A young girl with a backpack, 

A guy has just entered the town hall café to invite us to taste a gentian liqueur at 7 p.m. in front of the newsstand. 

A blue van is parked in front of the church, under the no entry sign. Right in front of me. 

I think back to church. I forgot it was so big. I hadn’t been there since I was a teenager. I was planning to do this after reading The Da Vinci Code, where Dan Brown put in some pretty striking scenes. 

But it was Perec who made me take the plunge. There is a superb grand piano not far from the altar. There is a Saint François-Xavier chapel in which I learned that he is the patron saint of Basque pelota. I didn’t know it. I sent a photo of the chapel to my cousin François-Xavier, whose father was Basque.

I checked: Perec does indeed drink a gentian from Salers, in an attempt to exhaust himself. Shortly after 6:45 p.m. Before closing his first day.

What is striking is that the text is short. Since this morning, I seem to have written more than Perec over the three days of his project.
Are we more talkative? Was he more selective? Or lazy? Do we want to do too well? Do we have pressure as fans? In any case, it seems to me that I write a lot while so many things escape me. Another bus. An 86. How many buses have I let pass without seeing them? 

In the next room, a meeting on the occasion of the event. I feel like I’m at a veterans reunion.
Compared to them, I am relatively young. I will only be 60 this year, many people in the audience are much older. 

The black van is still parked at the exit of Rue des Canettes. She hides the corner of the church from me. There is a ladder on its roof, it’s a Peugeot Transit. 

Three guys pass by, oh no they come in, workers, one is in a t-shirt. Yet it is cold. They sit at the bar for a coffee. 

There are lots of people stopping in front of the café, looking around, seeming to be looking for something. Probably the meeting. 

On the other side of Rue des Canettes, on our left, in front of the Yves Saint Laurent boutique, a waiter in a white shirt and tie, with his black apron, is smoking a cigarette while chatting with a very small young girl. 

A woman in jeans walks by, a large camera around her neck. A delivery man with two packages and his cell phone passes by, we feel that he is following the route indicated on his screen to make his delivery. 

A group of tourists. A checked coat, a striped shirt. 

Two passers-by in a row in hooded hoodies. Two old people in down jackets. A guy in a T-shirt taking a selfie. A young, slim, sad-looking girl with a black umbrella and a striped sailor sweater. An elderly couple with hiking poles, Paris is their mountain.

And 70.

A passerby immersed in reading her phone screen. Turn the corner without looking up. 

The waiter came back from his smoke break. An old lady with a lively look who walks with pain and difficulty, with the help of canes. She intensely observes the world around her. Our eyes meet.

An African couple. She is pregnant. It’s huge. It must be 2 meters long. 

Lots of passers-by. Rather high average age it seems to me. The time? The neighborhood? 

In front of the church, a group of tourists in multicolored rain coats and almost all white hair. 

Next to me, a guy who dérushe a video on his Mac. At least one person who isn’t there for Perec. (Well. Maybe)

In the next room, applause. This is the Perec event. I didn’t take up space, I didn’t know it existed. I have one for tomorrow. 

For a few minutes, parents with their kids. Out of class? Yet it’s only 3 p.m. 

The black van is still there. 

A woman in k way comes out of the cafe with two coffees in paper cups then walks away. Always passers-by. A woman with a mask hanging below her chin, attached to her ears. Little reminder of the Covid times. 

An old Asian lady with a pink hat and a dog, a mix of mongrel and polar dog. She comes across two young veiled girls, in jeans, who are going in the other direction, towards the rue de Rennes. 

I’m going to get tired of it at some point. 

And 70. 

I no longer look at the square, I look at the people. The front row situation inside the cafe is the cause of this change. The terrace occupies my field of vision, and the awning limits the perspective a lot.

A pram. I hadn’t seen one in a long time.  

It’s cold. However, the terrace outside is full. I don’t know if there are many Perec fans in this set. These are a lot of groups. 

A guy in a t-shirt passes to the left. He passes one in an anorak and hat who is going to the right. 

Lots of white hair and old people. Perec effect or neighborhood effect? 

People, more people, all different in details (hats, bags, glasses, hairstyles), all similar in activity: the activity of passers-by. 

A child on a scooter, at full speed. Another with a multi-colored hat, who stops in front of the terrace to look at the square. 

A young girl of around fifteen, strong and chubby, red hair and white skin, dressed in a fleece and jeans; who comes and goes three times. 

The door that opens, the door that closes. I no longer feel the cold. A tall, skinny, stooped old lady in pants and a checkered jacket with cowboy boots and a scarf appears to be looking for someone on the terrace. She remains motionless in the corner. Then go from row to row. She walks with difficulty. She clutches an envelope to her chest. 

A guy with a blazer and an umbrella. The old lady looks at me, she hesitates to enter the café. Then returns to the terrace. She still seems to hesitate. 

People come in. People are leaving the bar. 

I watch a girl walk by with a very beautiful face. She notices it and looks at me. And then it’s over. 

A young girl with a white cane enters the bar. She moves forward and orients herself like a clairvoyant. 

A woman in a raincoat on the sidewalk calls. She holds a handset to her ear like those on old telephones. A cable plunges into his bag where the mobile should be. 

And 86.

An old lady on her husband’s arm (well I suppose) is startled when a dead leaf falls in front of her eyes. 

A pigeon passes among passers-by. 

I see umbrellas in front of the church. The light fades. The woman at the telephone receiver stopped to continue her animated conversation.

A man in a leather jacket with a cardboard box on top of his head. Then on his shoulder. Then he puts it on the ground after a few meters. Too heavy apparently. 

Applause at the George Pérec meeting

A brown front-wheel drive that comes out of rue des Canettes, brand new. 

Ali returns to the terrace, with his newspapers. I am still amazed by its physical permanence. 

“That’s it, it’s done!” (Yahia Sinouar et al dead).

Every day, Ali has his punchline. 

My throat hurts. I was at the doctor for this before coming. My activity today will not improve my condition. 

A massive arrival of people in the bar. Too much. Too different, no time to describe them, no time to memorize them. How many of them are there for Perec? 

The two guys in front of the café have Georges Perec badges. It smells like a break. Cigs and sixties in jeans, glasses and jackets storming the front of the café.

An old gentleman in white shoes, an orange and red floral shirt, a raincoat, white hair and light makeup passes by smiling with a clothing store bag in his hand. He walks with difficulty. He enters the rue des cans.  

The terrace is more and more crowded. 

A white truck parked right next to the bus stop. How did Perec manage to watch the buses so much? I forget. I think he thought more and wrote less. 

A 70. A guy in uniform, with huge boxes on a rickety cart. A lady wearing too much makeup with a mouth distorted by surgery and hair destroyed by treatments enters. She is dressed in all colors. The 96 leaves for Montparnasse station. 

An old man in jeans, anorak and a baseball cap, short and hunched, passes in the direction of rue Bonaparte. 

A couple, she in fleece, him in a shirt. A Chinese man pushing his bike. An old lady with her cane and her umbrella, wrapped in a coat too long and too big. 

Some passers-by give the impression that it is raining and cold, others that it is pleasant weather. 

The wind lifts the leaves. A white van passes. VLS.
A guy with a white cane walks forward while reading on his iPhone screen. 

An old lady in black, heavily made-up with a tiny backpack on her hunched back, walking steadily with walking poles. 

Three people passing each other without seeing each other, leaning on their phones. Involuntary ballet, perfectly complementary trajectories, shared rhythm.

I order hot water with mint, like my neighbor whose order I heard. It will cost me 7.5 Euros. But I have a cold and a sore throat. 

Two young girls in short skirts, smiling and perfumed, come out of the café with arms full of packages. They had entered 30 seconds ago.

The flow of passers-by has been constant since this morning. Calm but steady. 

A dog.

Infinite diversity of people. We can perceive the proportion of tourists and locals, or at least imagine it, based on the equipment and accoutrements. Visiting attire and daily living attire are not the same, in general at least. 

A small proportion of people look at the landscape. Many seem absorbed. In their thoughts. In their conversations, through their phones. 

A guy with a white scarf around his head and a black and white checkered shirt. 

A very small lady with a Vuitton bag almost lying on the ground and a yellow and black checkered coat.

Right in front of my nose, two women are talking while looking at their phones. Apparently they are looking for a place. One is Asian. The other has orange hair. Sixty. Multicolored outfits. 

A cook in (dirty) clothing passes by, he walks quickly, looking tired. A young girl with a pointed nose and a piercing gaze, head straight, black hair, blue eyes, dressed in black.

An old gentleman with a cane accompanied by a young girl comes to sit on the terrace. He walks with difficulty. His pants are too big. He’s shaking. 

How do you describe all the people passing by? How can we not imagine a story, or several, for each of them?

Do the people who pass through Place Saint Sulpice have anything in common other than this place? 

Increase in the proportion of children. Out of class? An old lady all in pink on the phone walking around absorbed in her conversation. 

A huge, skinny blonde woman in a red down jacket and leather pants comes out of the cafe after entering it 1 minute ago.

The guy in Bermuda shorts with the strange and indescribable hairstyle who passed earlier goes back in the other direction, he takes the street of cans. It’s a kind of headdress that you could see in paintings by Hieronymus Bosch. 

An old lady in high heels, red raincoat, Chanel bag, umbrella, taking care of her gait and elegance, walks away towards rue Saint Sulpice. 

One, 63 walks away. A tall, bald guy in a gray raincoat walks with a confident step. An oriental with a white beard (Turkish paki?) sells jasmine to people sitting on the terrace. Without success. He’s in flip-flops.

A 96 arrives

And 70

4 cars in a row are black taxis.

Then 4 black cars
Then three black taxis
Then a black car

A white van. 

A black taxi

Etcetera

Applause in the Georges Perec meeting.

A woman in fatigues and a camouflage backpack stops with her rolling suitcase right in front of me. A huge guy joins her, they enter the café.

If we were 50 years ago, I would change coffee after my fresh mint infusion which I drink very hot and sweet and which does me a lot of good. My throat hurts. 

But there is only one café-bar left on Place Saint Sulpice.

An old lady with a mask around her neck. She looks all around her as she walks. An 86. A 96

Two dark-haired girls with long hair cross the church square. Same size, not even. Totally synchronized.

A white taxi, a black taxi, an 86. The previous 86 left less than a minute ago. What if I took the 86 to return to Lyon station? 

Fatigue. I might not stay until the gentian tasting.

Small slowdown in the flow of passers-by. Or loss of concentration on my part? I wonder if the place has changed much since 1974. Overall not much. They are the same buildings, and many have retained their function. The Bonaparte cinema has disappeared, the tobacco shop and a café have disappeared, the rest is quite stable. In any case, consistent with my teenage memories. 

Rue des Canettes has changed a lot. Lots of closed shops. The old restaurants have almost all disappeared. The place, much less it seems. But my memory is unreliable. I didn’t know Paris when I lived near this neighborhood. I didn’t pay attention to the shops.  

An 86 leaving the station.

The town hall café has not changed. It remained as before. Tomorrow I’ll go upstairs to see what’s become of the room. The last time I went there, it was to do a financial mathematics homework with Aude. It was an early morning. It was another life. 

A man in a striped shirt and a yellow jacket comes out of the cafe. His back is hunched. A 63 arrives. 

4:28 p.m. A woman in black with a white sheepskin bag and a red wig walks by drinking ice tea. A 70 stops. Three white-haired visitors are looking for their way on their three smartphones. A young girl with a pointy nose lost in her thoughts walks a baby in a stroller at a brisk pace. A young man in a blazer and tie checks his phone while sitting on the bench in front of the Yves Saint Laurent boutique. A 63 arrives. There are more and more people. It’s rush hour. I’m going to go there. The 63 leaves. 

An elegant man in a black coat with a long white beard, a neat, wispy mustache and light blue eyes enters the cafe and walks towards the Perec room. He smiles at me as he passes. 

October 19, 2024 10:45 a.m.

Second day. I am sitting on the terrace at the town hall café. Inside it’s full. It’s cold and I’m sick, I thought for a moment of leaving again, but that would be too stupid.

This morning, I arrived by bus 63, I got off at the station which is right next to the terrace of the town hall café, the stop whose activity I have recorded (rather poorly) since yesterday. 

A 96 stops.

My journey, not the most unpleasant. Quai de la Rapée, Pont d’Austerlitz, Jardin des Plantes, Jussieu, Cardinal Lemoine, rue des Ecoles, Collège de France, School of Medicine, Odéon, Saint Sulpice church. 

The weather is gray, the sky is white, it’s a beautiful Parisian winter light. If I wasn’t sick I would be happy to be here. Bundled up I don’t feel too cold, except on my legs. 

This morning, it’s calm. There are a lot fewer cars. Only one taxi at the station. It’s Saturday, it shows. Paris does not have its usual activity. 

In front of the church, fewer tourists than yesterday. Only in the bar in the front row, all the seats are taken. 

A 63 that stops. He is going to the acclimatization garden. 3 people go down, 8 go up. He leaves again. At the back of the bus, a poster for a comic whose name I can barely read. Camille Combal I think.

There are fewer people than yesterday but also less active. Less rushed. 

I booked a place for the Georges Perec event this afternoon but I don’t mind staying all this time. 

In front of me, a couple speaking in English. He seems American. She’s German or Scandinavian if I judge by her accent. They are dressed in black. They talk happily, smiling at each other. My imagination wants to see a game of seduction in their exchanges. 

A black taxi. A scooter.

The woman of the couple in front of me turns her head. She has a large nose with a square tip and a pretty smile, very prominent cheekbones. She talks a lot. 

My imagination wants to believe that she would like to seduce the man.

This morning on the terrace no one is writing except me. 

A woman sits two tables to my right, with a photographer’s stand that she unfolds. 

A recent model red Fiat 500 can be electric. A car takes the ramp to the underground parking lot. A 96 stops. Destination Montparnasse station. 

The girl in black in front of me is talking to the waiter. She speaks French very well, with a slight accent but nothing allows us to determine the origin. She wants to pay, she continues to address her companion in English, even if he speaks in French, without an accent, to the waiter. He is French.

The woman with the tripod has just set up a camera in front of her, at eye level. 

A 70 stops. I hear the announcement through the open door. “70. Limited service at Porte de Passy”.

A car from time to time. A scooter. A red car. A black car going to the parking lot. A white car going to the parking lot. A red car in which a pedestrian gets into the back. Probably an Uber. 

A garbage collector crosses the square in front of the church. Dressed in green, with his yellow vest, he pushes his trash can while looking at the screen of his smartphone. 

An elegant, well-dressed couple with a huge umbrella is heading towards the flea market. I approached this morning when I arrived to find out more: it’s an “Antiques Fair”. 

There is little traffic, but around a dozen people at the bus stop. Passers-by who have umbrellas open them. 

The waiter wants me to pay for my coffee because he’s going to take care of the interior now. 

An 86. Direction Champ de Mars. A 63.

The poster from earlier: Camille Combal on NRJ. I read it on the next bus.

A neighbor at the table sits down next to me. Yesterday he was there and he was writing. He greets me.

And 96. 

A customer sat in the front row of the terrace. He speaks loudly, his phone is on speaker, he smokes, he laughs. 

I hear the rain falling on the canvas above my head. 

A white truck, two taxis. A woman with a raincoat and an umbrella walking on the edge of the sidewalk with difficulty. A 70. 

What to learn from this experience? 

A man in black in k way with a rain hat and a Uniqlo paper bag. 

A white cleaning van. Starsnett. 01 43 77 58 69

Ugly as hell

The English-speaking couple in front of me leaves. The view in front of the church is clear. A group of tourists on bikes ride slowly on the square then park in a space provided for this purpose. Will they visit the church? 

So, what is the contribution of what I write? 

A woman, wrapped haphazardly in a too-large Kway that goes down to her calves, walks in the middle of the street. Like a disjointed puppet.

A testimony? Of no interest. A list? 

A Stricher Froid truck. A bicycle. A scooter with two passengers. A 63 that stops at the station while driving particularly close to the sidewalk.

A census? A point of comparison with the original? 

Probably none of that. The original is short. 

A post office van, a guy on a bike with his two children behind him on a luggage rack. The sound of the rain. A group of people standing on the terrace for 5 minutes, talking. 

What was Perec looking for? It’s hard to say. By “reproducing”the experience, we realize that he didn’t write much. That there are hundreds of things happening. That he skimmed over the details. He often says “A flood… Lots of cars… it doesn’t stop”. 

Even this morning, Saturday, it is the case. An 86. I could write non-stop for hours without finding a single opportunity to stop if I just mentioned everything I see. 

A three-wheeled scooter crossing the square. A taxi. A skinny passerby in light denim who walks with his hands in his pockets. A couple who settle down in front of me. A guy on a bike with a peaked cap. 

What’s notable perhaps, although expected, is that I didn’t see anything incredible or unexpected. I read last night on Facebook that Patrick Modiano had passed through Place Saint Sulpice yesterday morning. 

A man in a black and yellow raincoat with glasses crossing at an angle out of the nails. 

A Dyane painted yellow and red, hood open, coming out of rue des Canettes. It smells like a tourist thing. 

A 70. Destination Porte de Passy. 

In front of me the couple who had just moved in and the woman with the camera started talking. 

The couple discovers Perec’s story. The lady with the camera is there for that too. She explains everything to them. 

The sound of the rain increases. 

The number of passers-by with umbrellas too. 

At the first opportunity I sit inside the café. An English taxi with an ad on the door. Two black cars. A battered white car. One, 86. A guy on a bare-headed bike pedaling against the rain. 

A white van. De Almeida peinture.  A lady in red k-way. A young woman on a velib with an umbrella.

There are lots of bikes passing by. A guy on a scooter, hood over his eyes, facing the rain, carrying a yellow bag. 

A woman sits down in front of me, in place of the English-speaking couple from earlier, with a baby in a stroller. It’s cold for a baby. Or not? It’s been almost 30 years since I last took care of a baby.

Perec doesn’t talk about himself. He mentions actions he does. His boredom. But does not refer to his existence or his universe. Maybe I do it a little more. Less “neutral”, less distanced approach.

A big black car takes the ramp to the underground parking lot. 

In front of the church, under heavy rain, a group protected by umbrellas and multicolored kways listens to a guide. He sets off, he precedes them, he walks with a cane. The group stretches. A 63 then a 96 hides the progression of the group from me.

It’s really difficult to list everything. 

The rain is getting heavier again. A brown UPS van. A guy passing on the sidewalk opposite with a yellow sweater on his head. A truck, fully tagged, a red car.

I cite perhaps more than yesterday, because there are fewer of them. I have time to list them better. Two white vans. A 96. A black Mercedes combi with smoked windows. The bus doors open and close three times. 

A jeep. A taxi. A velib. A scooter in the opposite direction (direction prohibited). Two taxis. 

Three umbrellas on the square: yellow, green, blue. 

And 70.

This census will probably be boring to read, but it’s not boring to do it. It doesn’t teach me anything about the substance of life in a Parisian square, but it makes me perceive the considerable number of events that we usually ignore, that we neglect to notice, that go unnoticed. 

All those folds. All the mysteries locked in each of these humans, each of these vehicles, all the motives of the actions of which we are only the external witness. All the destinations and appointments of the passengers of all these buses and all these vehicles. All the reasons to be there from all these people who are on this terrace. It’s dizzying. 

All these umbrellas. How do people buy so many umbrellas? There must be tens of millions of them in Paris alone. 

A guy in sportswear walking quickly passes along the flea market. He’s coming from across the street. After running in Luxembourg? Teenage memories: this is where I trained with my school’s cross-country team. 

The earth at the foot of the tree just in front of the terrace is waterlogged. Dead leaves float in muddy puddles. 

By a wrong move I closed this Google Docs document. Miraculously, when I reopen it I find my saved text, right where I left it. 

A Range Rover. A stroller with a hood. A tpe with two umbrellas and a cap but no coat

In place of the woman who left with her baby, a wet couple, in K-ways and hats, came to shelter from the rain. They speak a Slavic language, one might say. 

And 63. 

An 86. A white taxi cuts him off. A range rover. A busy taxi. A young man in a sweater passing under his umbrella with a paper bag and checking his mobile while walking.

The square was emptied, by force. I’m cold. Contrast between the pedestrians who face the elements with umbrellas and k-ways, and those who walk as if nothing had happened, dressed as on a normal day, in no hurry.

It’s bad weather for the flea market, in any case. 

A young brunette girl with long brown hair walks along the edge of the sidewalk, looking far ahead, carrying her umbrella high up. 

Water flows onto the floor of the terrace of the town hall café, which is sloping. Small channels of rainwater making their way. 

A gentleman with a blue umbrella walks a large black dog on the square, he holds him with a fluorescent yellow leash several meters long. A 96. There are lots of people under the bus stop, but they don’t get on the 96 which leaves. Among them, a baby in a stroller, crying. 

A 2CV. Two…. Four 2cvs passing in single file, in bright colors. Even from afar you can recognize the sound of the 2CV engines. 

A red Fiat 500. But recent model. 

A guy with a cane, motionless on the sidewalk opposite, seeming not to pay attention to the rain falling on his bald head. 

Two cars going down into the parking lot. A 63

A woman in jeans, parka and hoodie passing on the sidewalk opposite. Determined approach and smoke in your mouth.

In front of me, the woman with the camera is still talking with her table neighbors. Finally, with the woman. 

The man stays away. 

And 70. 

An ugly truck parks in front of the church, like yesterday. Cleanliness and multi-services. Lusatec. Probably a service provider for the antiques fair. 

A guy with an old bike in his hand with a cap, a mustache, a beautiful canvas coat. Old style. He speaks with a girl in black, mountain bike; K-way and backpack. 

An old lady with a pink umbrella enters the antique fair.  

A land rover, a Fiat 500, a yellow DHL van, two white vans without signs, a gray car, a “small forester” truck, a cyclist in a yellow raincoat, an Austin Mini, a scooter, a stream of cars. 

A lady in a coat wrapped in an orange scarf crosses the street and approaches the terrace. 

Another 2CV.

All kinds of people. 

An old lady leaning on a crutch who seems to be waiting for a taxi. A fat, plump lady in an anorak holds an umbrella above her head. 

The new server has arrived. Calm in the flow of cars. 

A bicycle delivery man passing in the opposite direction of traffic. 

The flow resumes, with the green light.

The guy in the cap approaches the terrace. He has a mustache. 

A woman with her two children on the back of her bike. No, a man. All in K ways of color. 

I’m going to move, I’m cold. 

A guy walks right past the terrace with his leather jacket on his head and his mobile in front of his face 

A 96. A three-wheeler. 

October 19, 2:17 p.m.

I don’t know when I stopped writing. I wanted to warm up by walking a little. 

I passed the corner of the square with rue Bonaparte, I read a plaque indicating that Rimbaud had launched the boat drunk here, in 1871. 

I looked for the reference on my iPhone. I found nothing, and then it was raining. I told myself that even though it was early I would find a place to warm up and then have lunch. Not the Cassette, where I went yesterday and which became an avalanche of flowers (and where the salad wasn’t great), but something else, in the neighborhood, we’ll see. 

So I started walking. I revisited the church and took photos, then I strolled through the antiques fair, before passing back in front of the Rimbaud plaque, taking Rue du Vieux Colombier, Rue de Rennes, then Boulevard Saint Germain to return to Odeon. There I told myself that I wanted a pizza, that of La Sirena, on the corner of Square de Cluny. From there I went to Eyrolles, and bought some books about Paris. 

The Paris of Zola, the Paris of Balzac, the Paris of Dumas. And then there it was, it was already 2 p.m., I let Paris swallow me up, once again. 

Along the way, I also Googled Ali, the seller of Le Monde, because I had a doubt. His name is Ali. I followed his adventures remotely during Covid, because he could no longer sell newspapers, and a mobilization took place to find another activity for him, in the Luxembourg Gardens if I remember correctly. 

Obviously he went back to selling newspapers. 

A few years ago, we could see a huge mural with his portrait at the intersection of rue du Four and rue des canettes. It was destroyed and replaced by an ugly building. 

In short, I wandered. Return to the observation post.

Here I am again at the town hall café, inside, in the front row, like yesterday. I see the terrace in front of me, the church on my left. 

The waitress recognizes me for giving me mint yesterday, she gives me a square of chocolate with my coffee. The sun has risen. There are more pedestrians than this morning. An 86. 

People are starting to gather, we can feel the Perec fans coming for this afternoon’s event. I bought a place. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t even know if I want to go there. I’m more interested in writing uninteresting things than listening to interesting things, perhaps. 

The event is at 5 p.m., I still have time to think about it. 

So there are more people. A guy in a t-shirt with a bottle of water and a big pair of headphones over his ears. People stopping on the terrace take a coffee. I no longer see the lady on camera. Nor the guy who was writing next to me when I was on the terrace earlier. 

The waiter comes to block the cafe door so that it remains open, it creates air. 

I’m thinking of spring. I’m glad to have found these books about Paris. 

A black Peugeot has been parked on the corner of rue des Canettes, empty, with warnings, for at least 10 minutes. It is registered in Corsica. 

The town hall café is full, there are all kinds of people, not necessarily linked to Perec. It moves, it discusses, it lives. 

The sun changes everything in a place.

And 86. 

With the sun we feel more inclined to watch people go by, without writing everything down like I did this morning. Unless it’s weariness, the fear of repeating myself, or worse, dwelling on the obvious that when the sun is out people go out and no longer have hoods. 

A big guy in all black with curly blond hair. A lady with big bifocal glasses, who hesitates and ends up entering the café.

A 70. He’s coming. He leaves.
A father with his two children on the luggage rack riding his bike on the sidewalk, among people. 

A Japanese man wearing a long black outfit, like a djellaba, with painted white signs, passes right in front of the window and turns into Rue des Canettes. 

Even the flow of cars seems more abundant. 

A young girl walks by, her phone hanging from her belt. A guy with white headphones resting on his black temples. An incessant flow. A lot more people than this morning. Too many people to account for it. 

Compared to this morning, the place is alive. He was too, but you could observe him more or less carefully. There, it’s going in all directions, it’s anarchy. There is a queue of around ten people to sit on the terrace. Two minutes ago, this place was empty. 

Ali comes back to the terrace with his newspapers. How many kilometers per day?

I had decided to take some change to pay, but I forgot. Once again. Cash is becoming increasingly scarce, and yet it is sometimes useful, like buying the newspaper from Ali rather than reading it online. 

I had a glass of wine at noon. I almost stopped drinking. I note this as I note the rest: because I observe it. I could probably comment on it, but no more than the rest, the people around me, those who complain because the door is open, those who prefer it to be open. Those who don’t know whether to close it when going out. The servers who leave it open in passing. A passing 70. 6 passengers. A vigilante car.A military jeep following her a few meters away. The Corsican car has left. A girl with a “Style Exercises” tote bag. 

The door that won’t close. But soon someone will come and try to shut it down. 

Being inside the cafe distracts me from the place and refocuses on the cafe. As part of the exercise is not very important. The main thing is the flow of thought, the description. 

I see an increasing number of people arriving, people who know each other, people who come to see the plaque “Place G org s P r c” with the missing letters, above my head. 

To my right two women are talking. One of them says that Catherine Deneuve no longer lives here, which confirms my information (where did I get it from? I don’t know). I haven’t seen her in a long time. Is she still in Paris? 

The crowd at the town hall café is getting bigger and bigger Perequian, you can feel it. By a change of style, by a slight increase in age. By attitudes, by handshakes and nods of people who know and recognize each other. 

Why is this sign placing Georges Perec above my head? Was it installed exactly there? 

Behind me, the girl who was talking about Catherine Deneuve continues to talk about the neighborhood. She lived there from 8 to 14 years old. Catherine spent his time at Yves Saint Laurent. She points to the store to the left of the terrace. It’s the men’s store. The women’s store was on the other side of the town hall café. 

I stopped observing Place Saint Sulpice. Because I am inside and no longer directly at the heart of the place observed? A class of high school students passes in a herd right in front of the window, 2 meters from me, around fifty. Rather well dressed. Probably foreigners, but I can’t say for sure. They head towards the entrance of the church. 

It is more difficult and less interesting to chronicle an agitation like that of this afternoon, more difficult and less interesting than this morning. We don’t have time to linger. We go in all directions. We linger on one person for three seconds and then move on. We don’t finish anything. 

A face, a smile, a spot of color and we move on to the next subject. A lady with an item of clothing packaged as if it had just come from the dry cleaners. Another who walks with her arms crossed. A man who enters the bar looks at the time then reads the menu. A couple, she Asian, he European. A bus whose number I can’t read. 86. 100% electric vehicle. 

The girl in the back is still talking. She lived here as a child. She left Jérôme because she met Bernard. Because Jérôme still messes up quite a bit. Drugs. Vases of ecstasy weren’t her thing. 

Among the passers-by, some are rather elegant, even very elegant. The rain erases these differences, but as soon as the weather breaks we can perceive them again. 

A 63. A 70. How many buses have I missed in the last 5 minutes? 

A stream of people crosses the street from the church towards the terrace where I am, on the corner of rue des canettes. 

Jerome was a good friend of Michelangelo, continues the girl behind who recounts his life. A man — I am interrupted by a Perequian who comes to greet me – He tells me about a dozen other places where Pérec wanted to pass twice a day. To find. 

A very trendy group, wearing dark glasses and rock clothes, is chatting in front of me on the sidewalk. A fat bald man in a striped sweater, his wife has a pink and orange scarf. An 86. 

With the guy who came to talk to me, we talked about the brevity of the attempted exhaustion and its dryness of style and content. 

We feel that something is happening. There are people passing through and people who stay. 

Jérôme’s ex-wife always speaks behind me. “Ah there you go, that’s jejé. And his girlfriend who left afterwards, she was very, very well known in Paris. Jérôme is a brother, I feel super close.” 

A black taxi parked right next to the terrace, the passengers take a while to get off. 

“Jérôme was never able to have a child but she had one and I think he took a lot of care of this child and I think they still had a nice life.”

“And Michelangelo also has the same character, festive and nice. I’ve always been with guys like that. Alisson, she calls him my soul mate.” 

People are walking in all directions, under the sun. Majority of smiles. A man with his three children, a very elegant old lady with a hat and a Vuitton bag (yet a marker for me of the absence of elegance).  

A guy in a biker outfit. A family that looks bored, a couple, he in blue, she in pink, he in a peaked cap and a blazer, she in a turtleneck and sneakers. 

A man in a raincoat and beret, elegant but with a Peaky Blinder walk. A man with two blue anoraks on top of each other, holding his wife’s hand. A man who enters the café with a plate. A guy approaching who I suspect is a Perec reader. Is it quite masculine or am I wrong? 

“She was hated and hyper jealous..” I lost track of my storyteller. I hear snippets.

 “Before, the spirit in Paris was not so small.” 

The terrace is crowded. It’s the weekend, people are there to go shopping. I don’t come to this kind of neighborhood anymore, but images of childhood come back to me. A fat lady walks her dog. People, people, people. A table becomes available, it is taken immediately. People walk with their coats on their arms. Take advantage of the sun. A car stuck in the middle of numerous pedestrians crossing. 

Jérôme for a year and a half, I had a great time. And then on vacation we always went with great friends. She’s been talking for half an hour, I have the impression that she’s going in circles.

Chance: Jérôme calls him. She tells him that she was talking about him and that she was at the town hall café. 

He’s going to come and kiss her. I’m going to see Jérôme. 

I like to take these notes on the fly, as they go. 

When I met Jérôme he was working for Cartier in Brussels because he had not done his military service. 

Then he worked for Fred, then he went into the press. 

An old couple. The lady is bent over and cannot get up. 

Jerome reminds finally he will not be able to come and say hello because he has customers stuck at the entrance to the Grand Palais. 

A 96. From where I am I only have a very small space to read the bus numbers. Oh no does a disservice to the accuracy of this text. 

The waitress is going to leave. I pay her, and I buy her a recliner that she will bring me. 

An 86. 100% electric vehicle. When I see the buses arriving from afar, I can read their number. Once they are in front of the terrace – a 70 – it becomes difficult, I only have this very small space when the number is visible, between the terrace parasol and the roof of the bus shelter.  A 58. My first it seems? 

A photographer with a folding chair enters. A man with four filled Swatch plastic bags with knotted handles. His companion carries two umbrellas. 

The woman in the back is talking about someone she got along really well with. 

A fat old lady with a scarf on her head pushes a half-asleep teenager, probably very disabled, in a wheelchair, with a breathing mask, who jerks at each stone. They seem to be in pain, they are thinking of entering the café, or asking for their place. They enter slowly. 

I was on an internship for three months and I took the metro then an RER to Versailles every day, and every evening I returned to Jérôme’s mother’s house with whom I lived, continues the voice behind me. 

I don’t turn around. I don’t know if I want to know the face of the person who tells their life story like this. I might lose something there. 

Now she’s talking about a day when she ate wholemeal pancakes. 

Afterwards I went to Manoukian, I hated this collection. 

We feel that she has the week to tell her life story to her friend, whose voice I cannot hear. 

A group of young people are playing at throwing a blue cap at each other in front of the church. A pregnant woman comes out of the cafe, a 63 passes behind her. She remains standing in front of me, both hands on her protruding stomach. She seems to be waiting for someone who is still in the café. 

A young guy comes out, they leave together rue des Canettes. She was dressed quite chic. His basketball jeans and jacket. 

And 70. 

And 63. 

I knew Gérald well, and then when I arrived at…. Isa was Gérald’s girlfriend but I already knew him.

I was the top turnover in Belgium. Do you want a coffee? We’ll take the bill. It’s me who invites you because it’s my coffee. 

People of all ages, walking at all speeds. 

I should have taken my medications before eating, but I’ll think about it tonight. 

A young girl in a multi-colored sweater crosses the rue des cans with a friend. A mother on the phone pushes her child in a stroller. A black guy with a sky blue jacket that’s too tight and a green beret. 

As I write, there is applause in the next room. I prefer writing to celebrating. Experiment with it, make it my own, 

For me Yves Saint Laurent, they were the beautiful women’s pantsuits

A man with a round belly. A couple stops to let the waiter pass who is going from the café to the terrace. 

A couple with a small dog. An old lady all in noinr with white hair, black glasses, a black hat, as if disguised as a witch. 

No bus this time. Often when I look up there is one.

A guy in a black t-shirt on a black bike with a black backpack pedaling in the sun. The taxi line is empty (apparently, I can’t see the start, so there may be a taxi). A man with yellow and green pants, a green and tan scarf, and a dog. 

A green polka dot jacket with GOODBOY written on it, worn by a guy sitting, with his back rounded, on a bench on my left facing the Yves Saint Laurent boutique. 

The waiter, the same one as this morning, goes back and forth between the terrace and the bar. The facade of the church is illuminated by a ray of sunlight. A group of tourists emerges from the stairs, leaving the church. 

A guy walking towards here, walking with his feet in and looking at me. He swings an umbrella at the end of his arm. 

The sun even stronger. The almost blinding facade. 

A girl in black and gray, very well made-up, walks attentively, trying to measure from the corner of her eye the effect she is producing. 

A couple who consult on the direction to follow. A guy in a blue k-way pushing his baby’s stroller and walking seemingly elsewhere. A black and white checkered canvas bag. A blue and white striped dress. A cap. Another pram. A stroller. A suitcase on wheels. A 63. With a Kidexpo poster on the side, the same as on all the other buses. I’ve thought about writing it before but I’m not sure I did. 

A group of three people dressed in black. The Asian girl, one of the boys black, the other South American guy. The city as a catalyst. We leave our origins behind when we enter them. 

I don’t remember at all what I wrote? It passes as quickly as the people I watch go to the right, to the left, stay a moment, turn their heads, talk, laugh. Pass then disappear. 

Many of them are looking at their phones. A couple stops to kiss just outside the cafe door. The wind is rising. Lots of babies and strollers. A good number of people walk alone, sometimes in pairs. Larger groups are rare. It’s the tourists. 

And 96. 

That’s it, it’s a sunny afternoon, it’s nice weather. 

A couple in caps. Long visors, low shoulders, arched back, gaze towards the ground, springy gait. 

A pram sitting there, next to the terrace, for 30 minutes. I don’t know whose it is. I know people like that would alarm and who would think immediately to a bomb or something suspicious. 

The guy sitting next to me greets me. 

Many people are arrested in the sun. To be discussed.

A guy with a dog like my friend Patrick’s (a schnauzer, I think). I forgot the name of this breed. An orange car. 

I didn’t see the two girls leave who were talking behind my back and some of whose comments I transcribed. I will never know their faces. 

Right in front of me, on the other side of the window, with her back to me, a woman in a black coat with long brown hair. I take a photo of his silhouette. 

A woman with a cane. There are many. Is it a neighborhood old? Proximity to a health establishment? 

The woman in the black coat turned her head slightly. She has glasses and a pointy nose. 

A couple comes to collect the mysterious pram, carrying an infant that the mother holds against her stomach. 

On October 19, Georges Perec stopped writing at half past four. I think I’ll do like him. 

A guy on a very tall stunt bike. His head is at the height of the top of the passing bus, the number of which I won’t see. Oh yes. 70. On the rear window. 

A waiter clears the table of my neighbors who recently left. I hadn’t seen it before. Taking service? 

Many bikes. A 63. An old gentleman in Bermuda shorts with a tote bag and a wooden tee sticking out of it. 

Another 63? While the other is still stationary. 

Three more babies, in strollers. And two children running around. It is a district dedicated to the birth rate. The miracle of Saint Sulpice? Are the rich more fertile? 

A couple with black kways and orangina cans. 

Overall, the people are beautiful and seem nice. 

A hunched old lady walking forward with the help of a crutch. 

What will come out of this collage of prints? A 70. Will something emerge? 

We see people arriving who are clearly there for Perec. They enter the bar like the pages of a book. 

This little bubble created by the anniversary of Perec’s attempt goes almost completely unnoticed, people outside the town hall’s aquarium café go about their Saturday business. 

A guy photographs the plate Place Gorgs Prc

The woman in the turban and the girl on a respirator head back to the left, where they had come from. I didn’t count, I’d say they stayed for 30 minutes. 

Renault traffic on the corner, with warning lights flashing.  

The place where everyone who needs to stop parks. There is no other place to park except the underground car park.

A woman with an “El Corte Ingles” bag. A woman in a ruffled leopard skirt. A 63. A couple who don’t know where to go and head towards the street of cans. A huge guy entering the town hall café. A very old, hoary lady with a cane walking on the arm of a younger woman. His daughter? They enter the cafe. A striped vest. A Roma sweatshirt. A purple sweater. A skirt with black and white inkblot-like spots. A velib that goes at full speed. An old man with a backpack and a Fnac bag. Two women in sweatshirts and sneakers, over 60 years old, coming out of the cafe. 

A good number of passers-by are rather elderly. I know. I’m part of the lot. 

A priest enters the cafe. In cassock. Fat. Bearded. A gay couple walks past. The “man” in black, the other in purple with jewelry everywhere. They must be 70 years old, have stern faces and walk sadly. 

New arrival of people in the bar, which I suspect are related to the anniversary. 

The incessant flow never ceases to be incessant. 

As soon as I finished this sentence, an unexpected moment of calm. An 86. A woman in a blue hooded sweatshirt with a plastic water bottle and sneakers paces in front of the cafe window. A tall girl with bare legs and a big star tattooed above her right knee.

Where are all these people going? What do they say about Place Saint Sulpice? What is the permanence of this place apart from the incessant flow of passers-by? What is this guy doing in shorts who looks like he just came out of a gym? And this one with a frame under his arm? 

The guy who sold jasmine yesterday is selling jasmine today. 

What percentage of people smile? There are some. More than people who call? I’m not sure. 

I’m not tired, but I feel like ten more pages don’t add anything. A gay couple in their sixties. A man pulling a suitcase followed by his three children. A lady with an umbrella and her hair tied up, followed by a young girl with her hair tied up in the same way and an umbrella which she carries in the same way. 

A guy behind talks about the police. He says “Chickens.” He says, “It’s not a question of age.” 

I think it will be interesting to move elsewhere, once in a while, to feel the nuance between the crowds that spontaneously assemble in different places. 

Why did Catherine Deneuve leave the neighborhood? Was she living there when Perec wrote the attempted exhaustion? 

What is the proportion of local residents in all the people I watched pass by today? 

What is the proportion of tourists? Were there more pedestrians than motorists? I would happily say yes. Widely. 

4:24 p.m. I stop. I could go on. I could look for a reason to stop. But I don’t do it. I stop; that’s all.

October 20, 2024 – 11:10 a.m.

Third and final day. I am again on the terrace at the town hall café. 

50 years earlier, Georges Perec arrived at 11:30 a.m. He noted

The weather: rain, wet ground, temporary clearings

For long periods of time, no buses, no cars.

Leaving mass.

I’ll see in 20 minutes if there’s a mass release. In the meantime, it’s not raining. The weather is gray, the sky is white, it is windy. I am sitting in the same place as yesterday morning. The same waiter says hello to me. 

I order a ham omelette and a long one. 

In front of me are two girls on the right, I would say in their thirties, who are chatting happily and friendly. Both are wearing raincoats. 

To my left, a couple of two older people, in their sixties, black anoraks, hunched backs, dirty, hanging hair. The man has a ring in his ear. They wear sneakers with ugly socks filled with colorful designs.

Unlike 1994, buses pass, cars pass. The atmosphere is calmer than in previous days but it is not dead. 

Several white vans parked along the sidewalk opposite and in front of the church. Probably linked to the antiques fair. 

A man sitting on a bench a little further to the right is writing in a notebook. I suspect everyone who writes is part of this anniversary. 

Yesterday I didn’t go to the Georges Perec event at the Town Hall café for which I had bought a ticket. I rather avoided contact with the people involved, I stuck to signs of recognition and complicity. I wanted to be peaceful. What interests me is not the celebration but the writing experience, and what is specific about it. 

I already feel, as I have already said, this difference between the volume of my text and that of Perec. The rarity and brevity of its formulas. Weariness. Fatigue. Often a simple objective.

One of the two girls in front of me explains to the other that it is up to parents to take care of their children. She speaks quickly. A 96 passes in front of her and stops. The reverse of the collar of his raincoat is lined with a checkered pattern. 

I place my computer on my lap, my omelette arrives. I will observe without writing for a few minutes. A blonde lady gets out of a taxi and then runs across the street towards the antiques fair. A man on a bike arrives slowly from the square, his bike runs silently, he moves forward without pedaling and looks around him.

A car from time to time. A woman on the sidewalk opposite with a rolling suitcase, who seems to be looking for something. A white van passes with the sound of a damaged engine. 

I wonder if I will see the exit from mass. Because the square is hidden by a truck. And because there are other exits. A 63 stops. In particular an exit on the right side of the church, which seems better suited to the usual passage of the public than the large flight of steps. 

Perhaps I should go and see if there is a mass going on in the church. But I have an omelette coming. 

A 96 moving slowly towards its stop, slowed down by a bike rolling in front of it. He does not stop and continues on his way. 

A little further on the left, the guy who was also writing the two previous mornings. 

A 96 that stops, less than a minute after the other. Small traffic jam of 4 cars at the red light at the end of the square towards the right, at the Saint-Sulpice – Bonaparte intersection. 

The couple with dirty hair eats omelettes. They arrived after me but were served before. The waiter knows I have plenty of time. They dirtyly eat the large pieces of egg that hang from their forks, leaning forward with their chins above the plate. 

I wonder if I offer this painting when I eat an omelette. I will be self-conscious later when I eat mine. 

The cars are silent. The engine noises are soft, many run on electricity. 

An “Organic Food” van. A Dott bike speeding by, a guy in all black standing straight as an i perched on it. A car takes the ramp from the underground car park, two others continue towards the corner of the square. The light is red. 8 pedestrians on the sidewalk behind me, between Bonaparte and rue des canettes. A bicycle passes in the opposite direction of traffic. A couple of joggers pass in front of the terrace, along the sidewalk, also in the opposite direction of traffic. I wrote traffic with a single f and my computer highlight the fault. 

It’s very pleasant to immerse yourself in this writing which channels and clarifies thoughts.

I stopped for a few minutes to eat my omelette. Excellent. Suddenly the flow of cars and people accelerated, I had the impression of losing track of the choreography of this morning, I resigned myself to not counting the taxis, and the buses, and the people who gathered to enter the grounds of the antiques fair. 

Back at the controls, 5 minutes later, I notice that the flow is still a little denser than before, slightly noisier. There are a few more passers-by. 

11:43 a.m. and still no exit from mass. Who goes to mass in Saint Sulpice? 

In front of the church a guy walks by, in a white outfit and shorts, a racket sticking out of his backpack. Tennis? Squash? It’s too far away for me to see. A hunched old man is crossing, the back of his jacket is all wrinkled, he is heading towards the antiques fair. 

People with dirty hair are in big discussion. They laugh heartily, I can’t hear what they say. On the other hand, I have snippets of the conversation of the two girls on the right. They are further away from me but occupy the place with less discretion. They talk about Lorène who works at the Court of Auditors. 

At the bus stop a duo of Japanese cosplayers but in their forties. Which bus will they get on? 

Well-dressed people, a little in their Sunday best, arrive at the terrace. Did I miss the end of mass? The facade of the church is still hidden by an ugly cubic white truck. I see groups of people in their Sunday best arriving across the street. Perhaps my hypothesis of an exit from the side of the church was correct. 

In any case, it’s a discreet and sparse crowd. Homogeneous in age (gray hair) and clothing style. 

Ali with his newspapers and his cap. “That’s it, it’s official, Marine le Pen is no longer racist. We are saved!”

The girl with the plaid collar says she likes Aimé as a name for a boy. And Désiré. An 86. A couple who sit to my left on the same seat. People entering the church. 

On a bench just across the street, with her back to an antiques fair tent, a dark-haired woman in a gray coat composes a message on her phone with a careful finger. A red-haired woman cycles by in a multi-colored wool coat. 

A guy with long hair and a long coat walks on the square, the wind blows his hair in all directions. A wind that rises and makes people fear rain. It’s suddenly cold. 

The couple with the dirty hair left, I didn’t see them leave. 

Just on my right, behind the two girls in raincoats, a spinning Morris column, alternating a poster of Amour Ouf, a film by Gilles Lellouche, of the film Aznavour, with Tahar Rahim, and of Angelo in the Mysterious Forest, a animated film. Preeminence of cinema. How do you make a living making films in a world where people no longer go to the cinema? Or are they going there? 

Groups of people on the square. Faithful? Tourists? Hard to say. In any case not in k way and city exploration outfit. 

A man accompanied by his veiled wife walks along the tents of the antique fair, they chat and laugh. They cross the street then move away towards rue Bonaparte. 

The two girls in raincoats decide to go for a walk. They finish their coffee. 

A yellow Porsche. The loudest event since I moved here. 11:58 a.m. The wind that has picked up is rather cold. 

Still people on the square. This is the main flow this morning, compared to the sidewalk behind me (between the town hall café and the terrace where I am), where there are very few people. 

Midday strikes. A group of parents with children and strollers arrive in the distance, probably coming from Luxembourg. A gray car parks in double file alongside the ugly white truck that hides the church stairs from me. 

New arrivals on the terrace. New beginnings. 

To my right, the girl is writing in her notebook. The boy looks at his phone

A fat lady with long, overly bleached hair, dressed in black and walking with a cane, crosses the terrace and heads towards the café behind me. She’s having trouble breathing.

And 70. 

Three gray cars, a bicycle. A second waiter arrives on the terrace to clear things up. A father and son in rain coats sit in the front row, in front of me. 

Half a dozen cars restart at the light, silent. 

The mother and her son leave after 30 seconds without ordering anything. 

I’m annoyed by this white truck in front of the church. He does his job, he disrupts the scene. 

I order another one lying down. On my right, leaning against the bus stop, a cook in a suit (white jacket, hat, blue pants) is making the phone.  A taxi stops at the station, he is the only one. A car with a noisy engine breaks the hushed calm of this cold, gray morning. Behind, a motorcycle passes almost discreetly in comparison. An 86. Half a dozen passengers climb in. A man with long hair gets out, preceded by a stroller. 

Gathering of priests in front of the church. In white blades. One carries a cross. People are gathering. I can’t see everything because of the white truck. A Japanese woman in a skirt and leather jacket, bobbed, emerges from this group and heads towards the antiques fair. 

Small influx of more bourgeoisly dressed people on the other side of the road. Scarves, leather bags, tied hair, well-cut clothes. 

Two men in sweatshirts and baseball caps sit on the right in front of me, in place of the two girls in raincoats. 

I suppose that the spontaneous multiplication of rather elderly and well-dressed people simultaneously with the appearance of men in white abs signals the end of the mass. The terrace fills with this new wave. 

A black courier wrapped in a fleece passes on his electric bike. He coughs. 

The crowd in front of the church drags on, chatting in small groups. A 63. 

A sidecar. Two sidecars with a driver and two passengers each. Probably a tourist visit. 

A municipal police van, two gray cars, a taxi. Other well-dressed people. A bus without a passenger. A tall red-haired lady takes photos of the church towers. 

I see the spine of Perec’s book on the seat next to me. And the sentence “What happens when nothing happens except time, people, cars and clouds”.

The sky is white, with some gray shades. We cannot say that not the slightest cloud passes. We would rather feel as if we were standing on a slow and silent stage. 

It’s not hot. 

A couple passing by on a velib. The girl standing behind the boy pedaling.

Cars. No engine noise. It’s hushed. 

Two old gentlemen with berets sit down in front of the two foreigners in baseball caps. To complete the picture, at the corner of the terrace, there is a guy under a hood. 

My head is bare. My head is cold. Would I have thought of it without this clash of headgear? 

A scooter with two helmeted passengers. Between the terrace and the bus stop, an old gentleman with a cap too. A cyclist with a baseball cap. Verification: no, not everyone has something on their head. It’s just a random sequence of observations. 

A helmeted cyclist, a guy on a helmeted scooter. A couple with their children dressed as for the approaching mass. Late ? Second office? 

An orange tuk tuk carrying a family passes silently. Electric propulsion. He seems to be sliding on the asphalt. Why didn’t I notice the silence of the cars in the previous days? 

Compared to previous days the place is not necessarily calmer. Less activity behind me on the sidewalk, fewer people with packages, but much more activity on the square, where the men in dawn are still there among the group of people gathered, whose size is slowly diminishing, unity by unit. 

Fewer shoppers, more loyalists. 

I’m cold. I’m going to go look in the church, I’m going to take a walk around the square to warm up.  12:26 p.m. 

An 86, direction the Champ de Mars. Its doors are open and I can hear the announcement playing from inside the vehicle. Another bus parks at the stop, delaying the 86. A 70. It leaves slowly. 

Head to the church.

Confirmation: there are still people in the church, it smells of incense, small groups chatting. There was a mass. 

Passage through the antiques fair: much more active than the previous days. Homogeneous audience, mostly in their sixties.

I went back and settled in the café, warm. Alongside the other people I have already met and come to write here for the birthday. 

At the corner of Rue des Canettes, a family is bustling around a car with all its doors open and full of luggage. A stroller is placed behind the open trunk, we see silhouettes moving inside. A man (the father I suppose) is active, his body engulfed on one side of the car and his buttocks in the middle of the street. 

The terrace where I was 10 minutes ago is now in front of me. People turn their backs on me. There are more than other days I would say. 

The guy who was there every morning writing gets up, talks to the people behind him and rolls a cigarette. 

There is a team that seems to do interviews with people who come here to write. 

The old lady with the cane and white hair from earlier comes out of the café, passing right next to me. 

I’m seated at the table right in front of the door, in the draft when it opens, but unlike previous days, a heater on is blowing hot air. It’s very nice. 

Lots of pedestrians, but coming from the church and rue Saint Sulpice, much fewer on the sidewalk in front of the café, which was so busy yesterday. 

We sense that yesterday’s foot traffic was linked to shopping, hence all the bags. Hence all the young people, hence all the varied styles. 

Much more consistent this morning. Much more “neighborhood”. 

A man with white sneakers and a white umbrella stationed on the corner, looking at the street of cans which leaves behind us on the left of the terrace. 

Average age up sharply compared to yesterday afternoon. 12:44 p.m. 

An elderly man in shorts and cap, tanned and muscular legs. Jogging in Luxembourg? 

A girl with her father. She is in her forties, he is old. Same expression, same approach. Both big. Perfect local dress. 

I just spent 10 minutes not writing, just looking, just looking. 

Dozens of people, hundreds of details, thousands of perceptions. But no activity to fix them, and they have already been erased from my memory, replaced by new information. 

The activity of observation with note-taking has a transformative effect: it creates a chronicle, it creates an avatar of the thing seen, which will persist outside the spectator, which can be transmitted to a hypothetical reader, or quite simply reread subsequently by the author. 

The census brings out nothingness, and brings us into a fragile and uncertain space, that of possible readings or rereadings, that of restitution, of evocation, of the materialization of a memory in the form of a written trace. 

I supplemented this with some photos. Without concern for coherence, letting myself be carried away by the flow of thoughts and associations of ideas, by the details noted, by a face, a package, a noise, a spot of color. By a vague concern for imitation too, clearly. If the original text had not existed, I probably would never have counted so many buses. I probably would not have taken the same look at some elements which only interested me because they appear in the text. 

Did I mention the taxi rank? I’m not sure. 

What I perceive from the experience, what gives me food for thought, is the brevity of Perec’s text, and the boredom that emerges from it. He doesn’t like this experience. 

He sticks to his intention: to observe and note.

I reacted differently, I observed myself absorbed in the flow of events and experience both absorbing and vandine to write a spontaneous and improvised chronicle, following as best I could the flow of ideas and words so much slower than that of perceptions. 

I experienced the perception of the moment in its multiple dimensions, of the flow of time and of the mind which observes the rapid passage of ideas while the fingers string together words and sentences at a pace so much slower than we feel the frustration of letting so many things escape, at the same time as the recognition of being able to experience so many things in such a short time, and find so much pleasure in this activity, letting ourselves be caressed by the micro events that follow one another at a pace that never slows down, an ocean in which we navigate and from which we draw a few lines. 

Exhilaration of the moment, a form of meditation through writing. In this state into which Perec’s attempt to imitate Perec plunged me, I often forgot the initial project and discovered something else, a much less impersonal form of experiencing the moment through writing. 

In front of me a young woman with a cap walks her dog in a bag, takes it out of the bag, puts a leash on it and takes the bag back on her back. The dog doesn’t seem to like walking very much. He trails behind her. Apparently he’s not in great shape. Hurt ? Exercise time? She walks away towards the square with her hesitant little dog.

A young girl in a white t-shirt walks in the other direction with a determined step. 

From the closed terrace, I no longer hear the noises, I no longer hear the conversations. I only have the images, the movements, the poses, the faces. The position on the terrace inside the café introduces a distance, from actor we become spectator. 

This also reminds me that yesterday, while recording we observations on the spectacle of the square, I transcribed snatches of conversations of people who spoke behind my back, whose faces I never even tried to see. 

An old lady enters the cafe. She has a cane, rare dyed and permed hair, the long bony nose of those who have lived a long time, her gaze stretched forward, towards the place of her next step, of her next effort. And his next rest station. 

She comes out. Another old lady came to pick her up, to go to the next room, where a meeting was being held. 

A couple. A father and his son. A guy carrying bread. A 70 bus moving away. When do we not learn anything new about a place? Are there ways to renew the perspective to continue the experience by enriching the range of perceptions experienced? 

Would a change of location be enough to regenerate activity? 

Do we exhaust a place or do we regenerate it by engaging in this census activity that is at once manic, individual, arbitrary, imperfect, exact (there is almost no one left on the terrace outside), imprecise? , monotonous, exhilarating, abundant, divergent, surprising, satisfying, endearing, this unexpected form of introspection turned outwards. 

I suspect that’s all the difference with Perec. He has the rigor not to let his affect, his taste intervene, to place himself in a posture of neutrality which allows him to exhaust the point more quickly. He does not completely escape the personal dimension of the experience, since he mentions in places his fatigue or his boredom, but he confines them to few things. A 96. A 63. 

He does not let them prosper. 

A young girl on a bike, very elegant, with a gray coat, a black skirt, very white skin. Moment of grace. 

To return to the notion of exhaustion, I missed it. Rather, as the end of the experience approaches, I have the impression of having activated, energized, potentiated, revived a place through this activity of observing people who pass through it without seeing it, 

Like a subjective materialization of Place Saint-Sulpice rather than its exhaustion. A resonance, a synchronization with its rhythm comparable to that of a clock which synchronizes with its neighbor. Yes. The creation by means of a flow of thought of a common framework made of cohabitation, sensations, impregnation, recording, materialization, simplification, observation, caricature, mobilization of energy, consumption of time, in short, the provision of my brain time available for observing this place and its pulsations.

A few hours to the rhythm of a place, to appreciate its invisible melody, to perceive its movements and pulsations. To be part of it in order to make it your own. 

However, this is not a new place. I have lots of memories there, from various periods of my life. It’s not a rediscovery (I didn’t learn much). It’s more like a conversation, a taming, a touch (hardly more) of three days, enough to create a lasting relationship or to regenerate the existing relationship, I suppose. 

What will I remember from all these thoughts in a few months? What will happen when I reread these lines? What meaning will they take? Will something new come out of it simply by the fact of time having passed and the existence of a concrete trace of the experience (this text)? 

I didn’t create anything, I transcribed. I spent time at this place and chronicled the experience. Abundantly. A 96. I enjoyed it. For example, the pleasure of feeling the sun warming my face through the window. But what is this experience made of? What would the same activity have done in another place? Does the experience primarily concern myself or the place chosen to experience it? 

I think I’ll have to find the answer while walking. That is, by writing.

I’m glad I stayed away from the literary event. That’s not what interested me. It is the direct experience of the activity, the appropriation of Pérec’s approach, and the observation of the impossibility of not introducing foreign elements, sacrilegious perhaps, for lack of completely understanding the approach, and also because the irresistible temptation throughout the experience, and to which I had to give in (because otherwise what to write?) was to try to understand why I was doing this, rather than simply doing it. For what didI that and nothing else? I don’t know if Place Saint Sulpice answered me, but in any case it inspired me. 

The sun is getting brighter and brighter on the terrace. 

We are 5 fans writing the last words of our versions of the exhaustion attempt. In a row, in the first row behind the window, warmed by the November sun and adopted by the people at the bar.

A little at home. And probably forever incapable of getting to the bottom of the question. Assuming that’s the goal.

Exhaustion, clearly it was a joke. We could exhaust thousands of writers’ lives and never exhaust Place Saint Sulpice, nor any other place in Paris. Place Saint Sulpice doesn’t care about us like it doesn’t care about its first 63.