The following is a translated, unpublished submission to the July 1977 edition of the French literary magazine La Crime. It’s author, Amérique Nakamura, is in hiding and wanted for crimes against the state, such as bombmaking and reading.
‘I was trying to write then and I found the greatest difficulty, aside from knowing truly what you really felt, rather than what you were supposed to feel, and had been taught to feel, was to put down what really happened in action; what the actual things were which produced the emotion that you experienced. In writing for a newspaper you told what happened and, with one trick and another, you communicated the emotion aided by the element of timeliness which gives a certain emotion to any account of something that has happened on that day; but the real thing, the sequence of motion and fact which made the emotion and which would be as valid in a year or in ten years or, with luck and if you stated it purely enough, always, was beyond me and I was working very hard to get it.’
Ernest Hemingway, 1932
It feels weird to write something like this when I haven’t really written anything substantial myself, but then again Jean-Luc Godard got his start in film criticism before making Breathless, so I guess I’ll go in real quick.
“No way, nuh uh. I’m not telling you a goddamn thing.”
Cafe Sharktooth, night. Booth in the back. Bustling. Becky and Sawyer. A banana split and a half-eaten pie and a cup of coffee between them. Rockabilly from a jukebox somewhere.
Sawyer popped out and lit yet another Gauloises and set it between her lips and then said, “Why the fuck not?”
The train sliced wind. Trees zipped past blurred. Eyes low- bored.
Opened when a woman sat across from him. Knitted sweater, white heart pattern popped against red. Pearl necklace. Tilted down, a smile under the wide brim hat. Gap between the teeth.
The woman said, “Good day.”
He said, “Better now.”
“We’re the only ones left- and I don’t even know your name.”
She stared at the girl- hard. Wind and rain whipped unrelenting at the both of them, elements soaking into their hair and their faces and their shirts and their dresses and their boots.
“I don’t even know yours.”