Sometimes I speak to men and women just as a little girl speaks to her doll. She knows, of course, that the doll does not understand her, but she creates for herself the joy of communication through a pleasant and conscious self-deception. (Arthur Schopenhauer.)
Seven years and a stomach ulcer later Bieimon sprang for new heights unburdened, least of all by previous experience since it is accorded a weight and thus only traded where similar products exist for reference. His experience, one might add, was of the kind that drew not eager-looking customers paying cash on the nail but lanky pale individuals who bartered for grams, not tons, in quantities more suited to the available space in an antiquarian's window or a stomach after a meal: part-time collectors and occasional gourmets. Given a choice he preferred the former but glad of attention entertained affably. His customers, one might go on to say, were not a particularly discriminating kind and bargained for their fare because they were not men of means. Their interest waned as time passed while Bieimon's strength grew with it and synchronously excused themselves when the latter showed no peak.
His glimpse of the next flight of stairs upset his new disposition. He discovered the existence of another, hitherto unknown breed of men who had reached that great height by claiming uncommon experience and translating it into a set of simple principles for popular consumption that had reached sacrosanct proportions. They were development planners, and made a good living. (1991)
Copyright ©2002 Olivier Serrat |
