ALBERT CAMUS
IN FRENCH
I am writing this note holed up in a
cold car, and waiting, as the snow
falls. There is nothing outside of that,
really. I have my dog alongside me -
she looks with little more than her alert
and concerned disinterestedness at the
things of the outside world; which suits
me fine. I am looking at a picture of
Albert Camus and reading a small book
about him - not by - in French. Or, rather,
I am trying to stumble through it in only
my best French-reading manner.
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