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Le Petit Train d'Auteuil


From the Journey to the End of Night (Céline) past The Beast Within (Zola) via Verlaine and The Brothers Goncourt.
On the chessboard of Squares of the vast parisian hopscotch, one sometimes reached, hopping on one leg, on one foot, the Heaven of the Bois de Boulogne. But in order to arrive there it was necessary to walk and walk and walk again, from Epinettes square to Carpeaux square, from Moulin Rouge to Moulin d’Auteuil, from Monoprix at la Fourche to Prisunic Mozart, from the cemetery of Montmartre to the cemetery of Passy, from the college in rue de Rome to the “miserable distant lycée”, in quest of those summits where - it seems - the air is purer; and all that because it is always the shepherd who looks for the sheep, as great-uncle Felip sadly complained, and never the sheep for the shepherd, as mockingly noted by great-uncle Cartou.
And, when our thin legs could not carry us any more, then one took le petit train d’Auteuil  (the little train for Auteuil)...
Yesterday in Saint-Girons, the fair. In the dust, spades, rakes, forks, all the agricultural instruments which helped the “Ménets” to open up roads and cart-tracks on the lands of the Castet de Toch. The tools are lying on the ground of Place de la Poste, just as all mine are lying under the soft grass of Esplas de S. or under the gravel of the sepultures at Durban, mould among mould, hypothetically guarded by some monumental Christ on the cross, while, lower down, in the hollow of the mossy meadows, eye fixed on the surface of the lively wave, the little black trout merrily criss-crosses here and there in the passing current.

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