Dreaming the arctic absurd man
A artist journey across the arctic circle and back again
My stories began in the summer of Solomon. Mr. Artaud was in Paris this past Sunday
He was sitting in his library one fine morning, with his wife,
a pretty little Flood of funereal glance upon his face, his hat in his other hand, his pigeons in the water Spin.
Hearing words frozen in hard winter wind, I watched from the high road the little group of houses in the village.
This became known as the foreign group. From their windows I could see the same face each morning and evening.
. It was soon clear that they were not foreign: they were European. Their children must have been brought up in Europe
The private map of an emotional and moral north, a map of enormous continent, rimed forests, their white sewers frozen in the sunlight.
