Never Any End to Paris Read Online Free Page A

Saint-Benoît and which would be called, from the moment I discovered the plot in a book by Unamuno,
The Lettered Assassin
. Even though I had the most idiotic relationship with death in those days, or precisely because of that, the novel proposed to kill anyone who read it, killing the reader seconds after he or she finished it. It was an idea inspired by reading Unamuno’s
How to Make a Novel
, which I discovered in one of the book stalls on the banks of the Seine; the title caught my attention, since I thought it would be about the very thing I didn’t know how to do. But it wasn’t, it was about everything except how to write a novel. However, in a paragraph where Unamuno speculates about books that provoke the death of their readers, I found a good idea for a story.
    One day, I bumped into Marguerite Duras on the stairs — I was on my way up to my
chambre
and she was on her way down to the street — and she suddenly showed great interest in what I was up to. And I, trying to sound important, explained that I intended to write a book that would cause the death of all who read it. Marguerite looked stunned, sublimely astonished. When she was able to react, she said to me — or at least I understood her to say, because she was speaking her
superior
French again — that killing the reader, apart from absurd, was quite impossible, unless, for example, a swift and sharp poisoned arrow were to fly out of the book directly into the heart of the unsuspecting reader. I was very annoyed and even began to worry I’d be out of the garret, fearing her discovery that I was a dreary novice would lead her to evict me. But no, Marguerite simply detected in me a colossal mental confusion and wanted to help. She lit a cigarette slowly, looked at me almost with compassion and eventually said, if I wanted to murder whoever read the book, I would have to do it using a
textual effect
. She said this and carried on down the stairs leaving me more worried than before. Had I understood correctly or had I misunderstood her
superior
French? What was this about a
textual effect
? Perhaps she had been referring to a
literary effect
that I would have to construct within the text to give readers the impression that the book’s very letters had killed them. Perhaps that was it. But then, how could I achieve a literary effect that would pulverize the reader in a purely textual way?
    After a week of tough questions and black shadows that, to my despair, hovered over my literary endeavors, I bumped into Marguerite on the stairs again. This time, she was on her way up — like so many buildings in Paris, this one had no elevator — to the third floor, where her apartment was. And I was heading down from the sixth floor, from my modest
chambre
, on my way out. Employing her
superior
French once more, Marguerite asked me, or I seemed to understand her to be asking me, if I had managed to kill off my readers yet. In contrast to our previous exchange, this time I decided not to give myself airs, that is, not to make a fool of myself, to try not only to be humble, but also to take advantage of whatever lesson I might learn from her. I told her, with difficulty, in my
inferior
or, if you will, muddled French, the trouble I was having getting my novel started. I tried to explain to her that, following her advice, I now wished only to cause the death of the reader by carrying out the crime within the strict confines of the writing. “It’s very hard to do, though, but I’m on the case,” I added.
    I saw then that if I didn’t really understand Marguerite, she didn’t understand me either. A serious silence fell. “But I’m on the case,” I said again. Silence again. Then, trying to ease the tension, I attempted to sum up what I was going through, and stammered out the following: “Advice, that’s what I need, some help with the novel.” This time Marguerite understood perfectly. “Ah, some advice,” she said, and invited me to sit down right