CHAPTER EIGHT
Through images of that autumn and the premature onset of winter, there showed a haphazardly primed canvas onto which the autumn and winter were superimposed in a slapdash manner. Almost every event was a brutal reminder of the simple underlying reason: if an image, that is, something unquestionably visible, lives according to its own flourishing laws, with chiaroscuro, curves and creases at the lips, then so does a canvas also according to its own, with the inevitable creeping decay of the linen hessian, and nothing can be done about it.
The incident with the phone book became the beginning of pure misery and would be a reminder of itself for a long time, like a chronic ankle sprain distorting one’s gait. Even though nothing much happened, really. There was a new sofa purch
