The train left the station of Menton. Five or six hours - I did not know-separated me from my return to Paris. I sat comfortably with Fugitive , very happy already with my idea of continuous play when a traveler came and fell heavily on the seat beside me. The man looked tired, depressed, and was breathing with difficulty. Without doubt he had raced to catch the train and he was out of breath. He opened his laptop right away. "What kind of man is this, I wondered ... - I gave him in thirty years ... the type-setting to play with Excel until our arrival, or the addict to videogames that never opened a book? "I followed
already meandering sentences of Proust when I was surprised by the sobs of my neighbor. I cast a glance on discrete screen of his laptop. It showed a photograph of a girl under oblique forehead and hair hidden by a blue turban who fell into a crease on his neck. Was it she who was the cause of those tears?
"Excuse me" said the man. I must seem a little strange ... and maybe even upset ... but if you knew ... so I need to talk ...
-I read ... I answered a angry voice that did not stop his speech
-yet I had promised her ... She made me swear not to tell, "he went ... but I can not take my word. This story is so amazing! You know the painting by Vermeer: the girl with the pearl or the turban by the names ...?
Yes!
And this artist's work in general? Since Marcel Proust killed Bergotte before the little patch of yellow wall of view of Delft, Vermeer has spilled more ink than the canvases he painted not cost him with oil.
"It is probable but I said I am no expert and I do not mind, specifically, with Proust that I would like to continue reading
Since you're talking about literature rushed there, ignoring my remark, I will quote the novel by Tracy Chevalier and there was also a film with Scarlett Johansson in the title role ... but if you look at the photo that appears on my screen, you will see that this is Scarlett Johansson not ... and this is not the portrait painted by Vermeer. (See photo Miss Vermeer 2)
- Right-
but ... Well ... "said my neighbor when I arrived in Menton, three weeks ago, I did not really Girl with a Pearl Earring . My girlfriend had just left me, my manuscript had been rejected by all publishers and the advertising company that employed me was threatening to reduce its workforce. In fact, I was on the list of nominees for the departure. So I packed my bags and I left Paris. I thought it would be my last vacation. A
Menton, I was lowered into a small hotel overlooking the marina. I got up late, keeping up with my mood gloomy pleasure and instantly noon, I walked down lunch in a small bar-restaurant frequented more by the strain of Menton and tourists. Rosé flowed freely. The sole waitress, a comely girl with doe eyes, which persisted in hiding her blond hair under a blue turban had to work hard to serve the ten tables of regulars polite and friendly but obviously titillated by her short skirt and perfect shapely legs. Catharina was his name. At least she is doing it that way. She was Dutch and spoke French and picturesque rocky ground, which delighted me, pronounced by such beautiful lips.
We became friends. The fact that we were both strangers to the city was probably what brought us together. When customers were gone, she came and sat opposite me and we chatted to stick broke under the amused eye of the owner of the establishment, an amiable man in his sixties as speedy and skillful in cooking in salty stories.
One day I asked Catherine
already meandering sentences of Proust when I was surprised by the sobs of my neighbor. I cast a glance on discrete screen of his laptop. It showed a photograph of a girl under oblique forehead and hair hidden by a blue turban who fell into a crease on his neck. Was it she who was the cause of those tears?
"Excuse me" said the man. I must seem a little strange ... and maybe even upset ... but if you knew ... so I need to talk ...
-I read ... I answered a angry voice that did not stop his speech
-yet I had promised her ... She made me swear not to tell, "he went ... but I can not take my word. This story is so amazing! You know the painting by Vermeer: the girl with the pearl or the turban by the names ...?
Yes!
And this artist's work in general? Since Marcel Proust killed Bergotte before the little patch of yellow wall of view of Delft, Vermeer has spilled more ink than the canvases he painted not cost him with oil.
"It is probable but I said I am no expert and I do not mind, specifically, with Proust that I would like to continue reading
Since you're talking about literature rushed there, ignoring my remark, I will quote the novel by Tracy Chevalier and there was also a film with Scarlett Johansson in the title role ... but if you look at the photo that appears on my screen, you will see that this is Scarlett Johansson not ... and this is not the portrait painted by Vermeer. (See photo Miss Vermeer 2)
- Right-
but ... Well ... "said my neighbor when I arrived in Menton, three weeks ago, I did not really Girl with a Pearl Earring . My girlfriend had just left me, my manuscript had been rejected by all publishers and the advertising company that employed me was threatening to reduce its workforce. In fact, I was on the list of nominees for the departure. So I packed my bags and I left Paris. I thought it would be my last vacation. A
Menton, I was lowered into a small hotel overlooking the marina. I got up late, keeping up with my mood gloomy pleasure and instantly noon, I walked down lunch in a small bar-restaurant frequented more by the strain of Menton and tourists. Rosé flowed freely. The sole waitress, a comely girl with doe eyes, which persisted in hiding her blond hair under a blue turban had to work hard to serve the ten tables of regulars polite and friendly but obviously titillated by her short skirt and perfect shapely legs. Catharina was his name. At least she is doing it that way. She was Dutch and spoke French and picturesque rocky ground, which delighted me, pronounced by such beautiful lips.
We became friends. The fact that we were both strangers to the city was probably what brought us together. When customers were gone, she came and sat opposite me and we chatted to stick broke under the amused eye of the owner of the establishment, an amiable man in his sixties as speedy and skillful in cooking in salty stories.
One day I asked Catherine
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