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2002-11-06/7

Paul Gauguin
B. 6.7.1848 Paris / D. 5.8.1903 Atuana, Marquesas
Alchoholism/Syphilis

This is not a book.
Iíve done it! Iíve created the perfect life: I live in a perpetual and jonquil-bright Week One of new regimes. Keep everything strange, this is my motto; through the organs of sense admit the unfamiliar only (this is another version of my motto). Like a song that seems on first hearing atonal, maintain the world on a cusp, before it turns into Cinnamon Girl or Shattered for the eleven hundredth time.
This is not a book.
I love my food. I hope that I can eat it all before it spoils. I tossed two mangos down the heron throat of waste, a daily fruit allotment with their fine forms gulped away. Now itís nearly time to part with Saturdayís knish in its sweet small brown paper bag that I keep on the counter. I love my food. Sometimes I like to look at it too long, is all.
This is not a book.
Ever since I moved to Brighton Beach to write a screenplay, various members of the lesbian Everest expedition team have been e-mailing me bad news of the world. (Now that Iím even further from Manhattan they canít imagine that Iíd hear it otherwise.)
A book, even a bad book, is a serious affair. A phrase that might be excellent in the fourth chapter would be all wrong in the second, and it is not everybody who knows the trick.
China gets its dam on, voters unite; bad decision-making of the world! I ask: How many more Barabbases are left to be preferred by now?

Quotations from Paul Gauguinís Intimate Journals (1903)

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