Frankfurt

and now, there is the time beginning to take a new dimension. We must wait, there's nothing to do in the lobby of this airport, and writing is the best solution. Is, talking about yourself as if you were talking to others, as if others would read the silly notes that anyway you are the only one to understand, making sense? Should we congratulate ourselves or complain about the idea of being read or not? How can we claim to be honest and talk about true things when you know they might offend and not be understood by the reader? Is the reader the voyeur and the writer the exhibitionist? Isn’t the talent of the show master to satisfy the perversity of the watcher?
Was the vision of Bernard Pivot accompanied by his assistant, editor, or whatever, a super trendy blonde in leather pants in the duty-free of Frankfurt, satisfaction or frustration? Could the cultural and the profound become superficial and reduced to the same treatment as the new dresses length for the next winter?