موضوعات
آموزش و پرورش
ادبیات و زبان
پزشکی، دندانپزشکی و داروسازی
تاریخ و جغرافیا
داستان و رمان
دیگر
دین و فلسفه
روانشناسی
ریاضیات و آمار
سلامتی، تناسب اندام و رژیم غذایی
شیمی و پلیمر
علوم اجتماعی و حقوق
علوم زیستی و بیوتکنولوژی
فیزیک و نجوم
کامپیوتر و اینترنت
کتابهای کودکان و داستان
کسب و کار و اقتصاد
کشاورزی و دامپزشکی و غذا
معماری
مهندسی و فناوری
هنر و تئاتر
محصولات
You Are Not I: A Portrait of Paul Bowles - Original PDF
نویسندگان: خلاصه: "I believe you; I just don't see it." He was being polite again."It must make you irritable, this stranger coming and telling you""I'm not irritable. I'm not an irritable person."After that day, Paul did not come again to the Villa de France to talk of Jane. He made it clear to me that he felt uncomfortable, giving an excuse about thenoise at the hotel. I had not realizedothers would tell me this laterthat in the four years since Jane's death he had become reluctant to go out to publicplaces. (Nor had it occurred to me that at the hotel he could not smoke kif, whichI was also to learnwas so helpful to him in alleviating anxiety.) Hesuggested that I interview him in his flat, saying that we could talk better there. When I mentioned that other people were usually around, makingdiscussion difficult, he said he would make the time to see me alone.And so began our daily conversations about Jane, extended conversations that went on for four or five hours at a time. Each day he waited for me tobegin. As he waited, perhaps he was steeling himself, as for an ordeal, but he never gave any direct indication that this was so. He did make it clear,however, how much he admired her work, how he regretted that it had not been adequately recognized in her lifetime.I soon learned that if I came to him with my theories about Jane's writingfor theorizing, working at an abstract level, was part of my history (part of myselfthat was often at odds with storytelling)he would listen politely, but the conversation would go nowhere. At such times hisanswers had the quality of reiteration, of having been solidified. But if I could make myself stay with the specific, a phrase in her work or in a letter she hadwritten to him, a phrase that was provocative and mysterious at the same time, something new appeared in his response: a new incident in her life, a newmemory. Then there would be a new story, a revealing that was like a skein unwinding after the proper thread had been pulled.When he responded to my questions, he was forthcoming but in a way that is difficult to describe. It has been said of Paul many times that he is verydeceptive; he even said so himself in his autobiography. Yet, listening to him, I did not have a sense of deceptionthere was withholding, yes, but not in thesense of a deliberate refusal to tell. Rather, it seemed to me that his withholding was a process akin to his method of telling a story, where what isrevealed is revealed only at the necessary moment.I was being immersed in a world of stories: her stories, his stories about her, his stories about the two of them when they were together, about the gamesthey would play together. And then there were all the other stories, the subsidiary stories surfacing around me, arising out of the world of his daily life.One afternoon as Paul and I were just about to begin work, Mrabet came into the flat and sat down. He began a story about taking Jane to the market, inwhich he featured as a central character."I take Janie with me in car. Janie buy three bottle wine, one kilo meat, chocolate. Janie like chocolate. I look [at the bill]. Seventy-five hundred francs. I toldhim [an Italian shopkeeper], with seven thousand francs I could buy" Mrabet listed in Spanish a number of items that he couldbuy with this sum. "Janie told me no. I told Janie this day, 'Shut up.'""Glad I wasn't there," Paul said."Janie became small.""Like Alice in Wonderland," Paul interjected."Italiano hit me." And then, broadening the base of his accusation, "Cherifa hit me. Ayse [a Moroccan woman who had worked for Jane] hit me.""Ay, ay, ay," said Paul."Everybody hit me. Never buy anything from Italiano.""And Ang?le?" Paul asked. Ang?le was a Spanish woman who had also worked for Jane."Ang?le hit me.""One time," noted Paul, "Janie had six servants altogether. Not all at the same time. They rotated.""Culpa," announced Mrabet loudly. "Your fault.""According to him," Paul turned to me, "everything is my fault because I didn't command her, make her do this or that. Nobody could make her doanything," he insisted.Mrabet said something about men needing to control women."All right, it's my fault. It's all over, so don't tell me it's my fault." Whereas earlier in Mrabet's story Paul had prompted him to further telling, now the tone ofhis voice was aggrieved."Besides, Mrabet," I interjected, "Paul wouldn't have wanted to tell her.""He has a different ideathe man has to command," Paul explained."In this world," Mrabet said expansively, "every woman has to have a man over her." Then he added something about Paul not having been seriousenough and supplemented it with an aside to Paul in Spanish."He says the man has to keep the bit in the mouth, otherwise the woman runs away. Never let her do what she wants, or it's too late," Paul translated."It was too late when he met her," I said."It's never too late," Mrabet pronounced and got up and lef
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