Interviews with the local press have started. I made my pitch, and everyone thinks it’s great.
“Hey, you’re Bukowski!”
My colleagues have started calling me Bukowski. They think it’s pretty damn cool to have Bukowski in the house.
The alarm went off too early. The coffee pot blew up in my hands. My antibiotics are giving me the shits. Deauville smells like a wet horse.
What’s the sense of living if it’s just drinking instant coffee and walking on shards of glass?
The alarm went off too early. The coffee pot blew up in my hands. My antibiotics are giving me the shits. Deauville smells like a wet horse.
What’s the sense of living if it’s just drinking instant coffee and walking on shards of glass?
Maybe I’ll leave this place when the affair with this girl ends. Maybe the affair with this girl will end when I leave this place.
God, if she could just keep her mouth shut. If we could just stop having sex. If I could free my mind. I need to write.
“A chaotic and exciting universe” - Marianne
“A confrontation with writing at the edge of madness” - Ouest France
“Novelist in search of characters, Samuel Lebon went to Deauville to find a touch of the American dream. His dark, colored, enamoured photographs are exhibited with his novel in a what could be Bukowski’s room” - Le Figaro