Three days.
Three days, during which there is a Sunday. The sound grows, S. Thala reels, then the sound fades away.
A storm comes that unsettles the sea.
Three nights.
In the morning, dead gulls on the beach. Over by the sea wall, a dog. The dead dog lies facing the pillars of a bombed-out casino.
Above the dead dog, the sky is very dark. It is after the storm, the sea is rough.
The spot of wall is empty, the wind lashes against it.
The sea carries away the dead dog, the seagulls.
The sky grows calm. The unending chain emerges from the refineries. Then the sea. The sun.
Here is an excerpt from L’Amour, a Marguerite Duras novel which will be arriving in English translation for the first time from Open Letter quite soon. [via Guernica]
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