My life’s travels.

Books. Love them. They are the only thing capable of transporting you anwhere you want to go, or rather not, where they take you is your own responsability, they took me from cover to cover, the journey was always the true destination, I was unstoppable, I left Berlin in a hurry for Zurich when Hitler stole pink rabbit, I never returned, I can’t forget the living wallpaper design in Zurich either, it’s stuck in my mind forever, I still feel the fever, too, and the icy rejection of Paris’ avenue Foch residents, I lost my trust in relatives that day, haven’t changed my mind since, that dislike of kinfolk was cemented when I went to Brideshead, I often returned happily, nonetheless, to Charles Ryder’s Brideshead, that is, to Sebastian Flyte’s not so much, many years later, I injected morphine, through my trousers, in a taxi in Zurich, just in time before complete break down, the relief was ever so painful, in rehab, I spent time in the GDR, in Dresden’s Weißer Hirsch, a residential area whose villas overlook the town, the tower, we called it, political resentments ex cathedra, always followed by the Staatssicherheit, some pale blue ink in a lady’s hand brought me back to early 1900’s Vienna, waltzing while turning to the left as well as to the right, ever so elegantly, my experiences are vast, I’m proud to say, I know what snow and war feels like, never lost a limb, though, but hell, I know what that feels like, too, or a broken heart, my Russian soul found itself described, so well, and, for once, understood, what a comfort, over the years, I became a close friend of Coco Chanel’s friends, and foes, and an even more intimate one of Thomas Mann, I know all about his wet dreams and sudden fears, which I happily forget about when being stuck again in an endless stream of my truth’s consciousness.