what is more, an act of appearing that is quite complex. The fact that one can explain, in detail, the way in which one’s consciousness perceives a thing whose very existence is a matter of indifference is simply extraordinary. Did you know that our consciousness does not perceive things straight off but performs a complicated series of operations of synthesis which, by means of successive profiling, introduce to our senses objects as diverse as, for example, a cat, a broom or a fly swatter – and, God knows, isn’t that useful? Have you ever wondered why it is that you can observe your cat and know at the same time what he looks like from the front, behind, above and below – even though at the present moment you are perceiving him only from the front? It must be that your consciousness, without your even realising it, has been synthesising multiple perceptions of your cat from every possible angle, and has ended up creating this integral image of the cat that your sight, at that moment, could never give you. And the same is true for the fly swatter, which you will only ever perceive from one direction even though you can visualise it in its entirety in your mind and, oh miracle, you know perfectly well without even turning it over how it is made on the other side.
You will agree that such knowledge is quite useful. We can’t imagine Manuela using a fly swatter without immediately rallying the knowledge that she has of the various stages of profiling necessary to her perception. Moreover, you can’t imagine Manuela using a fly swatter for the simple reason that there are never any flies in rich people’s apartments. Neither flies, nor pox, nor bad smells, nor family secrets. In rich people’s apartments everything is clean, smooth, healthy and consequently safe from the tyranny of fly swatters and public opprobrium.
But enough of phenomenology: it is nothing more than the solitary, endless monologue of consciousness, a hardcore autism that no real cat would ever importune.
‘What are you reading?’ asks Manuela, who has just arrived breathless from her Lady de Broglie’s, feeling consumptive after preparing the evening’s dinner party. She had just accepted delivery of seven jars of Petrossian caviar and was breathing like Darth Vader.
‘An anthology of folk poems,’ I say, closing the Husserl chapter forever.
Manuela is in a good mood today, that I can see. She eagerly unpacks a little hamper filled with almond sponge fingers that are still set in the frilly white paper in which they were baked, then sits down and smooths the tablecloth carefully with the flat of her hand, the prelude to a statement that will send her into transports of delight.
I set out the cups, join her at the table and wait.
‘Madame de Broglie is not pleased with her truffles,’ she begins.
‘Oh, really?’ I ask politely.
‘They do not smell,’ continues Manuela crossly, as if she held this shortcoming to be an enormous personal affront.
We indulge in this information for all it is worth, and I savour the vision of Bernadette de Broglie in her kitchen, looking haggard and dishevelled and doing her utmost to spray a potion of cep and chanterelle juice onto the offending roots in the ridiculous, insane hope that they might condescend to give off some faint odour evocative of the forest.
‘And Neptune peed on Monsieur Saint-Nice’s leg,’ continues Manuela. ‘The poor beast must have been holding it in for hours, and when Monsieur Badoise finally got out the leash the dog couldn’t wait, and in the entrance he went on Saint-Nice’s trouser leg.’
Neptune, a cocker spaniel, belongs to the owners of the third-floor right-hand-side apartment. The second and third floors are the only ones divided into two apartments (of two thousand square feet each). On the first floor you have the de Broglies, on the fourth the Arthens, on the fifth the Josses and on the sixth the Pallières. On the second floor are the Meurisses and the Rosens. On the third, the Saint-Nices and the Badoises. Neptune belongs to the Badoises, or more precisely, to Mademoiselle Badoise, who is studying for her law degree at Assas, and who organises soirées with other cocker spaniel owners studying for law degrees at Assas.
I am very fond of Neptune. Yes, we appreciate each other a great deal, no doubt because of that state of grace that is attained when one’s feelings are immediately accessible to another creature’s. Neptune can sense that I love him; his multiple desires are perfectly clear to me. What charms me about the whole business is that he stubbornly insists on remaining a dog, whereas his mistress would like to make a gentleman of him. When he goes out into the courtyard, he runs to the very very end of his leash and stares covetously at the puddles of muddy water idling before him. His mistress has only to give one jerk to his yoke for him to lower his hindquarters down onto the ground, and with no further ado he will set to licking his attributes. The sight of Athena, the Meurisses’ ridiculous whippet, causes Neptune to stick his tongue out like a lubricious satyr and pant in anticipation, his head filled with phantasms. What is particularly amusing about cocker spaniels is their swaying gait when they are in a playful mood; it’s as if they had tiny little springs screwed to their paws that cause them to bounce upwards – but gently, without jolting. This also affects their paws and ears like the rolling of a ship, so cocker spaniels, like jaunty little vessels plying dry land, lend a nautical touch to the urban landscape: utterly enchanting.
Ultimately, however, Neptune is a greedy glutton who’ll do anything for a scrap of turnip or a crust of stale bread. When his mistress leads him past the rubbish store, he pulls frenetically in the direction of said room, tongue lolling, tail wagging madly. Diane Badoise despairs of such behaviour. To her distinguished soul it seems that one’s dog should be like the young ladies of antebellum high society in Savannah in the Confederate South, who could scarcely find a husband unless they feigned to have no appetite whatsoever.
But instead, Neptune carries on as if he were some famished Yankee.
Journal of the Movement of the World No. 2
Bacon for the cocker spaniel
In our building there are two dogs: the whippet belonging to the Meurisses who looks like a skeleton covered in beige hide, and a ginger cocker spaniel who belongs to Diane Badoise, an anorexic blonde woman who wears Burberry raincoats and who is the daughter of a very la-di-da lawyer. The whippet is called Athena and the cocker Neptune. Just in case you haven’t yet understood what sort of place I live in: you won’t find any Fidos or Rovers in our building. Anyway, yesterday, in the hallway, the two dogs met and I was fortunate to witness a very interesting sort of ballet. I won’t dwell on the dogs, who sniffed each other’s bottoms. I don’t know if Neptune smells bad but Athena took a leap backwards while Neptune looked as if he were sniffing a bouquet of roses with a huge juicy steak in the middle.
No, what was interesting was the two human beings at the end of each leash. Because in town it is the dogs who have their masters on a leash, though no one seems to have caught on to the fact. If you have voluntarily saddled yourself with a dog that you’ll have to walk twice a day, come rain, wind or snow, that is as good as putting a leash around your own neck. Anyway, Diane Badoise and Anne-Hélène Meurisse (same mould, twenty-five years apart) met in the hallway, each at the end of her leash. What a muddle when this happens! They’re as clumsy as if they had webbed fingers and feet because they’re incapable of doing the only truly practical thing in cases like this: acknowledge what is going on in order to prevent it. But because they act as if they believed they were walking two distinguished stuffed animals utterly devoid of any inappropriate impulses, they cannot bleat at their dogs to stop sniffing their arses or licking their little balls.
So
