“London. I recall London as a city of gardens where the birds used to wake one in the morning. London is the opposite, and yet my memory is correct. The flower carts in the street. The docks, amazing.“
These were the only lines Camus ever wrote about London. He wrote beautiful eulogies to certain cities (especially Algiers) and the longest rants about others (Paris). But he teases me with his incomplete, chopped-up observations of London. It’s strange how a city that has bred and fed some brilliant writers is tormenting me a plague of writer’s block. Perhaps I just feel so awfully incompetent retracing the footsteps of all these dead intellectuals.
I like to convince myself that I am so consumed in exploring this city that I am left with no energy to write. Re-read Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises from all the long tube rides. No longer a huge fan of his writing style. Is there something wrong with me? On a side note, I really enjoy taking the Piccadilly Line to Cockfosters (I always have to suppress the smirk on my face whenever the tube lady announces it)… P.S. I am currently blogging at 4.30AM, yawning every other minute… My eyelids feel as if they are carrying a sumo wrestler, so forgive me if I’ve made any blatant typos. P.P.S. Yes, I stole the entry title from The Satorialist.
Photographer: Rajat Handa