Fragments from books that don’t exist: The Bike at Night


Georgina Matterazzi didn’t feel sorry for anyone but herself. She was the one who bore the burden of memoria and disgrazia. Her father had died for nothing. Her mother was a Nazi. All of the supposed crimes of the peasants were nothing compared to the sins of the rich. If she could have carried out vengeance in the real world, she would have slaughtered all the pigs. Instead, she harvested her bitterness in the darkness of the prison asylum. They had put her away for her own transgressions, trivial activities that she could scarcely recall. Burning little bits of paper. Smashing some bits of glass here and there. Carrying signs that warned of just this kind of thing, the day that would come when all the people would rise up and make enormous mistakes in judgment. She was decades ahead of her time, calling for the abolition of reason, singing out the joys of pure free action. Her comrades – how she loved that ancient word – had been mostly ground down by the system and recycled as university professors or unemployment counselors. She was one of the few who held to the original faith. Or was it the death of faith? Never mind. It was one thing or the other. In the end all opposites are equal. The serpent first swallows its tail, eventually the head will follow, and then what the hell? Follow or don’t follow. Either way, you always end up right where you are.


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