John pointed out to me streets that no longer existed, telling me who had lived where and in which house. Who had died in Vietnam, who had worked for the mob, who had gone to prison or ended up in politics. When I interrupted his narrative to tell him how great it was that he was telling me the history of this place he spun around, gripped me by the throat and pushed me against the wall. With his raised fist clenched he said, “I don’t know nothing about no fucking history, I am telling you what happened.”
Je suis d’un pays où règne le maître vent… la mer et la terre lui sont également soumises… Galerne ou Suroît… Je l’entends qui mène son grand jeu par le pays. Il gronde, il siffle, il chuinte, il miaule, il sanglote, il s’étouffe de rire, il chante à travers les murs de galets et de pierres plates
"Notre vent serait capable de souffler sans arrêt. S’il ne le fait pas, c’est parce qu’il veut jouir de son œuvre.