...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAA
the look in her eyes, momentarily. A bit like
Lucia she reverted to a pensive sitting face—this
ability to alternate between states was something
I found decadent that day; but there was always
something attractive about the wounded animal
—an emotional horror it could be, but the sex of
it haunted and was somewhat reminiscent of
Antonin’s charms too, I thought in a reverie...
Long Languid Letters
...Antonin; tall, slender, intelligent squarish face
—features loquacious in their own manner, had
long remained infamous. This was partly due to
directing a staging of Accidental Death of an
Anarchist, by Dario Fo in Brixton more than a
few years before I was in Tangiers. Allegedly—as
in most cases, infamy grows its roots and stems
within the soil of hearsay firstly, and secondly it
can then turn into mythology—the gossip
consisted of the belief that a number of Police
were beaten up at the staging of the play. So, a
mythology grew around the architects of this
happening, primarily around squats in turn, with
communists and, importantly, Anarchists. There
was something stylistic about the staging of this
particular play coinciding with authority being
challenged in this way. I knew him personally
only a few years after this incident but the dust
had not yet settled on the ideologies brought to
life, though it was rather strange that our first
few conversations, had in the squat off
Tottenham high road, were mostly about
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