Flea Market

Enough of these silver spoons and tropical helmets, widows’ broaches and porcelain; enough of these bent and antiquated bird cages, and the photo portraits of dead children. Set up in rows on wobbly tables, under canvas in wind or bad weather, what do they say, what do they hide, these remnants of the nameless crimes about which the uniforms and daggers of honour say almost nothing. How can one’s thoughts not go astray faced with the piles of glasses, and old leather suitcases? Sorry stuff. The miserable junk recalls the former owners, all long dead. We are the discarded things, they cry. Time has vanquished us, the wonder: modernity has never taken place. translated by Karen Leeder  

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