I went to a reading last night in a venue right near me but which I had never heard of before, the Fondation Boris Vian. It’s a nice space which occupies the ground floor of the building in which both Vian and Jacques Prévert used to live. The reading was part of a series where 12 American writers had been invited to read at various events all around France. I went along to hear Forrest Gander, a poet whose work I enjoy who was reading from his recently published novel, As a Friend. Part of me feels that poets ought not to venture into the more popular genres as a sign of solidarity to their noble yet marginalized art but I suspect I’m full of crap. Why not write what you want? Moreover since virtually anyone who has had a bit of success in another field will have no problems finding a publisher if they decide to bring out a book of poems what’s wrong with reversing the flow a little? Anyway, principles aside, I enjoyed what Gander read and look forward to getting hold of a copy soon. Sitting just in front of me was a rather elegant, elderly woman. Before the reading started she took out a sheet of paper and wrote down the date, the venue and the names of the readers (as well as Gander, the Greek-American poet Eleni Sikelianos was reading from her work) in the kind of handwriting you would expect an elegant, elderly lady in France to have, the writing she had learned at school. There are so many things that after a certain age one cannot change one had better get them right early on. That afternoon I had seen a photo in the paper of war criminals on trial in Argentina; they wore grey and brown, check shirts, zip up jackets, cardigans. Looking at that line of thin-lipped old men it seemed all but impossible for one of them to admit to what he had done let alone to repent of it.