Don’t You Just Hate That? The Writer’s Lament

Approximate Reading Time: 7 minutes


Part of the underground passageway in Montréal from Place d’Armes Mètro station to Square Victoria Mètro station, with stops along the way. These passageways are collectively a network (in French, reseau) called the RÉSO, which pretty much connects the core of the city neighborhoods to one another so that, in winter, when it’s beastly cold in this beautiful city, you need never step foot out of doors if you play your cards right about where you live, work, and play. The above passageway is relatively new, part of the newest restoration project, called the Quartier Internationale, and mainly consisting of the renovation, and repurposing of an odd assortment of nineteenth century stone buildings, and the abandoned skyscrapers formerly housing financial institutions and government offices. Architects are awarded projects on the order of the above image—essentially one section of people tunnel underneath the city streets. In the middle of August, 2006, in the middle of the day we never saw more than two or three other people in the same section with us.

There is nothing like a writer’s memory. I don’t mean necessarily that
I, a writer (for sake of argument; so go ahead, pick a fight), will
remember what Linda, my wife, told me 15 minutes ago concerning her
whereabouts as planned for the rest of the day.

I mean that what is important to a writer, which falls roughly into two
categories, he will never ever forget. These two are, whatever a writer
has written, and whatever seems worth remembering to write about later.

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