Windows on the World
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A daring yet moving evocation of the last moments for a father and his children on top of the World Trade Centre on September 11th. 'The only way to know what took place in the restaurant on the 107th Floor of the North Tower, World Trade Center on September 11th 2001 is to invent it.' Weaving fact and fiction, empathy and dark humour, autobiography and intellect, Windows on the World dares to confront the terrifying image that has come to define our world, the image onto which we project our fears, our compassion, our anger, our incomprehension. Beigbeder is a fierce, furious, infuriating chronicler of human iniquity and human suffering Frederic Beigbeder was born in 1965 and lives in Paris. He works as a publisher, literary critic and broadcaster. NB Frederic has an acute accent on each 'e'
transformed in an instant into a wisp of straw. Wilted stone. This is one of the lessons of the World Trade Center: that the immovable is movable. What we thought was fixed is shifting. What we thought solid is liquid. Towers are mobile and skyscrapers first and foremost scrape the ground. How could something so colossal be so quickly destroyed? That is the subject of this book: the collapse of a house of credit cards. If a Boeing were to crash below my feet, I would finally know what it is that
her the City of Light. She wanted to keep her fleece on. Second tantrum, crying fit, negotiation, reconciliation. Since children’s lives aren’t very dramatic, they make them theatrical. Anything is an excuse for dramatics, hysterics, screaming, joy, fits of laughter, furious foot-stamping. There’s very little difference between a toddler’s life and a Shakespeare play. If truth be told, my daughter is Sarah Bernhardt. She can move from utter despair to sublime happiness in the blink of an eye. A
York streets are white with paper and dust as if it had been snowing; in the middle of the image, a black baby sleeps in a stroller. Virilio’s exhibition caused a scandal when it opened. Isn’t it too early to make art out of such misery? Of course, art is not obligatory and no one is obliged to visit an exhibition or read a book. All the same, “Ce qui arrive” collects disasters as one might collect trophies: images of mercury pollution in Minamata, Japan, 1973; a dioxin leak at the Icmesa
system has been rigged to trivialize my revolution, that giving me money, success, fame, recognition is designed to make my pseudorevolution look obtuse. I’m not yet sure whether this lavish punishment will work. Is it possible to be muzzled by luxury? Can success be the spectacular funeral cortege of revolution? That’s certainly the method Enver Hoxha opted for in making Ismail Kadaré deputy. It is based on invalidating the writer’s grievance by making him powerful. How can anyone believe in
slender fingers and her nails and the smell of flowers everywhere and the twilight round her eyes. Moments gleaned until the last moment. I liked Jerry better when he was born, his repulsive, swollen, blue head, oh my God, I’m going to have to take care of this filthy thing my whole life, and then he opens his eyes and smiles. I liked it better having Candace hold me in her arms, so that I could forget the terror of being me. I wasn’t happy when I was free. 10:14 “I’m on a plane / I can’t