Julián Fuks is a Brazilian writer; at Cité for a year to complete his novel My Possible Brother (working title). He stays in a loft studio right across the road from mine and I very often see him spending long hours slouched over his keyboard slogging away at the right word, phrase, sentence, paragraph. Turning it over on his tongue, over and over until three and three make five. His craft is his passion, his story a very personal voyage of discovery and rediscovery, in a family context, of love and life and the whole damn thing.
He was reading selected scenes from his progress to about 25 of us after having it translated from Portuguese to English. The man has such stature, such presence. His words draw you into his world around his family dinner table where the steaming food gets cold in the absence of conversation. So much is unsaid, it shouts. It becomes the bare white area on his canvass, filled with promise and possibilities. Yet it's this silence that ignites imagination. One word, one punctuation, one space can bring the whole moment crashing down in a pile of broken assumptions.
I asked Fernanda to take a picture of him and email it to me. Now I have the memory of yet another special moment somewhere up in a little loft studio near the banks of the Seine, with a good view of my room.