Chapter 3 chemical smell

In 1986, I will live in Trouville for four months from June and a half to October and a half, which is longer than a summer.As soon as I left Trouville, I felt that the sun was gone.Not only the flames of the big sun, but also the white sunlight spreading from the overcast sky, and the color of light that burns into carbon black in a storm.Leaving that place at the end of summer, I also lost the skies rising up from the depths of the Atlantic Ocean, the various skies floated from the "long distance".In autumn, I lost the mist of the sea tide, the wind, the oil smell of Le Havre, the chemical smell.When you get up early in the morning, on the empty beach, you can see the Black Rock Hotel③The perfect figure is slightly sideways to the north.Then, as time passed hour by hour, the shadows in the sky gradually faded until they disappeared without a trace.

①Trouville, a city in Calvados, France, on the brink of the English Channel. ②Le Havre, a port city on the right bank of the Seine River exit in Seine-Maritime, France, is on the verge of the English Channel. ③Black Rock Hotel, a famous hotel near the seaside of Le Havre.The famous French writer Proust once vacationed here. For many years, I have lived in houses in three places: Knaufle, Trouville and Paris.I did not go to Trouville for ten years so as not to leave Knaufre, but for some summers I paid a very high fee to share a house in Trouville.I lived alone in Knopfler all these years, which meant that I hadn't known anyone who lived at the Black Rock Inn for a long time.If I had to spend my summers somewhere, I'd rather be at Chateau de Nofre, where I got to know the whole village.

①Laufleur, located in the Paris area. I have never lived in a place where I feel comfortable and agreeable, I have always been dragged behind, I have been looking for a place, a time arrangement, a place I would like to stay, I have not found it, maybe somewhere For several summers Knopfler was an exception, in a sort of blessed misfortune.The closed garden in The Atlantic, in which love for him has failed, is precisely the abandoned garden here.Now I can see myself in it, bound to myself, frozen in the bleakness of the abandoned garden. ① "Atlanticians", a film produced by the author in 1981, and a novel of the same name published in 1982.

I'm one of those people who never has a meal in time, an appointment, a movie, a theater, or a plane to catch, all of which always require precise punctuality.Now I am so distrustful of myself that I have to arrive an hour early to go to the theater.I was very happy when I saw others rushing to avoid delay.I've always waited until the people had left before going to the beach.I've never gotten a beach tan because I'm afraid of sunbathing and getting sand on my skin and grains of sand in my hair.I get my tan while driving in my car, or roaming around Spain or Italy. For most of my life, though, I've longed to be able to sunbathe.This has been around for a long time.I have worked hard to develop many systems and methods to behave like others.Because of this, I still lag behind people everywhere, very frustrated.I'm going to do that, like everyone else, and I'm going to the beach by the sea, but at dusk.I always do things halfway through, and I've done it, but it's always unsuccessful.I regret this situation, although it is compliant, it is not satisfactory.At the end of the summer, I always feel like a person who is always surprised and doesn't know what's going on, but I know it's too late for life.There is one thing I can do, and that is to look at the sea. Few people write about the sea like I wrote in "Summer of the 1980s".That is the sea in "Summer of the 1980s", something I have never lived in.That happened to me, but I didn't live it, and that's something I put in a book because it probably wasn't something I lived.Throughout my entire life, there have been such traces of the passage of time.And it's me in the full breadth of my life.

① "Summer of 1980", a collection of essays published by the author in 1980. After "Summer of the 80s," I could have continued writing.Only write this kind of stuff.Notes about the sea and time, about the rain, the tide, the wind, about the gale that swept away the parasol, the sail, and the wind that blew around the body of the child curled up in the hollow of the beach, the wind that blew behind the hotel wall.Together with the time to stop and stop in front of me, there is a barrier against the severe cold, against the severe polar winter. "Summer of the 1980s" has now become the only diary in my life.In the harsh summer of 1980, I recorded my diary of sinking and struggling by the sea.