The structure thus designated by Imagination’s
translucent index finger is the little wooden hut that serves as a box office for the
Théâtre Moderne. It leans against a hoarding, grey by day but assuming a speckled hue towards sunset, into which is cut
one of the doors of the Librarie Flammarion.
Each time you cross her field of vision, a cashier sitting behind her
window chants the prices of the seats
and the nature of her house’s attractions, an elementary but adequate idea of
which is provided by the three or four framed photographs displayed on the
front of the booth. This breast, these
legs summarize the author’s intentions as clearly as
do the posters at cinema entrances which feature an aimed revolver, a boat
engulfed by raging seas, a cowboy strung up by his heels. And it costs next to nothing.
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