“He could not imagine what he was doing here, what he was waiting for, what he expected to find. Paris – it was like a great terminal he was already leaving, with a multitude of signs, neon and enamel, repeated again and again as if announcing a performance. The people of Paris with their cigarettes and dogs, the stone roofs and restaurants, green buses, gray walls, he had held their attention for a moment. The affiches with his face on them had vanished but he had stayed on. He saw it clearly as, at a certain place in life, one sees both the beginning and end: Paris had discarded him.”