The pigeon, however. The pigeon
cowardly, deceitful, dirty, dull, stupid, spineless, empty, vile, vain.
Never moving, deeply unaffected, pigeon shabby and stupid voice. His flight rattle. His look dull. His pecking absurd. His occiput decerebrate stirs a disturbing back-and-forth. Her shameful indecision, his sexuality distressing. Its mission parasitic, its absence ambition, its uselessness grime.
Incomparable the sparrow who has the charm, the blackbird who can give voice to the crow that is not classless, the magpie has a style scavenger worse than that at least one goal in life , as sensual as a rat, a gadfly as racy, less elegant than a worm, even more stupid as the Catoblepas.
It would kill a pigeon with little more state of mind we crush a cockroach, it is however if no one abstains. Laziness or vanity, it refrains from giving him a kick save to get some exercise and yet it is not even worthy, we would not want to risk to sully his shoe. And we do not object that, traveler, he has rendered some service in time of war, still glad he found a very small part of mechanical flying.
pigeon dirt, not even good for food, sickening on a bed of pea flour. But yet it is he who is becoming the favorite dish of Gregor and soon the only, the inventor eventually feed exclusively, alone in his little room, the white of the animal which borders its keel. Bizarre.
Jean Echenoz, Lightning, Editions de Minuit, 2010.
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