I watched Cat On A Hot Tin Roof and Paul Schrader’s Cat People again last night. They filled me with strange yearnings: I NEED TO GO BACK TO NEW ORLEANS

The Black Narcissus


There are some cities I love but could not live. Kyoto is one. New Orleans is another. While diametrically opposed in many ways, both of these places are so drenched in their own atmospheres, so full of ghosts and their self-prolonging essences, that when I am asleep they pervade my dreams; insinuate themselves perniciously in my bloodstream, leaving no room for space.

These are places that could possess you.

I only spent four days in New Orleans, but it has made quite an impression. Compared to Miami, Tampa, and Anna Marie Island, with their clear, ocean-kissed florid air (and where I had almost dreamless sleep), walking around the so-called City Of The Dead, built upon the colonial conquests of an all-pervading, palpable Louisana swamp (the city is fading; sinking, it is the Venice of the Americas), the air there is damp, tainted; flourished. There is something inexplicably unsanitary about the…

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