Friday, May 9, 2014

Damn Nostalgia

Me at the gate of the house in Geneva I grew up in. Photo taken by my daughter in 2009. The house was then empty, and a short time later was demolished to make way for a box containing offices. In my memoir Run Like Blazes I say: 

"The house is half-hidden behind its tumbledown fence and fruit trees and willows and silver birches (on whose branches one winter a family of great gray owls, driven down from the mountains by the cold, came to perch, and perch again in my dreams), with a glimpse over the treetops and neighboring farmhouse roof of the Jura mountains, in France.....our neighborhood had recently been rural and had only just, since the war, started to acquire the character of a suburb of smallish middle-class houses, grandly called villas in French. They all looked alike, but were lived in by a varied population typical of Geneva. One nearby villa, on a section of the street frequently blocked off by police cars, housed the Israeli consulate; another was inhabited by a gloomy Swedish family whose gloomier son, many years later, committed suicide by jumping off the tallest building in Stockholm; another, two doors down, was the residence of a secretive ham-radio operator, on whose roof an immense antenna lapped up the radio waves emanating from Moscow and East Berlin and Red China." 

The memories.

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