“This was such a fascinating read omg ? the writing feels so layered and intellectual but still emotional at the same time the whole bit about Paris and that motto really set the tone and then Riley’s story just adds so much depth and complexity ? it feels like something you have to reread to catch every hidden meaning.” creesidamallory15 on wattpad

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“My only identity is writing.” Imre Kertész

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“He runs up and around more happily at the arrival of a beer barrel than at the arrival of a child.” Karoline Paul about her husband Jean Paul

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“The successes of the great conquerors and kings are nothing compared to the effect of a single great thought.” Egon Friedell

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Erich Paul Remark (E. Maria Remarque 1898 - 1970) had a penchant for erotic operetta. A young woman from a good family, they spoke ancient Greek at the table, often about art, never about feelings, the father, Kurt Mühsam, had been a critic and Ullstein editor-in-chief in the Weimar Republic, prompted Remarque to make parlor appearances as Cinderella in the Californian afternoons of a nobilitated exile. The “angel” had to flutter at his disposal whenever the gray goat felt the need for a chat. Her name was Ruth and she called him Boni. He “played” with her games.

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Since the 14th century, the motto of the French capital has been Fluctuat nec mergitur—It is tossed by the waves, but it does not fall. The phrase gestures toward the art of surviving heavy blows without heroics. After the recent attacks on Paris, the motto experienced a renaissance as a rallying cry.

Fluctuat nec mergitur. Goya adorns a message with the phrase. He is getting drunk on the rooftop terrace of a hotel overlooking Notre-Dame, Montmartre, Sacré-Cœur, and the Eiffel Tower. Goya wears the armor of the academic global players; nothing conceals him more thoroughly. Mercy Claiborne, whom Goya picked up a few days earlier at a symposium in Seattle, smiles expectantly. Goya glows at the thought of his latest conquest. Mercy misses playable rooftops in Paris. Baron Haussmann’s designs scarcely ever allow for open-air escapades.

Where the Sea Holds Its Secrets

For years, Mercy had been confined to bed and, in periods of extreme frailty, was not even allowed to read. She was consoled with lectures about her family history. The Black side of her family belonged to the slave-holding clans of Louisiana.

At the Belvoir Bay beach kiosk — little more than a shack with a hinged window — we picked up sandwiches with aged West Cork cheddar, a lemon soda, and still-warm scones. We sat on the rubble stones and ate in silence.

An old islander passed by, a bewildered Labrador on a leash.

“You two enjoying it?”

“Very much,” I said. “It feels like time holds its breath here.”

The man chuckled softly. “Aye. And sometimes forgets to exhale.”

We followed the narrow coastal path along the cliff edge. Below, gulls plunged from the sky, and from the rocks rose the sharp cries of oystercatchers. These charismatic coastal birds carried a singular dignity with their black-and-white plumage and bright orange-red bills, as if holding some ancient office.

A crooked signpost jutted from the grass: → St Tugual’s Chapel – 8 minutes → Belvoir Bay – 5 minutes.

St Tugual’s Chapel was a quiet testament to Norman piety from the 11th century. The peninsula had been Christianized centuries before — perhaps by a Breton missionary, the canonized Tugual. The chapel had an adjoining graveyard. The oldest burials dated from the 10th century. The place of the dead’s repose was thus older than the prayer space. The chapel was an unadorned granite gem, plain yet strikingly compelling. We sat on the only bench.

“I thought Dúnmara would be just a point on the map,” you finally said. “But it’s more like a pause in a sentence.”

I nodded. “An intake of breath.”