Before the year turns, I clear the book-paper-writing pile from the narrow space between my bed and the window. This is the inventory of what I find: One Hundred Years of Solitude, Marquez. Pickwick Papers, Dickens. The various Haunts of Men, Hill. As I lay Dying, Faulkner. Cassandra, Wolf. Le Géant inachevé, Daeninckx. Why be happy when you could be normal? Winterson. Still here, Grant. The Gift of Therapy, Yalom. Ragnarok, Byatt. As I lay Dying, Faulkner (somehow got this twice). Les origines de l'écriture. Battlehorn, Vaye Watkins. Strangeland, Emin. Mrs Dalloway, Woolf. Memories, Dreams, Reflections, Jung. L'ignorance, Kundera. Doctor Faustus, Mann. Old Love, Bashevis Singer. Les Larmes d'Aral, Delafosse. A Tale of Love and Darkness, Amos Oz. Ignorance, Kundera (another double in English and French). Love's Executioner, Yalom. My Uncle Oswald, Dahl. The Sound and The Fury, Faulkner. The Scapegoat, Du Maurier. American Wife, Sittenfeld. The French Lieutenant's Woman, Fowles. The Unconquerable, MacInnes. North from Rome, MacInnes. La douleur, Duras. The Saturday Morning Murder, Gur. Le monde magazine, décembre. A green Indian accountancy notebook (used as journal.) M'as-tu vu? Calle. The Road Home, Tremain. Two more Indian accountancy notebooks in blue and red (used as journals). A stale bottle of water, a piece of tangerine peel, two pens, two hairbands, a cardigan (?) and a very large amount of dust bunnies.