Walking with writer and friend Mark Axelrod along a street in Paris, he stopped, fished a pad from his shoulder bag and quickly transcribed a sign that had caught his eye. I can’t remember what it was; perhaps it was Robespierre Dry Cleaners or Descartes Fine Chocolates or Picasso Pet Grooming, but it made us both laugh when he pointed it out. I’m writing a series, Mark said, of short stories based on these signs. Great idea. L. Pasteur: Scissors Sharpened While You Wait. Literature for me was still literary. For Mark it seemed so much fresher, a state of alertness in which, at any moment, a restless platoon of words might erupt and fix itself in antic nodes on the wrinkles of the world.
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