Kierkegaard's voice kept running through my head (craggy and precise and somehow northern-inflected, according to my brain which apparently could suddenly understand Danish): life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards. Unquote. 
It is not always the easiest equilibrium to maintain, both forward- and backward-looking. And then you have to remember to exhale.
Sometimes it is easier to have an animated conversation with my erudite, fourth--and last--generation butcher (the Friday one, because I split my carnivorous loyalties). We talked about the contemporary art scene today, which is what one can do when the butcher's son owns one of the most prestigious contemporary art galleries in Paris (check out Pierre Alain Challier's eponymous space the next time you find yourself in the ville de lumière). I managed to be aware, throughout our chat, of the delicate tones of classical music coming out of the little stereo tucked next to the refrigerated cabinet. 
When that was over, I distracted myself from my Kierkegaard distraction by scrutinizing the trout, who must be at least dimly aware of the sorry state of their affairs as they swim the length of the truck/aquarium. The concave man who brings them to market then kills them has a bowl hair-cut straight from the Middle Ages.
All this happened while getting provisions for the weekend. Maybe I shouldn't have begun with that noisette at the corner cafe.
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