English translation down below this page.Quelques extraits...
''J'avais tout au long de ces quarante années de star ratée et depuis les toutes premières, vite appris l'art du voyage aux États-Unis, on en revenait jamais, ni les mains ni la tête vides de ces états. Je croyais, gamine, les amérloques être tous riches lorsqu'en Europe, je les voyais descendre dans les grands hôtels et les palaces. Je les voyais, crédule, un peu comme Marlène, qui elle en écoutant depuis son Shöneberg les chansons de Gershwin, de Cole Porter et de Irving Berlin, les avait pensés être tous romantiques. Elle en était revenue depuis, et le disait avec humour devant son public, mais il y avait malgré tout, toutefois un peu de vrai vrai là-dedans. Ils savaient, pour moi les observant tout frais arrivé de ma vieille Europe, s'évader du quotidien pour une autre vie le temps de longs moments, pour la vivre, et la rêver, et la vivre pleinement, même en de plus plus courts moments.
Je choisissais toujours ma destination finale avec soin. Un choix pensé, et qui assurément se devait de continuer la sophistication de l'accueil dans un aéroport d'arrivée qui ne fût populeux, avant de poursuivre mon voyage. Il se devait toujours d'être petit dans une ville au nom prestigieux. Je détestais celui de Paris, celui de Frankfort et celui d'Amsterdam, ceux de Londres et celui de Milan; ils étaient trop grands, trop souillons, fourmillant de péquenauds portant leurs valises en skaï et leurs sacs à dos, chaussures de tennis aux pieds pour tout mocassin en gueulant leur destination, une bouteille de Coca à la main. Je choisissais la plupart du temps pour une arrivée discrète en Europe égale à mon rang inventé, aux abris des regards n'ayant d'attention que la vision interne de mon théâtre, celui de Genève. Un aéroport désuet et provincial, et qui me rappelait ma jeunesse quand je me languissais gamin, d'en partir en regardant décoller les avions et délaisser à tout jamais, la classe dans laquelle j'étais né. Je continuais à jouer mon rôle et continuais en train, mon odyssée. Je ne prenais jamais ces trains français et disgracieux qui vont vite et qui n'avaient d'odeur que celle d'un métro et de fonction, que celle de se déplacer. Je prenais de vieux trains suisses aux sièges de velours et dentelles où je passais des heures dans le wagon restaurant autour d'une bonne bouteille de Bordeaux et d'un tournedos Rossini, à rêvasser en femme du monde devant les paysages qui défilaient. Je les préférais en hiver sous la neige, la pluie ou sous le gris du ciel pour saluer les branches des arbres nus qui se courbaient comme de vieilles domestiques sous leur fardeau. L'intimité et le confort n'en étaient que plus intensifiés de poésie. Puis, arrivé ça ou là, à Gstaad ou à Zûrich, à Milan ou à Vienne, je descendais toujours dans un hôtel qui m'était coutumier depuis des années, et qui de ses charmes, prolongeait le rêve infini de ma pérégrination. Au Principe Di Savoia à Milan après avoir traversé le Tessin et ses lacs, au Dorchester à Londres qui m'envoyait une fois arrivé de l'Orient Express son chauffeur, au Badrutt's à St Moritz dont le traineau m'attendait à la gare du petit train des neiges, au Trianon Palace de Versailles où j'arrivais en taxi devant les chasseurs sous le porche qui me saluaient par mon nom, ou ailleurs, toujours dans les conditions identiques d'un grand prince né de sang. Si non, pas question, pas une seule seconde, l'idée de voyager pouvait envahir mes esprits. Si je ne pouvais y descendre, je restais chez moi à vivre comme tout le monde sur quelques mètres carrés, le triste et banal quotidien des jours rabat-joie. Je n'avais rien et n'étais rien. Je ne voulais partir que pour fuir et rêver. Rêver loin. Rêver fort. Coupé du misérable réel qui me tuait. Inventer la vie d'un personnage que j'eusse voulu être, dès que j'en avais l'argent qui me permettait de me vêtir et d'enfiler ainsi la parfaite panoplie mentale et physique de la caste d'un gentleman mondain que je savais incarner avec maestria, c'est alors et uniquement, que je partais impatient et heureux vers ma nouvelle vie, vite la vivre. Vite, et peu importe où mais toujours dans l'élégance de mes rêves. Et cette vie et ce personnage me devenaient devant les luxueuses tentures et les tapis persans, familiers et exacts. Je vivais l'exactitude de ce que j'aurais voulu être.
Et je l'étais.''
I only wanted to leave in order to escape from the ordinary, and dream a brand new life to live. Dream far. Dream hard.
''I had learned through these forty years of a failed star traveling around and since the very first ones, how to travel in America, and America had taught me the art of traveling. Funny for a French man to write this, isn't? One never came back empty handed from the United States! These States always had something new to tell. I thought as a kid, that all Americans were rich enough to stay in fancy hotels and palaces no one in Europe could afford. Just the way Marlena thought in front of her audience by listening to American songs when still living in Shöneberg, that all Americans were romantic. There was somewhat, some truth in that though. Americans knew how to take a real good break, have a blast and escape far from an every day dull life. In fact, when I lived in the States, I quickly realized it when Summer Holidays or Thanks Giving, Xmas or Easter time or others arrived, they were all making a big day out of it and made it loud, and that strongly meant to underline an expecting escape from an ordinary daily life at making dollars in order to exist. And these dollars were far from being billionaires' ones. They all wanted to fly away and live else where and high, a different way to cut off from a daily, long everyday life and that, was so easy for them to do so and fly. They were all then, going to a better comfortable place they simply did not have at home, living one American dream which Hollywood movies had spread the news around for quite a while to make it possible, and it was. A provincial American waitress could easily live in a ten rooms house and drive a huge convertible car in any of them. But they had no cat's paw, not at all were fooled by it, or naive, but quite culturally aware of it. And that convertible car, they could perfectly drive it, and drive it with panache, feeling the glow of a luxury decor of a suite furnished with beautiful furniture. They could dream about it and have it, rent it, and get it to enjoy. They knew to spend money to fly way from the ordinary. They knew how to dream with it and be what they would have liked to be without possessing it permanently. Indeed they knew to live a complete different world from their daily routine whenever away from home, no mater how long a credit card would make it last. Old Europe could not do that. Europeans' holidays were always set in the same surrounding of their own social class, with the total inability to get away from it. No way they could cross the borderline of their ordinary days, the way Americans could, -not one inch. Taking a trip somewhere away from home always looked like staying indoors. Their hotel room was similar to their old two rooms suburban apartment, and their home made fish and chips were not different from the today's restaurants' specials. Impossible it was for Europeans to enter an other world but their social class'. And their cinema through Monsieur Hulot's holidays had been clearly showing the realism of the fact since long ago, and still did since the paid holidays by the sea they got since nineteen hundred and forty-six. Things had never changed. Going away somewhere never meant changing life from its daily grey decor. Americans preferred red carpets, golden chandeliers, and the bright lights of the huge entrance halls of the big hotels with a valet parking welcoming them as soon as they arrived. To spend two or three nights there, dining in fancy restaurants, was enough to live one lifestyle to sublimate it and sublimate it big, treating themselves like amazed children in a playtime ground with tons of presents, without thinking about returning within their own four, much less beautiful walls,
I too, had treated myself with tons of presents since America. And I had pissed off from my mediocre soils as quickly as I could, every single time that I financially could. I had learned to fly first class with the illusion at the desk, of being someone else living an other life, inventing myself a character my mind fancied at the time to be. I could be some star on the run, a business man, a well known scientist or a famous writer, and I, simply was it. I was each time away in one brand new world, wearing yellow Hermes gloves while my Louis Vuitton suitcases laid on the floor, I could watch from behind my black Persol sunglasses, the crowd that had never left its soil, looking at me from head to toe with envy, wondering which star I possibly could be. And I could play the part just right, no matter the personage that came to my mind to be on that day, always speaking with extreme politeness the right elegant words in any of the six languages I could speak, always in the most bourgeois manners. I was then a winner, a winner whose success never had failed, and I was admired and envied for it. I was astonishing the mob and I astonished myself fully living my realm. The stewardesses would kindly take my coat off and put it on a hanger with a nice big friendly smile, calling me by my name while waiting for take off a glass of champagne in my hand, miles away isolated from the crowd behind watchmen and the thick tinted glass walls of one VIP lounge. Unattainable, I was living my own little of a new blue-blooded Prince, taking off from the working class I was born in.
I always chose the landing airport with care. That was a choice that allowed the sophistication of the departure to continue in an airport of arrival that was never too populous, and that had to sound with prestige and panache for a destination to ring peasants' bells. I hated Paris' airport, I hated Frankfort's, Amsterdam's and London airports as well as the Milan's one. They were all far too big and full of peasants carrying their plastic suitcases and back bags wearing big fat used tennis shoes, telling loud around, their final destination that never was mine. For a discreet arrival that matched my invented social class of the time, I was often landing at Geneva's airport. Cointrin was my airport, a provincial and an old fashioned airport I adored and that reminded me the kid I was then, looking at planes taking off on boring week-ends afternoons, dying to get away from this town and my own condition. I was taking my revenge, coming back head up and proud, successful and honored. I could then carry on playing my dreams by train. Never in one of these fast French trains though, they smelled to me like a subway and had as one function only, to move fast from a to z, how poor! No way. My train had to be a Swiss one with velvet seats and white lace on which I could spend hours, enjoying its restaurant car with a fine bottle of Bordeaux wine that perfectly matched the tournedos Rossini I was having as the scenery passed off focus in front of my eyes. I always preferred to travel in Winter in the snow, in the rain or under the gray of the skies to salute the branches of the trees, bowing like worried bridesmaids under their burden. The intimacy of the comfort was more intense of poetry then. Once arrived here or there, in Gstaad or in Zurich, in Milan or in Vienna, I could naturally stay in one of the most refined hotel I was accustomed to which held the dream of the perfect charm of the journey. At The Principe Di Savoia in Milan after having crossed the Tessin county and its lakes, at The Dorchester in London when the concierge of the Orient Express ordered a chauffeur for me at the time of my arrival, at the Badrutt's in St Moritz as I arrived in a little snow train, or at The Trianon Palace in Versailles when I arrived from Paris in a cab to be welcomed with bows and scrapes to the sound of my name. These were the places where the Prince by blood I was born could fully live his life and where his dreams were respected. If not, I was staying home in my shitty room, living my sad and dull killjoy days like every body else. I was nothing, and I had nothing. I only wanted to leave in order to escape from the ordinary, and dream a brand new life to live. Dream far. Dream hard. Cut off from miserable reality. I was just, simply, inventing some one I would have loved to be, and that someone was allowing me to dress up and put the perfect mental and physical array needed on, walking in my shoes of a high society gentleman that I became and embodied with brio. I could get there in a minute, impatient and happy to live it, quick, no matter where, but always with the elegance of my dreams. Just needed the cash America had conceded me to conceive. This kind of life and the character that I plaid, among the luxurious Venetian curtains and Persian carpets, had become since, familiar to me. Moreover, both the life and the character were accurate all the way through indeed, and after. I lived the accuracy of whom I would have loved to be.
And I was it.''
En fait, dès mes premiers pas chez eux l'heure des vacances d'été arrivée, plus tard aussi, les jours de Thanks Giving ou de Noël et les autres, ils en faisaient tout un plat, avec tambours et trompettes, et des jours de grande sortie, de longs week-ends ailleurs qui commençaient toujours par une nouvelle garde-robe, une nouvelle coupe chez le coiffeur, et puis vite, direction aéroport, et j'avais vite compris le besoin d'une fuite diamétralement opposée à l'écrasant rythme journalier d'aliénés à faire des dollars pour exister. Ils ne ressemblaient en rien à des dollars de milliardaires les dollars de ces amerloques-là. Mais ils savaient tous partir, rêver et fuir le quotidien, dans un confort qu'ils n'avaient pas chez eux. Partir, vivre ailleurs, vivre autrement, ils savaient le faire. Le rêver, le louer, se l'accaparer, et se l'accaparer en grand, le temps d'un good time. Vivre un rêve matériel américain qu'ils ne connaissaient pas de leur vie de tous les jours leur était mentalement, naturellement, culturellement possible, comme il leur était possible, dès la naissance, de s'identifier à une serveuse de province habitant une maison de dix pièces et qui conduisait sa décapotable pour se rendre à son restaurant minable d'une Amérique hollywoodienne devant ses caméras. Ils en étaient nullement dupes, et beaucoup moins naïfs qu'on le pensait. Mais la décapotable, eux, ils savaient la conduire, et la conduire avec panache, et séjourner dans de beaux salons entourés de beaux meubles. Le rêver, le louer, se l'accaparer le temps d'un moment pour en jouir sans le posséder, l'Amérique m'avait appris tout ça. Ils m'avaient aussi appris à dépenser les dollars à crédit pour s'envoler de l'ordinaire. Ils savaient rêver avec l'argent, c'était important, le temps d'un temps de ce qu'ils auraient voulu être en permanence, le temps que les cartes de crédit permettent cette existence de luxe durant les vacances, ce que la vieille Europe, elle, ne savait absolument pas faire. Elle, elle restait dans ses vacances bien confinées dans les limites de sa condition sociale, sans s'écarter d'un pouce de ses bords. Aller ailleurs ressemblait toujours au commun de son sobre intérieur. Son petit hôtel ressemblait à son petit deux pièces d'un quartier populaire, et son steak frites, à n'importe quel autre plat du jour. Pas question de s'écarter d'son monde, et son cinéma en reflétait bien à travers les vacances de Monsieur Hulot son réalisme, comme il reflétait les congés payés passés à la mer, en mille neuf cent trente-six. Les américains eux préféraient les tapis rouges, l'or et les lumières, et les valets-parking des immenses porches d'entrée de leurs grands hôtels qu'ils pouvaient tant bien que mal s'offrir, mais s'offraient quand même. Y passer deux ou trois nuits et dîner dans de bons restaurants suffisaient à voir la vie en grand d'un ailleurs sublimé, mais bien concret en une récréation lucide de passage, comblant son temps libre d'un bien-être enfin acquis, et de cadeaux, sans penser au retour, dans ses murs beaucoup moins beaux.
Je m'étais moi aussi depuis l'Amérique, comblé de cadeaux. Et avais décampé vite fait dès que je le pouvais, de mes sols médiocres. J'avais depuis appris à voyager en première classe avec l'illusion au comptoir de la compagnie aérienne d'être quelqu'un d'autre. L'illusion de vivre une autre vie n'en était plus une. Je m'inventais un personnage, une star quelconque, un homme d'affaires, je devenais chercheur mondialement connu, un écrivain célèbre. Les valises Vuitton à terre et les gants jaunes de chez Hermès en main, j'observais avec dédain derrière mes lunettes noires de chez Persol, la foule restée elle, sur son même sol, et qui me dévisageait, se demandant de ses regards envieux qui je pouvais bien être. J'incarnais à leurs yeux comme aux miens, un rôle joué à la perfection sans que bien sûr elle ne sût rien du jeu, et peu importe ce qu'il était, toujours d'une politesse extrême et le vocabulaire élégant dans les six langues que je pratiquais, toujours bourgeoisement. J'avais sur le moment l'impression d'avoir réussi une carrière, et d'être admiré, envié, jalousé pour ma glorieuse réussite. J'épatais la galerie et je m'épatais moi-même. Puis, je m'envolais devant les sourires charmeurs et ouverts des hôtesses et des stewards qui m'appelaient par mon nom de rastaquouère, et qui délicatement, posaient vestes et manteaux sur les cintres avec attention, après avoir pris quelques coupes de champagne dans le salon privé des voyageurs de première, protégé de la masse par des vigiles et des murs aux miroirs teintés. Hors d'atteinte, je vivais mon ailleurs, comblé.Je choisissais toujours ma destination finale avec soin. Un choix pensé, et qui assurément se devait de continuer la sophistication de l'accueil dans un aéroport d'arrivée qui ne fût populeux, avant de poursuivre mon voyage. Il se devait toujours d'être petit dans une ville au nom prestigieux. Je détestais celui de Paris, celui de Frankfort et celui d'Amsterdam, ceux de Londres et celui de Milan; ils étaient trop grands, trop souillons, fourmillant de péquenauds portant leurs valises en skaï et leurs sacs à dos, chaussures de tennis aux pieds pour tout mocassin en gueulant leur destination, une bouteille de Coca à la main. Je choisissais la plupart du temps pour une arrivée discrète en Europe égale à mon rang inventé, aux abris des regards n'ayant d'attention que la vision interne de mon théâtre, celui de Genève. Un aéroport désuet et provincial, et qui me rappelait ma jeunesse quand je me languissais gamin, d'en partir en regardant décoller les avions et délaisser à tout jamais, la classe dans laquelle j'étais né. Je continuais à jouer mon rôle et continuais en train, mon odyssée. Je ne prenais jamais ces trains français et disgracieux qui vont vite et qui n'avaient d'odeur que celle d'un métro et de fonction, que celle de se déplacer. Je prenais de vieux trains suisses aux sièges de velours et dentelles où je passais des heures dans le wagon restaurant autour d'une bonne bouteille de Bordeaux et d'un tournedos Rossini, à rêvasser en femme du monde devant les paysages qui défilaient. Je les préférais en hiver sous la neige, la pluie ou sous le gris du ciel pour saluer les branches des arbres nus qui se courbaient comme de vieilles domestiques sous leur fardeau. L'intimité et le confort n'en étaient que plus intensifiés de poésie. Puis, arrivé ça ou là, à Gstaad ou à Zûrich, à Milan ou à Vienne, je descendais toujours dans un hôtel qui m'était coutumier depuis des années, et qui de ses charmes, prolongeait le rêve infini de ma pérégrination. Au Principe Di Savoia à Milan après avoir traversé le Tessin et ses lacs, au Dorchester à Londres qui m'envoyait une fois arrivé de l'Orient Express son chauffeur, au Badrutt's à St Moritz dont le traineau m'attendait à la gare du petit train des neiges, au Trianon Palace de Versailles où j'arrivais en taxi devant les chasseurs sous le porche qui me saluaient par mon nom, ou ailleurs, toujours dans les conditions identiques d'un grand prince né de sang. Si non, pas question, pas une seule seconde, l'idée de voyager pouvait envahir mes esprits. Si je ne pouvais y descendre, je restais chez moi à vivre comme tout le monde sur quelques mètres carrés, le triste et banal quotidien des jours rabat-joie. Je n'avais rien et n'étais rien. Je ne voulais partir que pour fuir et rêver. Rêver loin. Rêver fort. Coupé du misérable réel qui me tuait. Inventer la vie d'un personnage que j'eusse voulu être, dès que j'en avais l'argent qui me permettait de me vêtir et d'enfiler ainsi la parfaite panoplie mentale et physique de la caste d'un gentleman mondain que je savais incarner avec maestria, c'est alors et uniquement, que je partais impatient et heureux vers ma nouvelle vie, vite la vivre. Vite, et peu importe où mais toujours dans l'élégance de mes rêves. Et cette vie et ce personnage me devenaient devant les luxueuses tentures et les tapis persans, familiers et exacts. Je vivais l'exactitude de ce que j'aurais voulu être.
Et je l'étais.''
I only wanted to leave in order to escape from the ordinary, and dream a brand new life to live. Dream far. Dream hard.
''I had learned through these forty years of a failed star traveling around and since the very first ones, how to travel in America, and America had taught me the art of traveling. Funny for a French man to write this, isn't? One never came back empty handed from the United States! These States always had something new to tell. I thought as a kid, that all Americans were rich enough to stay in fancy hotels and palaces no one in Europe could afford. Just the way Marlena thought in front of her audience by listening to American songs when still living in Shöneberg, that all Americans were romantic. There was somewhat, some truth in that though. Americans knew how to take a real good break, have a blast and escape far from an every day dull life. In fact, when I lived in the States, I quickly realized it when Summer Holidays or Thanks Giving, Xmas or Easter time or others arrived, they were all making a big day out of it and made it loud, and that strongly meant to underline an expecting escape from an ordinary daily life at making dollars in order to exist. And these dollars were far from being billionaires' ones. They all wanted to fly away and live else where and high, a different way to cut off from a daily, long everyday life and that, was so easy for them to do so and fly. They were all then, going to a better comfortable place they simply did not have at home, living one American dream which Hollywood movies had spread the news around for quite a while to make it possible, and it was. A provincial American waitress could easily live in a ten rooms house and drive a huge convertible car in any of them. But they had no cat's paw, not at all were fooled by it, or naive, but quite culturally aware of it. And that convertible car, they could perfectly drive it, and drive it with panache, feeling the glow of a luxury decor of a suite furnished with beautiful furniture. They could dream about it and have it, rent it, and get it to enjoy. They knew to spend money to fly way from the ordinary. They knew how to dream with it and be what they would have liked to be without possessing it permanently. Indeed they knew to live a complete different world from their daily routine whenever away from home, no mater how long a credit card would make it last. Old Europe could not do that. Europeans' holidays were always set in the same surrounding of their own social class, with the total inability to get away from it. No way they could cross the borderline of their ordinary days, the way Americans could, -not one inch. Taking a trip somewhere away from home always looked like staying indoors. Their hotel room was similar to their old two rooms suburban apartment, and their home made fish and chips were not different from the today's restaurants' specials. Impossible it was for Europeans to enter an other world but their social class'. And their cinema through Monsieur Hulot's holidays had been clearly showing the realism of the fact since long ago, and still did since the paid holidays by the sea they got since nineteen hundred and forty-six. Things had never changed. Going away somewhere never meant changing life from its daily grey decor. Americans preferred red carpets, golden chandeliers, and the bright lights of the huge entrance halls of the big hotels with a valet parking welcoming them as soon as they arrived. To spend two or three nights there, dining in fancy restaurants, was enough to live one lifestyle to sublimate it and sublimate it big, treating themselves like amazed children in a playtime ground with tons of presents, without thinking about returning within their own four, much less beautiful walls,
I too, had treated myself with tons of presents since America. And I had pissed off from my mediocre soils as quickly as I could, every single time that I financially could. I had learned to fly first class with the illusion at the desk, of being someone else living an other life, inventing myself a character my mind fancied at the time to be. I could be some star on the run, a business man, a well known scientist or a famous writer, and I, simply was it. I was each time away in one brand new world, wearing yellow Hermes gloves while my Louis Vuitton suitcases laid on the floor, I could watch from behind my black Persol sunglasses, the crowd that had never left its soil, looking at me from head to toe with envy, wondering which star I possibly could be. And I could play the part just right, no matter the personage that came to my mind to be on that day, always speaking with extreme politeness the right elegant words in any of the six languages I could speak, always in the most bourgeois manners. I was then a winner, a winner whose success never had failed, and I was admired and envied for it. I was astonishing the mob and I astonished myself fully living my realm. The stewardesses would kindly take my coat off and put it on a hanger with a nice big friendly smile, calling me by my name while waiting for take off a glass of champagne in my hand, miles away isolated from the crowd behind watchmen and the thick tinted glass walls of one VIP lounge. Unattainable, I was living my own little of a new blue-blooded Prince, taking off from the working class I was born in.
I always chose the landing airport with care. That was a choice that allowed the sophistication of the departure to continue in an airport of arrival that was never too populous, and that had to sound with prestige and panache for a destination to ring peasants' bells. I hated Paris' airport, I hated Frankfort's, Amsterdam's and London airports as well as the Milan's one. They were all far too big and full of peasants carrying their plastic suitcases and back bags wearing big fat used tennis shoes, telling loud around, their final destination that never was mine. For a discreet arrival that matched my invented social class of the time, I was often landing at Geneva's airport. Cointrin was my airport, a provincial and an old fashioned airport I adored and that reminded me the kid I was then, looking at planes taking off on boring week-ends afternoons, dying to get away from this town and my own condition. I was taking my revenge, coming back head up and proud, successful and honored. I could then carry on playing my dreams by train. Never in one of these fast French trains though, they smelled to me like a subway and had as one function only, to move fast from a to z, how poor! No way. My train had to be a Swiss one with velvet seats and white lace on which I could spend hours, enjoying its restaurant car with a fine bottle of Bordeaux wine that perfectly matched the tournedos Rossini I was having as the scenery passed off focus in front of my eyes. I always preferred to travel in Winter in the snow, in the rain or under the gray of the skies to salute the branches of the trees, bowing like worried bridesmaids under their burden. The intimacy of the comfort was more intense of poetry then. Once arrived here or there, in Gstaad or in Zurich, in Milan or in Vienna, I could naturally stay in one of the most refined hotel I was accustomed to which held the dream of the perfect charm of the journey. At The Principe Di Savoia in Milan after having crossed the Tessin county and its lakes, at The Dorchester in London when the concierge of the Orient Express ordered a chauffeur for me at the time of my arrival, at the Badrutt's in St Moritz as I arrived in a little snow train, or at The Trianon Palace in Versailles when I arrived from Paris in a cab to be welcomed with bows and scrapes to the sound of my name. These were the places where the Prince by blood I was born could fully live his life and where his dreams were respected. If not, I was staying home in my shitty room, living my sad and dull killjoy days like every body else. I was nothing, and I had nothing. I only wanted to leave in order to escape from the ordinary, and dream a brand new life to live. Dream far. Dream hard. Cut off from miserable reality. I was just, simply, inventing some one I would have loved to be, and that someone was allowing me to dress up and put the perfect mental and physical array needed on, walking in my shoes of a high society gentleman that I became and embodied with brio. I could get there in a minute, impatient and happy to live it, quick, no matter where, but always with the elegance of my dreams. Just needed the cash America had conceded me to conceive. This kind of life and the character that I plaid, among the luxurious Venetian curtains and Persian carpets, had become since, familiar to me. Moreover, both the life and the character were accurate all the way through indeed, and after. I lived the accuracy of whom I would have loved to be.
And I was it.''
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