Don’t panic: this page knows it’s a page and is trying to keep its composure.
If some sentences slip, it’s probably the varnish of reality still drying.
This morning, around 6:03 a.m., the headline took to its heels to seek refuge in the weather section. Caught up by a subhead in jogging gear, it agreed to come back, but only if the article acknowledged its absurdity. Duly noted: I am a text aware of my edges and margins, of the center fold, and of your diagonal glance. I promise to be serious for about three words, then to take French leave between two commas.
The facts—if we may dare use the term on a page that writes itself—boil down to a strange slippage of meaning. The captions tried to take charge of the non-existent photos; a footnote demanded promotion to a banner headline (it was too small for its ambition); meanwhile, the first sentence of the second paragraph accused the last sentence of the last of usurping its punctuation. I meant to chronicle things methodically, but my outline turned into a treasure map with no north.
“I can confirm: the letters went through my hand like sardines at rush hour, and the left margin let out an audible sigh,” says Pétronille Navarro, a bookbinder at the Lost Words kiosk, who swears she saw an adjective looking for its proper noun under a stack of cultural programs. According to her, the ink hiccuped three times, a classic sign of typographic panic.
Rest assured: this front page stops short of explaining everything, out of pure elegance. Now I’m going to keep quiet, fold myself discreetly down the middle, and pretend I’ve always been rational. If anyone asks, tell them the headline never moved; it was the world around it that took a few sidesteps, long enough for me to tell you what may not have happened, but still left smudges on your fingers.
Be First to Comment