Free Castle to Castle by Louis-Ferdinand Céline

French! ah, jug-headed Achille! hell, it's like lace! . . . I saw lace dying out . . . with my own eyes . . . my mother in Père Lachaise hasn't even got her name on her grave . . . that's proof enough . . . I'll tell you about her . . . Marguerite Céline . . . on account of me, the shame of it . . . for fear people would spit on it . . .

Though I'd never claim to be a St. Vincent de Paul or an Axel Munthe, a lot of people say I make too much of animals . . . they're right . . . zwieback, bacon, hempseed, duckweed, hamburger . . . it all goes! . . . dogs, cats, titmice, sparrows, robins, hedgehogs . . . they eat us out of house and home! and the gulls from the Renault roofs . . . in the winter . . . from the factory down below . . . on the island . . . we're suckers, I have to admit! . . . especially as they all bring their friends . . . hedgehogs, robins, titmice . . . especially in the winter . . . from Upper Meudon . . . if it weren't for us, they'd have a pretty rough time in the winter . . . I say Upper Meudon . . . from further still! from Yveline! . . . we're at the end of the Forest of Yveline . . . the extreme tip . . . then comes the Bois de Boulogne, Billancourt . . .
    All right, our animals are a drain . . . I admit it . . . in times like this we should watch our step . . . we do! we do! but then ten new birds turn up . . .
    The scrawniest of my charges is spoiled compared to me . . . and I work harder . . . a lot harder! . . . and my protégé doesn't suspect it . . . brain work is invisible . . . I'm ending in total bankruptcy . . . it shames me . . . Last Sunday, for instance, a lady from Clichy, one of my earliest patients, a really distinguished lady, educated, intelligent, well-informed, came to see me . . . she'd crossed Paris from end to end in the Métro, on the bus . . . what courage! . . . I congratulate her . . . she isn't even out of breath! . . . she came to ask me a little advice . . . I've taken care of her whole family . . . in turn I ask her what's become of this one and that one, people I knew well . . . news about places too . . . Porte Pouchet, Square de Lorraine, rue Fanny . . . what they've done with Rouguet's? . . . she knows . . . she knows everything . . . some of them still remember me . . . they've grown old . . . They send me their kind regards, their best wishes . . . they all know what's happened to me . . . they think it's terribly unjust . . . throwing me in the clink . . . though if I'd stayed in Clichy they'd certainly have cut me to pieces! . . . Let's talk about something else . . . about hospitals . . . about the enormous Bichat Hospital . . . and the Town Hall . . . the officials . . . the Commies and the antis . . . about Naile who committed suicide . . . he was a Parisian like me . . . it's unusual in the Paris suburbs to find an official who isn't from the Basses-Alpes or from Hainaut . . . you don't feel at ease in the Paris suburbs unless you're from the Drôme or Finistère or Périgord . . . at the Town Hall for instance . . . "Where were you born?" Courbevoie, Seine . . . the lady frowns . . . you've put your foot in it . . .
    Anyway, à propos of Naile, we start talking about Aufray, the former mayor . . . and then about Ichok . . . the phony doctor, who committed suicide, too . . . it's amazing . . . you never know what's going on . . . what's being hatched and finagled in the corridors of a town hall! triple-padded doors, offices "open day and night" . . . nobody ever there . . . nowadays it's not in the sacristies that daggers are sharpened . . . that prussic acid is sold! No, the mystery, the intrigue have moved . . . you'll find plenty in the Welfare offices . . . the biggest mystery to come my way in Clichy was the business with Roudiere, a clerk in the Hygiene office . . . We'll come back to it . . . This Monsieur Roudiere died . . . of cancer! yes, yes, but make no mistake! there was politics at the bottom of it! . . . I know, I saw him . . . he was