By John Hopkins
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Additional info for The Tangier Diaries, 1962-1979
Sample text
I accomplish more on Saturday and Sunday mornings, when the mind is fresh. JANUARY 11 What is it about Tangier that produces such euphoria? Is it because the writing went well today? FEBRUARY 15 We have tried majoun with Paul Bowles. It took a long time to have effect, we begged for seconds and naturally OD’d. We started off in the Kasbah, stopped at his place, and wound up at Paname’s Restaurant for dinner where I became so convulsed with hysterical laughter I could not eat or sit up. The Europeans assumed I was drunk or crazy; the Moroccans knew we were high on dope.
There I was at eleven o’clock on a Sunday night with a suitcase and no place to sleep, and the next morning I had to begin work at White, Weld & Co. down on Wall Street. So I walked around the corner to Pete’s Tavern on 18th Street and Irving Place where there was a phone. I was going to call around town to find a place to stay for the night. I was in the phone booth with my address book out when a crazy-looking woman started banging on the door. She was the Mediterranean type, with olive skin and a wild hair-do that stuck out in all directions.
On June 11, 1961, one week after Percy’s eighty-second birthday, I swam to the island, pushing ahead of me a rubber raft containing a sleeping bag, cigarettes, pocket knife, flashlight, and notebook and pen to record every detail of my twenty-four hour exile. Percy turned up the gramophone full blast, and Joe announced the evening’s menu in a loud voice in a mocking effort to break my resolve and lure me ashore. But I stuck to my rock, scribbling away. I reckon my writing career began that night.