There are days when I almost don’t make sense. These are the days to be reserved for writing; the days to move words on paper in hope that something may come out of it. Chateau Versailles is also something like that, it has its days when it tells you something. It is a likable place, but sometimes it is more likeable on the outside than on the inside, sometimes the other way around.
The park, of course, is greater than any building, for there, in spite of days of great affluence, you can still be alone. On the inside this is almost impossible; but it is inside the palace that you must find your spot, the spot from which you can enter and inhabit the building. And they don’t want you to do that. They want to rush you through. Enough of ghosts there, the way it is. But on those days when a strange detail catches your attentions and pulls you in, even as you stumble down the stairs and out of the door, you know some crazy part of you has stayed and will soon be ready to report.
As you move through the corridors and rooms, try not to read the signs or listen to your guide. When everyone is looking to the right, look under your feet. Make an effort to stay closer to the walls, doors and windows. Slowly look behind curtains and corners. These are not only the kings and queens who lived here: The royal historians wrote the official story in capital letters all over the surface of centuries, but the army of servants in the royal household: the thirty-two valets, the forty pages, the hundred guards, the suicidal cooks, the maids and cleaning personnel, they all had inscribed their story somewhere.
Here with a diamond he had carved her name…
And who the hell had scribbled in huge letters Louis?