ABSTRACT
I was building a house, a small, yellow-and-white one like a hard-boiled egg. You have no idea how complicated such a thing is in Europe. Before the house was finished, we had been through strikes by bricklayers, carpenters, joiners, parquet-layers and roof-tilers. The building of the house unfolded itself as a two-year social struggle. If work was done at all, people had, in between the laying of two bricks, enough time to have a little chat, enjoy some beer, spit and scratch their backs. For two years I went regularly to watch how my house was coming to light. It was part of my personal history. My relation to the house grew into an endless intimacy. During those two years I got to know a host of details about the work and life of bricklayers, joiners, canteen-keepers and other hairy, serious and jocular men. All this got cemented into the bricks and joists of my house. You must see that after so many drawbacks I cling to it with a certain fierce patriotism, and that I wouldn’t change it for anything.
