CONFESSIONS OF A CONJUROR DERREN BROWN PDF

I was conscious that the grey eyes of the French barman, who had now seen me emerge from the disabled toilet three times in the last fifteen minutes, were resting on me with an appropriately mixed signal of curiosity, admonishment and condescension. This glance, on reflection, may have simply been the natural look of a Frenchman abroad, but it struck me at the time as a recognition of my ludicrously transparent capacity for procrastination, and my self-hatred ratcheted up another notch, making it even more difficult to shake myself from the immobilising stupor. For all he knows, I have to prepare mentally and take time to choose my spectators with care and precision. So with a serious expression I surveyed the restaurant for the hundredth time and flipped over the deck of cards in my hand. A brand-new Bike deck is, for a short while, wanton and precarious. In my velvet frock suit and ruffled cuffs, like some ludicrous hybrid of J.

Author:Moogutaur Guzil
Country:Gabon
Language:English (Spanish)
Genre:Love
Published (Last):17 July 2018
Pages:66
PDF File Size:17.82 Mb
ePub File Size:8.87 Mb
ISBN:680-1-93905-272-6
Downloads:8942
Price:Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]
Uploader:Kazrasar



I was conscious that the grey eyes of the French barman, who had now seen me emerge from the disabled toilet three times in the last fifteen minutes, were resting on me with an appropriately mixed signal of curiosity, admonishment and condescension. This glance, on reflection, may have simply been the natural look of a Frenchman abroad, but it struck me at the time as a recognition of my ludicrously transparent capacity for procrastination, and my self-hatred ratcheted up another notch, making it even more difficult to shake myself from the immobilising stupor.

For all he knows, I have to prepare mentally and take time to choose my spectators with care and precision. So with a serious expression I surveyed the restaurant for the hundredth time and flipped over the deck of cards in my hand. A brand-new Bike deck is, for a short while, wanton and precarious.

In my velvet frock suit and ruffled cuffs, like some ludicrous hybrid of J. Bach and Martin Kemp back in the day. Around the bottom of my face a goatee like a seventies pubic bush, untouched by clippers since its first appearance as a student years before and which would remain so for another year still, reaching madly in all directions, until one morning, standing at the mirror in my freezing mezzanine bathroom just down the stairs from my flat, I would eventually cut into its sides with the bacon scissors with a view to divesting myself of it completely, and a pleasing Mephistophelean point would emerge.

I held the deck level in my hands and played at tilting and squeezing the slippery pile, almost but not quite enough to discharge it on to the flagstone tiles in the manner I found myself considering.

I pictured them tumbling to the floor, myself bending over to gather them up, and the embarrassed derision of the silent diners as they watched me carry out the apologetic, uncomfortable process. I caught myself being distracted again, and tried to heave my attention back towards these covers I was being paid to entertain.

Tried, but within seconds my focus returned obsessively to the shifting fifty-two pasteboards in my hands and the further preoccupation they offered.

Here you are faced with two sources of annoyance, the greater being the anticipation of having to kneel down and begrudgingly assemble the cards into a disordered pile of single orientation, which involves not only upturning all the downturned cards or vice versa, whichever set is smaller , but also the trickier task of neatly squaring up a near-deck of chaotically strewn playing cards into a single satisfying block.

This is easier said than done, and is most easily achieved through a manoeuvre known to experienced card-players and magicians: grabbing the entire set of misaligned cards into one cluster and holding them perpendicular to the floor or table , then rolling the messy stack back and forth along its side until all the corners have been brought into alliance.

The barman was now busy dealing uninterestedly with a fat man wearing a thin, loose tie who was peering at the whiskies over the counter.

He was pushing up on to the balls of his feet and grasping with both hands a brass rail that ran along the front of the bar perhaps a foot below its edge.

I wondered what he was feeling at that moment: the tension in his hamstrings, the cool brass, the push of the counter into his middle section, the straining of his eyes and jutting forward of his slack neck to recognise the labels on the bottles. I tried to recreate these sensations mentally, and considered, as I tensed and shifted in microcosm, that that was what he was feeling right now; that for him the experience of all life revolved in this instant around those sensations, and that I was with my annoyance and self-hatred and reluctance to work at most a blur in the corner of his vision.

As he pointed to a bottle and then, a beat later, happy that the barman knew which he required, hauled himself back to standing straight, I tried to lose myself in what I imagined his world to be. I tried to picture the bar and barman straight-on, to hear the buzz of the restaurant behind me rather than to one side, to imagine the feel of his meal inside me, his weight on my bones, the faint sensation of comfort following the loosening of shoe leather from across the bridge of my toes as he lowered himself back to the floor.

I wondered whether he had picked a whisky he knew well — I imagined so, as the range was not especially adventurous and he seemed to care about which one he was given — and whether, in that case, he was at that moment imagining the walloping peaty taste he knew he was soon to enjoy. I did the same, following my own references: a blurry memory of a poster for the film Cocktail, and a repeated film-loop of a chess player planting a knight upon a square and firmly twisting it into place with that same defiance.

The sound of the refilling cistern within was bright and loud, and then abruptly muted as the door bumped closed. The fat man wobbled away from the bar and from me, a little inebriated, and my empathy with his thoughts and sensations was lost under the high ceilings of the wide, noisy lounge. The restaurant was again before me, and my hand again noted its grasp of the cards.

AUTONICS TZN4S PDF

Confessions of a Conjuror

Then I died. Is this padding or is it priming the reader for something? He needs to give himself a break once in a while, especially when he misplaces a pen. So I was pleased to find a copy of this book under the Christmas tree. Proust starts with a madeleine. Brown starts with a pack of cards.

MADHYAMIK SUGGESTION 2014 PDF

Comment navigation

.

Related Articles