dublinka

I suspect I hold in my hands one of the few copies in existence of David Mullan's La Chambre Des Voix. It's one of a very small printrun of bilingual aphoristic poetry, which I obtained from Mullan personally once upon a time. Perhaps the eighty's. I was in Paris, and having a last drink in a quiet bar, when I bumped into him and a French man who's name I can't quite recall. I think the man claimed to be Mullan's publisher or agent. We had a long talk about the ego, Freud and the Brain. At some stage, having mentioned my interest in poetry, Mullan claimed to be a poet, and brought forward the slim lowfi volume for inspection. I was impressed with what I read, and still like to look at it from time to time. I think the price was a couple of Francs, but he gave it to me at a discount. Actually I think I harangued him into giving it to me free with some sort of Marxist gambit. Anyhow, the night and the drink parted us. Since then, I've always been curious as to who exactly he was, and whether he had written anything else, but their isn't so much as a fingerprint, footprint, or mention of him or his work, on the net or abebooks. Was it a nom de guerre? Perhaps. Will I disclose its contents? Not yet. This is a happy orphan.