The Author, Pippe Vonkuhne with his partner Genoveva at Le Procope in Paris

In this article I have attached Chapters 4 & 5 of my novella Belle Isle for you to read. Chapter 4 is mournful but transfiguring, like the note Fah on the scale. Based on Virginia Woolf’s Stream of Consciousness style, it is my most difficult chapter to read, more narrative and less dialogue. Chapter 5 is resonant and solid, like the note Soh on the scale.

Unfortunately I permitted free access to 45% of the book, which in itself is okay except it apparently ends up in the middle of chapter 4, my “forlorn” chapter! Chapter 5 is more amusing, as per the structure I chose for the novella based on the notes of the scale. See links at the end.

As you can see I am now in the midst of marketing (an onerous and never-ending task for online publishing) and I am about to issue a hard copy of Belle Isle, which, printed by Wordclay, looks nice but does not have the star (asterisk) links of the online copy. Did you try the links? Some readers in their rush to read the text hadn’t noticed them. They are beautiful and/or informative. Here are Chapters 4  and Chapter 5.

Chapter 4 – Elodie’s Wish

It was a forlorn Good Friday, and Elodie, for the first time ever, was enduring the day alone. That morning she had, upon awakening, sustained an awful post-dreaming discontent that one is, after all, back on earth, harboring the same problems as the night before. Strangely, there had been a loud rat-a-tat-tat on the bedroom window from a native myna seemingly admonishing her: “come on, get up”, then, mission accomplished, flying away.

“Bed is the place where one feels the safest,” thought Elodie, regretfully rising, dressed in yesterday’s underwear. Disrobing she headed for the bathroom, and, removing old make-up, brooded on her trip home the balmy night before. In her Mother’s small, open convertible, she had recalled how Mrs Proctor had, among other things, given to Shannon an antique perfume, Seventh Heaven by Saville, saying it was for someone ‘athletic, open and candid’, which was certainly Shannon. Elodie had never heard of it, and listened to Matthew explain that it was from Watford in London, circa 1938. The perfume container had a lavish background, as bright as Madame Poggendorf’s shocking pink shift, with a woman on it, in profuse pearly cream and white attire, as milky as that of Mrs Proctor, a redoubtable combination.