We know a lot about Houdini, so much in fact that the element Houdini eventually crumble in each of the things is known of him, leaving here a capital H in which he was tired on coming anyway, is an "o" hoop and a little too pale pierced through a hundred times by fellow quadrupeds during which the numbers struggled to kick the tempo marking Chaka Chaka-pum-Time showman, and of course the other letters, the urn of "u" which was after all a - let's trivial - tank where, aaah, remember his breath, huiffffffshhh, ie a white imbued with volume, but also the "d" in general unknown what form if it is found that when pressed in the body it is not apparent without ever making a mess, like a bad idea Timaeus leaving undesirable marks instead of rounding the corners, and finally, once the "n" opened up the wrists, click-click, this famous "i" that Harry had added to the mystery name of his legendary mentor, Robert-Houdin, magician more focused on automata on the phenomena of fair, Harry s'italianisant so, yet he who was born in Hungary, some somewhere in the middle age of the river between Buda (and) Pest, in the midst of a possible nowhere, baby Harry had that right in potting soil and then transplanted American Appleton, a city in Wisconsin (Wizconsin, should we say - uh, we are well advanced, stand), to be reborn again, as a mini Edison's retraction, and once this scattering lettrique completed, what remains there of our tracker ectoplasm, the lover of Mrs. Jack London, the trainer of Lovecraftian Negroes, that make the figure houdinienne once the AC off in the chair where he lay in bed for almost a final round of escapologie, then say no more, no more of the plant Houdini, shut its doors, let the key, look, here falls, Radiance gold, above the parapet of the bridge it falls - air heals soon - is creeping into the black water of the river, any river, splash! the Houdini thing there is nothing left, his death is consumed, all the eyes that saw choir and wading (and learn to breathe in the bed of a muddy mirror) no longer set the bulging of their eyelids granite, steel, is there an explanation, is there a reason, a wire connecting the coil to the labyrinth, the rabbit in the hat, we know, the fact is that magic is not so if it's metaphorical a kind of duplication prankster (and a little - only a little ! - Less borked) of writing, but do not expect me or Houdini to give you an example, reveal his stuff is liable to hell and shame, I do not reveal anything, nothing at all, and we remain in the dark with the shadow-Houdin, the memory of his shadow blocked out and returned, passed a destiny, a blow, boïïïng then, serene, arms dangling, his eyes red, we'll do like everyone else, we Houdini do as we will, in equal proportions, forgetfulness and magic.
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