The Chameleon
This article in this week’s New Yorker is simply fascinating; the stuff of which movies are made. Don’t want to ruing the plot for you, but be prepared for several twists and turns.
The most fascinating thing about the whole plot to me is how persistent the guy has been, even after serving time in an American prison, he returned to the same behavior when he got back to France. His insistence that he was always looking for love and a family is supported by his troublesome relationship with his blood family.
There are times when I am depressed that I will look upon children jealously, seeing a simplicity to their lives (that may be an illusion) that do not feel in my adult existence. I don’t think I am alone in this feeling: it’s been written about time and time again. How many books are filled with longings for childhood, to be like a child?
Bourdin’s inhibitions just were not great enough to stop him from taking the next step that at least I know I have pondered before: time machines, magic potions, Tom Hanks in Big.
I can’t really put my fingers completely on why the story touched me so much. There are plenty of reasons not to desire a return to chidlhood, or to being a child, I guess that’s what keeps me sane, but if the genie granted me one wish…
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