industrial
Where the river has cut the Field of Letters down to its bones: a cliff of blue-grey lias, layer on layer, made of lives. Mary Anning works it with a hammer, a basket and a terrier. Stones for the city are broken here when the Gate admits a name, but most of the cliff is the nameless – women who were never written down at all, pressed flat under everything that came after. The cliff slips every winter and shows something new. On the shingle below lie the stones Mary has freed and named herself, ...
Located in Cité des Dames.