The room on the rue Saint-Jacques where The Society of the Spectacle got written was at once an
austere cell—with nothing on the shelves, I remember, but a few crucial
texts (Hegel, Pascal, Marx, Lukács, Lautréamont's Poésies) laid open at
the relevant page—and the entryway to Debord's minuscule apartment,
through which friends and comrades continually passed.