Books have a thousand ways to reach us. Sometimes we all experienced it, it is done by the grace of a friend. A friend who bets on an intuition: “Read that, it will change you from everything you usually read, you will like it and, you will see, there is a voice that bears.And my friend was right.
What is it? What does this voice tell us? On a Greek island, a woman wanders according to the evocation of the Aimé Trépassé. Abolished time, established personal fiction, inextinguishable pain. Between sky and sea, she wanders to stand up. In a dazzling theater crossed by a deluge, his exhibition is total.
Faced with the murder and the disappearance of the loved one, invoke it again, pay again, love him again. Draw from it again. And assign the murderers. Inspirators, sponsors, executive fellows. Designate them, draw the consequences. Entering rage as others come into hiding, by refusal of the renunciation. Without hope of succeeding in it, trying to make them give throat by the celebration out of control of what was, luminous, which they destroyed. It is neither a mourning nor a reconstruction. Just a dam, but a flourishing dam. “… It is perhaps this one, the most beautiful struggle of the century, when the sleeping, motionless and glued bodies, are blocking against boredom, are blocking against the night which crashes on the roofs …“To refuse, here is to live.
In these pages, only one and the same long sentence. Everything is a matter of Ryt
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