A new chapter is opening . The fine dune line is growing thin and leaves way to burning memories...A present past whose transmission acquires vital importance and whose smallest details build up my novel. My first memory is that of my maternal grandfather.

He had an elegant figure and a firm character. He had a face which had been dug by the sun and the wind. His look was proud and noble like those of great people . Through the medium of testimonials and pictures I follow in his footsteps. Just as I did , one day he took the road , leaving the « family grounds » to become a genuine Camargue people . Just like him , I have learned to tame this land whose wild sensuality was revealed to me through bot hits landscapes and its people . As an explorer of intimacy , his white Stetson hat reminded me of those I happened to pass by in this lost paradise where, in yonder times , a colorful crowd with an unknown accent would rub shoulders . On the beach I saw again those flocks of children , mixed up with Mistral at the far end of their kites ’ropes. I remembered their parents ’evening songs which roused up the tents and caravans . Those were strongly tied down in this Eden of fortune which has now vanished . Where do they happen to be now those wind dancers , those star drinkers ? Where are those eager dreamers who were turned into masters of times by ordinary summers ? Are they on the road again ? Yes , they are . On the « good road » which sounds in our imaginations like the promise of an initiatory trip that teaches freedom , confidence and joy , celebrating chance meetings which we improvise on the way. It is the very opposite of a skimpy daily life , it is the glorious way out for those hankering after horizons who abhor tight boundaries. Beyond deafening walls , sharp barbed wire enclosing outside , the road is the linka jar to inspiring revivals where letting go , imposed by the ruin of our utopian designs , becomes breath of life . Tomorrow will be different and together with i tour complicities from yonder days will come back forming disheveled tribes . Tomorrow will be different because as we are deprived of everything but more alive thane ver , and impacted as we are by all the encounters we have made or missed and all those to come , we will invent a new world which will be up to our immoderation . Dream catchers , singers , dancers , tale tellers with either words or images , stretched on the sand or standing up with risen fists , we ‘ll dress our spaces up with limitless boundaries and we’ll walk together towards our sublime eternities.

Traduction : B. Laraho

A new chapter is opening . The fine dune line is growing thin and leaves way to burning memories...A present past whose transmission acquires vital importance and whose smallest details build up my novel. My first memory is that of my maternal grandfather.

He had an elegant figure and a firm character. He had a face which had been dug by the sun and the wind. His look was proud and noble like those of great people . Through the medium of testimonials and pictures I follow in his footsteps. Just as I did , one day he took the road , leaving the « family grounds » to become a genuine Camargue people . Just like him , I have learned to tame this land whose wild sensuality was revealed to me through bot hits landscapes and its people . As an explorer of intimacy , his white Stetson hat reminded me of those I happened to pass by in this lost paradise where, in yonder times , a colorful crowd with an unknown accent would rub shoulders . On the beach I saw again those flocks of children , mixed up with Mistral at the far end of their kites ’ropes. I remembered their parents ’evening songs which roused up the tents and caravans . Those were strongly tied down in this Eden of fortune which has now vanished . Where do they happen to be now those wind dancers , those star drinkers ? Where are those eager dreamers who were turned into masters of times by ordinary summers ? Are they on the road again ? Yes , they are . On the « good road » which sounds in our imaginations like the promise of an initiatory trip that teaches freedom , confidence and joy , celebrating chance meetings which we improvise on the way. It is the very opposite of a skimpy daily life , it is the glorious way out for those hankering after horizons who abhor tight boundaries. Beyond deafening walls , sharp barbed wire enclosing outside , the road is the linka jar to inspiring revivals where letting go , imposed by the ruin of our utopian designs , becomes breath of life . Tomorrow will be different and together with i tour complicities from yonder days will come back forming disheveled tribes . Tomorrow will be different because as we are deprived of everything but more alive thane ver , and impacted as we are by all the encounters we have made or missed and all those to come , we will invent a new world which will be up to our immoderation . Dream catchers , singers , dancers , tale tellers with either words or images , stretched on the sand or standing up with risen fists , we ‘ll dress our spaces up with limitless boundaries and we’ll walk together towards our sublime eternities.

Traduction : B. Laraho