Only the spectacle of flowers this morning keeps me alive. At the start of winter, the first sentence is a rose on the garden wall. She persists in the company of silent flakes, conqueror of bad weather. She writes to us in her resplendent dress where she remains silent for hours, her petals offered to the four winds. When I look at her, she seems to turn her face towards me, part her thin lips, stammer a few snatches. Yes, the rose writes in the light the first sentence which never comes from books, but from the depths of our little life, from the very depths of pain and joy, from the sun shine on stone. I catch it on the fly and engrave it on paper with a gentle hand! But I do not kill her like those collectors of insects, butterflies, net hunting in the countryside, hunters adored in scholarly books! How can we like to contemplate these litanies of corpses? Only a disproportionate taste for death could make me such a collector. To write, you don't have to rely on pain. Pain is not enough. Only joy capsizes the heart. You would like to write in such a low voice this joy that we would hear you on the other side of the world. But you hardly write any more, listening to the silence, going through the nights with a torch in your hand. Somnambulist. In the night the faces of yours walk. No page erases their memory. You see them all, one by one, haggard, dazed or strangely laughing.