I would like to talk about those who go through this life, with shining eyes, who still love. I speak in the conditional, while the present calls me, with all its force. Speaking in the conditional is hypothetical. Speaking in the present brings me closer to the Living, the thin events that are my whole life. I don't know nothing but these poor inglorious things. Would you be able to fly to my aid, perhaps sketch other ways? Only the very poor life loves me, but maybe this is a mistake? I have no answer, but billions of questions. I would so much like to re-read those books which have abandoned me, which I have pushed to the back of a room never to reread them, which are impatient to come back to the open air under the beautiful tree in the garden when the summer sweetness awakens on all of us. We do not forget these books, even if their fire is less fiery than before. We know they are very close, that is enough for us. They stammer for a long time in the dark. Their chanting is endless. We are still in the garden, bare hands, contemplating the blue of the sky, the movement of a grass, the elegance of an ant, the stubbornness of a blackbird to protect its nest. In the house, I hear whispers: books converse between them, thus sliding from one century to another. They are all fraternal books. By their presence, they break loneliness. Their pages helped me move from day to day. I keep them on the table for a long time so that the sun can warm them. I see the ink quiver as the light intensifies.