A man had just
got off the coach at La Roche de Rame.
In a small cafe
of the « Quartiers Nord », a man was
watching the trucks go by in the rain.
Then he dismissed his thoughts.
A man spent a period of time during which he wrote things like this :
He said : « At that time, I had nothing to say. That was something I cultivated ».
On coming back from a walk in the new residential districts beside the sea, a man had written :
Two friends met
in a little tourist port. The end of the season had made it
more sober. On the glittering green water, lined up with the
jetties, each brightly-colored boat had the purity of a
One of the men said :
His friend looked at him, trying to revive their common memories, but couldn't manage it.
window of his villa, a man stared into his garden.
Her sentence made him shiver.
Waiting in the Briançon station cafe, a young man had written :
In the space of a few minutes, the impression of that place engraved itself so strongly on him, that he kept its scar for a long time.
Once, on the
highway from Marseilles to Aix, a man noticed a factory on
A hundred years
before, on arriving here, Van Gogh had found something of
Japan in the region.
Another would go on :
And so on.
Leaning on the balcony, she thought :
The morning shift
would soon begin their work in the shipyards of
At the bar-tabac of Le Vallon-de-l'Oriol, a man had written :
He saw her in
order to dream. However he didn't dream of anything
specific. Her windows looked over the sea.
A man had spent
the night at the house of a lady friend who lived on the
coast. Early in the morning, he went down towards the beach
to buy some tobacco.
His lady friend
was eating when he came back. There was a little coffee left
for him on the stove.
On his way back, the man had seen, lying on the ground, an empty packet of the same tobacco he smoked. He wanted to write a poem about the impression it made on him. He composed several, and kept only this one :
On rereading this tercet, he composed this poem :
He left to have
coffee under the arbour. The weather was exceptionally fine
for the season.
L'Argentierre, a man took a final glance at the banks of the
Over the highway
to Salon, day was falling. It had snowed, and the vehicles
were moving slowly.
This impression was much stronger than her words translated. Something was distilling a feverish haste in each of them.
In a bar in the Quartiers Nord, a man scribbled :
He wrote this on a page of his pad, then crumpled it.
It often happened
that she would write a few lines as soon as she had opened
One September afternoon,whilst having tea at Malmousque, a man composed this and dedicated it to a friend :
A man was walking
in the Parc Borelly in Marseilles.
Two brothers had gone dancing all night at Puget-Thénier. In the early hours, as they were following the Var in the direction of Grasse, the younger one said :
Their ears were still so full of the sound that the car seemed noiseless. The first light of dawn, the cool air, and the strong smell of day strengthened in their mouths the taste of over-smoked tobacco, and, on their skin, that feverish moisture of lake of sleep.
His brother answered him.
A young couple
was talking sitting at the terrace of a bar.
And so the girl asked him :
The young man said nothing.
publications left him with a curious impression. As if the
reviews had been finely sliced plates of literature. On
being consumed, the many tastes fused together. And, from a
distance, the plates themselves merged into a great
He asked himself.
When he awoke,
the sky was very pure and clear. Only little white clouds
were left, which the wind from the Alps drove away toward
the sea. The day before, a contrary wind had carried rain
clouds toward lands.
His morning was
taken up writing post-cards. He had just received from a
friend a long disjointed letter telling him about life of
And so he read
Aristotle's « Psychology », in which he
looked for inspiration for his little abstract pencil
For many people,
February is a hard time of the year. Already weary of
winter, its end isn't yet in sight. That day, he didn't get
up for work.
He addressed it to his lady friend. On the second, he wrote :
He hesitated for a long time as to the order of the lines, and finally decided not to change it. He only crossed out the « and » in the last line. He sent this card to a friend, then wrote on the third :
19 Tales from the