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When the bus disappeared, taking away their child, the Bensaïds remained on the empty sidewalk, their souls as barren as if their daughter had been carried off by death.
With a…
How long did I wander in Caesarea,
That enchanting place where my heart had adored you.
—Racine, Bérénice, I, 4.
I was only a child of the peace, born into a strange postwar. How could I have…
This is a story that begins with J. It was the fifteenth of July 1930.
It’s about J; it’s about a consonant still a little vowelish, a little i-ish in the aftermath of a magic philology.
Were I not…