The window of his office opens onto a large cedar tree. There are many trees in his latest novel, Inflorescence (La Baconnière), a forest book, or a garden book, a fiction that has grown like a plant. “I spend a lot of time in the gardens, but I don’t garden,” says Raluca Antonescu, “it’s writing that I feel like I’m working the land”.
She speaks to us from the house she shares with her companion and her daughter in neighboring France. His attic office houses two small memorial altars: photographs, objects, stones are placed there, in connection with loved ones. “The missing need to be among the living, not to be alone,” she explains. Perhaps also so that we, the living, are not alone. ”