Some novels, for me, are bright. When opened, they emit particular, violent rays. These seem to continue to shine relentlessly, even when the book is closed. Their light reappears when we think of them, when we find them. In some novelists, the sun seems to shine constantly. In their pages the sun heats up, sometimes falls thick and rough, burns, blind, it explodes in all its power.
In these books, summer does not end. It endures and it comes back, it muffles the words themselves. This light that touches me, very particular, is not from nowhere. Poetry knows it well, it is that of Rimbaud, that of Eternity, “It is the sea gone With the sun”.