It is in Paris that the greatest American writers, from Hemingway to James Baldwin or Jack Kerouac, found the "satori", those brief illuminations that had overthrown Rimbaud and which are, writes Patti Smith, "a call to the act ":" And me, many times I see myself overwhelmed by the pride of believing that I can answer this call. "What is the dream? Write something good that would be better than I am, and that would justify my trials and my wanderings. "
Mission accomplished: in French trains, the star, who has nothing to prove, transmits the "heat emanating from the well of devotion that is the female heart", and this will-o'-the-wisp in her, "volcano sculpted in the ice ". What is the hope? That Paris, these days, is at the height of freedom that the most miserable and the most glorious come from so far. Freedom, an old word, this carnal and spiritual revolution that requires everyone to "begin at (his) own beginning. A sacrilegious act devoid of guilt ".