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Plus jamais, saufen rěve, je n'y suis retournée. Never again, except in dreams, have I ever gone back there.
L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux. What matters is invisible to the eyes.
Tiny iridescent bubbles are forming in the yellow ochre wax that liquifies inside my glass. You can see only the reflection of the candle flame as it flickers inside this glass to which some paper has been glued. That paper hides the flame. See, printed on it: a yellow star of David and the word JUDE. It is the badge that made the job easier: those Nazi roundups for the death camps. We Jews (I am also a Jew) were, as Sarah Kofman wrote, étoilés, starred. Smell it: burning wax. Pungent. It moistens my eyes, and my now wet eyes stray toward it, away from this essay which, it warns me, had better be more than mere words.
In the film version of Mary Poppins , there is a scene that describes and demonstrates varieties of laughter. Could one do the same for crying? I wonder about this, as the mist clears, and this deep-blue screen, imprinted with white typescript, clarifies. With crying, the effect might be contagious, too, because emotion can, it seems, be caught like a virus. Some people open