Early '70s. A bar at the Place Saint-Georges in Paris, where the shadow of André Breton still hung in the air and where our master of masters, Jean-Toussaint Desanti, was fond of coming. In the atmosphere, there's still a bit of this "spirit of May," or this "feeling of May," that was so much a part of our youth. There's still a bit of the elation of those unreasonable times, of their poetry in action, of their back-and-forth of impatience and passion. There remains, as at the beginning of it all, the still burning desire for art as opposed to culture, a life instead of just survival, books that make one live, not die.
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