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104 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 23, 2020
I wanted to compose a real metaphor for the destruction brought by genocide. The reader understands the background – which may be the Nazi genocide – but at the same time I never write the words. I wanted to work with the intelligence and sensibility of the reader.
When I collected these texts and laid them out in front of me, the way you lay out playing cards, I was struck by the echoes that connected them. So I reworked them, more substantially in some cases, less in others, to reinforce these links between them. Having done that, it struck me that they formed a genuine book, a sort of novel which I deliberately left incomplete, and at the heart of which is a call to the reader to fill the gaps by becoming a writer themselves. All of them tell us about fragments of existence in a century and a geography that are unique, and we discover little by little that these fragments resonate with each other, in a distant way, deeply or shallowly, under the headings of chance or coincidence. All of them create spaces of uncertainty. The character of Viktor becomes the symbol of this: in the course of the stories certain elements encourage us to believe this is the same person, others show us the opposite.
The handkerchief, folded and tidied away in her brain, held many things but they were things that no longer moved, the way that clothes that have lost the bodies that used to inhabit them still keep a trace of their shape and their smells, but not much. Everything the little girl kept in the handkerchief reminded her of what had happened before, and over there. But over there was gone. There was only here.