#french lit

Crying, soaking in the depths. Glad not to recognize myself anymore.

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She knows the depths of sorrow. Nothing else could possible happen to her.

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She loves the calm of the oak grove, the feeling of profound solitude, the presence of the pigs, their grunts of satisfaction,...

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In us, the world gives itself time to finish. And still, on the page it would like to be reborn. It keeps a semblance of future:...

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We know the sea does not give itself up. We can hear its shouts beyond the shutters: it is night’s throat, the voice of

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[He] pauses, hunkers down and lays one hand on the ground. All around, the field is rustling softly, a gentle hiss like a

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