My first big trip was to Vietnam.
There, I had bonded with a dissident poet. Several times, I tried to write his story. Without succeeding.
Illness is also a journey, we repeat.
It is an illusion to believe that in a room one remembers one’s life, and I doubt that at the moment of death one remembers everything in an accelerated way.
There are memories that do not have the strength to accompany us to the end, we can only take very little luggage with us. And from a certain point on, which is not yet death, none. Others have talked about this point. I feel close to them now. My brothers, yes, my brothers. Like that old poet.
There are also memories that tell us what to do.
In my island, it’s the promise to that old man that bothers me the most. Guilt or the desire to be at peace: if I have to die soon, I tell myself, at least I’ve been able to do that…
