The writer and dialogist Michel Audiard would have been 100 years old. He did not reach them. He never did his age. Great artists never age. They float. Audiard went crazy, unreasonable, at the age of 65, he spun in the English way. Smack on the beak, the icy dawns of intelligence on the side of the old halls of Paris were its beach, its Maldives. In 1985, the year of his death, Frédéric Dard, his friend, whined his popular playmate: " What is it that takes us, Michel, to die like idiots, we who nevertheless knew how to live? We understood that all this: life, death, the others were only a huge misunderstanding. "
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But yes, existence is only a short circuit. Michel Audiard was a man of letters but also a man of liters, preferred a little white to zinc around the corner than a discussion with nuts under the dome, preferred his popular cap to the hat - Gabin called him " the little cyclist ". His tongue was too well hung. He did
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