I miss my friend François.
I like his small office which overlooks a park which must, these days, sport pretty fall colors.
We used to talk endlessly in this room cluttered with books, papers and inkwells ...
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François is a prolix meditative.
He is not afraid of big words, beauty, death, soul, joy, eternity.
Like anyone, he gives them flavor and strength and I am grateful to him.
Beauty is a meeting, he used to say when talking about a painting or a landscape.
But if it deprives us of meetings, can the world still claim beauty?
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François and his wife Micheline have not left their home for eight months.
Age, illness, fear of contagion keep them isolated.
This loneliness weighs on him, I hear it in his voice when I phone him.
She has overtones of distress that move me.
He misses the outside life.
He and his wife were taking small steps to shop in their neighborhood, and the passers-by who know them
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