To each his vices.
But have we ever met a decent human who loves to fill out forms?
Not Alfred Langevin in any case, who has just crossed out his sheet for the third time and finally decides to ask for a blank copy.
Behind the window of her counter, the employee hands it to him with an angry pout and a sigh of contempt, a way of saying, without subtlety: “what a moron”.
But Alfred only feels compassion for this lady, who should like him strive to modify the destiny assigned to her, finally fulfill herself, and assume herself as she is, for, as Ladislas says Royan,
"stop dreaming your life and live your dream"
.
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A man without stories, by Nicolas Carreau: an extravagant banality
It was six months ago.
Alfred had stumbled upon the master's book,
Take care of yourself, be yourself
.
Poor Langevin had only read novels up to then and, somewhat reluctantly, it's true, he had begun this essay, for lack of anything better to put himself under his eye.
This bookworm had never owned a book…
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