A long comic strip was necessary to tell the tumultuous life of Panaït Istrati (1884-1935), a funny Romanian wanderer who took up residence in France at the age of 38 and began writing novels, in French please, although he did not yet master our language well.
The story judiciously begins by depicting the obituary article that
L'Humanité
devoted to him when he died, twelve years later, of tuberculosis.
He had returned to live in Romania after problems with good Parisian literary society.
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Indeed, after a long journey through the USSR between 1927 and 1929, he dared to say and write what he had seen.
This man who came from the most modest peasant background, who was a construction worker until the success of his first novel, who had hoped for the revolution and dreamed of a glorious earthly paradise where humans freed from poverty could finally to be good, had understood the Soviet deception.
We owe him a famous line.
To those…
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