For several books, François Sureau has continued his literary path with works in singular forms.
L'Or du temps, A year in the forest
, and today
S'en aller
, so many stories apparently written with a pen, in reality learned compositions of readings, observations, anecdotes.
He lived, traveled, and above all read a lot, thought a lot, without ever stopping himself from dreaming.
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Behind the established man, the nomad boils.
An existential dissatisfaction grips him.
Go away ?
For what ?
And or ?
The complexity of the world, which is that of life, inspires him: should we follow the example of “Paddy” Leigh Fermor, an unrepentant and free traveler, or that of Henry J.-M. Levet, who was , a traveler around his room?
Should a man's exile be effective (like that of Hugo) or internal, even unsuspected (as was the life of Somerset Maugham)?
It is this incessant heartbreak, leaving, staying, what Flaubert called
“the melancholy of ocean liners”,
which guides and...
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