I was sent to spend a week at my grand-mother’s place in the south of France, a small village surrounded by vineyards. I was five. In the morning we would read. To me the process was close to magic and the fact that I was gradually mastering the craft seemed nothing short of a miracle: The signs on the page were creating meanings. The fact that those meanings were only simplistic redundant ones such as “Marc is holding a red apple in his hand” and “the apple that Marc is holding in his hand is red” (this carefully confirmed by corny pictures: they believed in the didactic merits of repetition then) did not matter in the least. I suppose I also wrote the same sentences over and over because that is the way writing used to be taught but I don’t remember that bit. I remember the little wild asparagus that we would pick in the afternoon walks. And I remember exactly the taste and the colour of the jam we would have in the morning with the round toasted bread that was so tasty and crispy and the old fashioned fireplace and the lampshades with pearls and the slightly musty smell in the lounge and the laughs and the talks and… there was so much love instead of the usual coldness and hostility. To be loved is the best I declare. The only thing worth living for… I discovered the world the world of books and the world of landscapes walking outside after the siesta and the incessant sound that the crickets made. Reading and writing and walking in the quiet countryside is still my life delight.