It was in that Paris of the spring in the 1960s, in the Latin Quarter, whose recently watered down streets in the early hours of morning smelled of freshly baked baguettes and croissants, when I settled in the Hotel Louisiana on Rue de Seine, lured by the mythology which forgave the austerity of the place […]
Underneath all forms of defeatism, there’s always a possibility of victory. This principle was etched into Arthur Miller as an adolescent who was 14 years old when The Great Depression of 1929 engulfed the women’s underwear factory of his father.
When I was 18 years old a bookseller in Valencia clandestinely offered me, under the counter, a red-covered copy of Camus’s book Summer, which had been printed in Argentina. It came wrapped in brown paper and I read it in a hammock surrounded by the sound of cicadas and the odor of pine needles, sweltering in the summer heat.
Graham Greene’s childhood was divided between two loyalties. His father was director of the school of Berkhamsted, located in an old building connected to the house in which Graham lived and in which he had been born through a door upholstered in baize.