I returned from a week in Paris, with a sense of timing that has not deserted me since, in April 1968. In January 1970, I went to France for six months (in Caen, provincial beacon of the events) that turned into three-and-a-half years first in Caen, then at the École Normale Supérieure (Parisian beacon of the events) — the intelligence of chance indeed. I am at the time of writing almost exactly twice as old as May. If I drew the diagram of my life it would look like this: ∝. This book has been an attempt to close, in an open way, that diagram.
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