Flowers of Ruin

I sat on the terrace of a café opposite the Charlety Amphitheatre, mulling over a number of hypotheses about Philippe de Pacheco, whose face I had never even seen. I jotted down some notes, and without fully realizing what I was doing, I began writing my first book. My motivation wasn't a life mission I'd chosen for myself or a special talent I was blessed with, but simply the mystery of the life of a man I was certain I would never find, and all the questions surrounding him that I would never find answers to. Behind me, a jukebox played an Italian song, and the smell of burning tires pervaded the air. In the shade of the trees on Avenue Jourdain, a beautiful young woman was making her way. Her blonde bangs, her cheekbones, and her green dress were the only refreshing breezes on that August afternoon. What's the point of pursuing intractable enigmas and tracking down ghosts, when life is right there in front of us, in all its simplicity, under the bright sun? I was sitting on the terrace of one of the cafés facing Charléty stadium. I was coming up with all sorts of hypotheses about Philippe de Pacheco, whose face I didn't even know. I was jotting down some notes when, without fully realizing what I was doing, I began writing my first book. It wasn't any particular vocation or gift that drove me to write, but quite simply the enigma posed by a man I had no chance of finding, and all those questions that would never be answered.
Behind me, a jukebox was playing an Italian song. The smell of burning tires filled the air. A girl was advancing under the foliage of the trees on Boulevard Jourdan. Her blonde fringe, her flushed cheeks and her green dress were the only note of freshness in this early August afternoon. What's the point of trying to solve unsolvable mysteries and chase after ghosts, when life is right here in front of us, in all its simplicity, under the shining sun?