C'est un récit conté par un idiot, plein de bruit et de fureur, et qui ne signifie rien.
Le Temps, monseigneur, a sur le dos un sac où ce monstre géant d'ingratitude enfouit sans cesse des aumônes pour l'oubli.
Mais je crains ta nature : elle est trop pleine du lait de la tendresse humaine pour prendre le chemin le plus court.
Tout ce que l'homme peut oser, je l'ose.
Le chagrin, ce ver rongeur de la beauté.
Plus de faits et moins d'art.
Ce pays inconnu d'où nul voyageur ne revient…
© 2026 My French LLC
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