{"id":60344,"date":"2025-12-26T05:00:12","date_gmt":"2025-12-26T04:00:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/eden-saga.com\/en\/?p=60344"},"modified":"2026-02-11T13:10:59","modified_gmt":"2026-02-11T12:10:59","slug":"aide-memoire","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/eden-saga.com\/en\/aide-memoire.html","title":{"rendered":"Aide-memoire"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"Solitaire and his double<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Hi Xavier<\/a>. It\u2019s Alain again. You sent me an email that petrified me. You titled it ‘Effroyable Solitude’.<\/a>frightful solitude<\/span> Not cheerful, this email. I don\u2019t know if you’ll like my answer: Effroyable Solitude has the initials of Eden Saga<\/em><\/span>. Here is the story I got from it. He<\/em><\/span> looks a bit like you…<\/span><\/p>\n

\nAt the twilight of his life\u2014expression that he once considered ridiculous, like a clich\u00e9 of a calendar \u2014 he yet discovered himself at the exact edge of that twilight, one where the light does not decline suddenly but withdraws with measured steps, leaving behind it increasingly vast zones of shadow. He was going to be eighty. The number seemed obscene to him, almost hostile, like a scar inflicted on time.<\/p>\n

He lived alone for a long time. Not only alone in the narrow apartment with its weathered furniture, but alone in that way memory closed in on itself<\/a>, went round in circles without witnesses. He felt useless. Terrible word, harder than old, more cruel than finished. Useless: no longer required by anyone, no longer expected anywhere.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The ex-branch\u00e9<\/h4>\n

And yet, his life had been anything but useless, if one believed the scattered traces that remained\u2014objects, notebooks, yellowed press clippings, forgotten prototypes in boxes. He had been creative, inventive, chaotic, trendy, as they used to say with a knowing smile.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"Branch\u00e9, vraiment ?<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

He had crossed the decades as one crosses countries at war: with enthusiasm, arrogance, sometimes with contempt. He had ideas before the others, often abandoned them before their maturity. He had dated artists, engineers, dreamers, opportunists. He had loved quickly, left badly, hurt without always realizing it.<\/p>\n

Now, there was only one man left sitting in front of a clear wooden table on a winter evening, while the rain traced paths on the glass that he had not taken.<\/p>\n

That evening, the depression did not come with fanfare. It settled gently, like an inner cold. He had tried to read, without succeeding. The sentences slipped on him. The radio spoke in a low voice, unnecessarily. Then he got up, poured himself a drink that he didn\u2019t want, and stood for a long time in the middle of the room, looking at what he suddenly called his lost territory.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A Poor Cartoonist<\/h4>\n

He thought of all the mean things he had done. The first mean trick<\/a>The twentieth rather?<\/span> dated from his twenty years. He immediately saw again the distress of the guy. One of the many illustrators he received at Bayard Presse. Impossible to remember his face or name. He had taken a brief look at his works, crossed out bad paintings, bad drawings, worse sketches.\u00a0<\/p>\n

He closed the drawing box with a sharp gesture and told him sharply: “Forget the drawing. Agriculture lacks arms.<\/em>” The sentence was harsh, odious, contemptuous. Not only for the poor guy, but also for agriculture. The illustrator had taken up his book and left without a word. They had lost touch. So many cartoonists were passing by to present their drawing box to him, he forgot the incident and the sheepish little man.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"Angoul\u00e8me BD: an award for Lucien\u00a0<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Thanks to You<\/h4>\n

Years later, in Angoul\u00e8me BD, he had lined up in front of the stand of a cartoonist, the star of the year. He wanted a dedication of his new album. He would never have recognized the forgotten bad illustrator, but the cartoonist, for his part, recognized him right away. While drawing his dedication, the guy reminded him of the incident. Shame! He felt like a perfect idiot.<\/p>\n

But the catoonist didn\u2019t hold it against him, on the contrary: “You offended me, yes. But above all, you forced me to question myself. I burned all my crobards and got to work for good. No more dilettantism. And ten years later, here is the result: a prize in Angoul\u00e8me. Thanks to you<\/span><\/em>.”\u00a0<\/p>\n

\nThe Challenge of the Forgotten<\/h4>\n

Thanks to him? The old man he was still couldn\u2019t believe it. Then an idea, absurd and serious, arose. An idea of a penitent more than an old man. He challenged himself, not to prove that he was still alive, but to measure the exact extent of his faults. Find in his memory the people he had despised.<\/p>\n

Not the ones he had simply neglected, nor those he had loved and then forgotten. No. Those he had deemed unworthy of him, insufficient, slow, dull. One per decade. Then write to them to apologize, express his regrets. A real letter, by mail — or only virtual, if fate had scattered them beyond the possible<\/a>.<\/p>\n

We believe we lead destiny, but it is always destiny who leads us.<\/p>