What is it that will be done away with, along with this photograph which yellows, fades, and will someday be thrown out, if not by me...at least when when I die? Not only "life" ( this was alive, this posed in front of the lens), but also, sometimes- how to put it? -love. In front of the only photograph in which I find my mother and father together, this couple who I know loved each other, I realise: it is love-as-treasure which is going to disappear forever; for once I am gone, no one will any longer be able to testify to this: nothing will remain but an indifferent nature. This is a laceration so intense, so intolerable, that alone against his century,Michelet conceived of History as love's protest: to perpetuate not only life but also what he called , in his vocabulary
so outmoded today, the Good,