Par Sophie Képès le 21 Apr 2014
One
As a child I dreamed of war.
I didn’t dream of going to war to make myself look good, as did Fitzgerald and Faulkner; no, it was war itself that came to me as I slept.
Once more the Germans are invading France from the northeast, occupying the town in which I grew up. They murder my mother before my eyes, and then they kill me.
I dream of the seconds that follow, I am sucked into a whirlwind of darkness that rocks, that accelerates. I wake up with a start.
I don’t tell this to anyone. I have no one to confide in. I bury it with the rest, I try to forget, try to live. I feel I have to live, though I’m not sure why.
In fact, most of the time, I dream of flying. I dream of it by night, by day, constantly. I have wings, I am flying.