I admire him, he is the father, the imperious maître, perhaps the last of the Renaissance men. And you loved him, you loved him beyond your life, and for him you wrote the story. He wrote: the most fearsome love letter a man ever received; he knew, and he wanted that letter to be known. You, pliant, at his feet, the loyal woman to your last breath, you obliged, for our pleasure. Am I jealous? How could I be: I was then that small boy, who was learning to read, who was dreaming, not big enough yet to be a soldier. Much later, it would be my turn to read the letter, and, like him, my turn to go to war. I cannot be jealous of a father, I wish only I could remember you through his eyes, for now, it is my turn to love you.
For Dominique Aury
So it is, for me, that you live on, your writing a seductive light of decency and wonderful poetry, for everything I read from you is sheer delight…
And, yes, there is a bit of jealousy in this admiration, in this search through shadows, towards the man you loved and for whom you wrote the ultimate passionate letter, the one that cannot be forgotten.
You wrote of a gift never equalled since, of a sacrifice that only heroines of old were capable.
Is this madness, falling in love with someone who left this world so long ago?