You've already seen some of the letters that Jacques may have written home to his father in Paris. Now you have the opportunity to meet Jacques for himself and below is a little taster from the text.
it begins
I
died beneath a clear autumn sky in September, late in September when warm cévenol
afternoons drift into cooler than usual evenings before winter steals down from
the summit of Mont Aigoual.
My shallow grave lies in a field behind
an old farmhouse. There was no ceremony to mark my death and no mourners, just
a stranger in the darkness spading soil over my body. Only the midnight clouds
cried for me as they carried their first sprinkling of snow to the tiny village
of Messandrierre.
My innocent white coverlet allowing the
earth around me to shift and settle unseen and become comfortable again.
september
2007
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