My roads
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The process is simple : passengers of an unexpected moving vehicle, we travel on the most beautiful roads in the world, while a voice speaks to us. From cities to shores, from autopista to autopista, from brush to tops, the eyes sucked by the same escape point, the voice tell us its memory, its secrets, its childhood dreams, its fulgurations ; composing a poem unique in its kind.
If each words chosen by the author pierces us – just as quickness pierce the landscape -, it is because Bernard Faucon is not a driver like others. He understood that growing old was “not useless”, when it made it possible to “unlearn lessons”. His intimate pitch knows crossing paths, unintended ramifications : from the last indulgence of dreams to the hypothetical intersection of road and time, it is certainly an older memory than ours that takes the floor…
(Excerpt from Arthur Dreyfus’ text)