Even when the ulterior events of life will have been completely deleted, I will remember this Sunday, always, simply because of a tennis ball flung suddenly over the hedge and away from the contestants that intersected a dove in mid-flight; even as they ran, clutching their rackets and crying out, and as the midday light streamed down and blinded them, and the looks of passers by pulled into the comfort of their own boredom seemed carried for an instant to them; even as the path the white-clothed players, and the gray-shrouded form (downy in escape), ran down seemed to promise a sensational event; even to know the possibility that something happened, something that burst in the dove’s heart, when she flew, higher than the spirit and the vigor of Sunday athletes.
Paris.14 juin 1981