They will pine for Paris, for spring on the banks of the Seine, for their tree all in flower, for the Champs-ElysĂŠes, for Place des Vosges. Their eyes will water as they reminisce over their dearly-cherished freedom, their lazy mornings, their candle-lit dinners. And friends will send them their holiday plans: a big house in Touraine, good food, outings in the country: "What if... we went back?" one of them will say. "It could all be just like it used to be," the other will answer. They will pack. They will sort the books, the prints, the snapshots of their friends, they will throw away huge quantities of paperwork, give away their furniture, their poorly planed planks, their twelve-hole bricks, and ship their trunks. They will count the days, the hours, the minutes.
Things a story of the sixties; a man asle georges perec
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