English texts
edito Traduction: David Nichols
I remember those moist summers, I remember how excited we were about the coming bonfires on Saint John’s Eve. I still look forward to them today. I remember those pyramid pyres, some of them up to ten meters high, logs stacking up throughout the day, ready to be lit in the evening, flames licking up their sides throughout the night. Though their meaning was somewhat different for our elders, to us they were a token of summer, of celebration. Feux de joie. Spicy sausages would start to cook on a makeshift grill then be slapped into a baguette with ketchup and nose-tickling mustard. There would also be an improvised bar serving coke and beer. Beer that was cold and bland, but no one cared. Because everyone had been waiting for this summer solstice, the smells of night and fire, the wood’s loud crackling and popping as we lay in the grass, around the bonfire, our bodies keeping warm until the morning, until the first light of the dying embers. 112