For the past few days, I have been living with that Sunday in June. When I wrote about it, I could see it “in focus,” with well-defined shapes and colors; I could even hear the voices. Now it has become gray, incoherent and mute, like a movie shown on crypted television without a decoder. The fact that I have put it into writing does not make it any more significant. It remains what it has always been since 1952—something akin to madness and death, to which I have never ceased to compare the other events in my life in order to assess their degree of painfulness, without finding anything that
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