(To describe for the very first time, with no criterion other than accuracy, streets along which I used to walk as a child without ever thinking about them, is to expose the social hierarchy they implied. I almost feel I am committing a sacrilege: replacing the sweet landscape of memory—a whirl of impressions, colors and images (the Edelin Villa! the blue wisteria! the blackberry bushes in Champ-de-Courses!)—by a far harsher one that strips it of all magic, but whose truth cannot be questioned, not even by memory: in 1952 I could tell simply by looking at the lofty façades tucked away behind
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