Because I often had to glue one piece onto another, the papers that Françoise called my manuscribbles kept getting torn. But Françoise would always be able to help me mend them, just as she put patches on the worn-out parts of her dresses or, while she was waiting for the glazier, as I was for the printer, she would stick a piece of newspaper over a broken pane in the kitchen window. Françoise would say to me, pointing to my note-books, eaten away like wood that insects have got into: “It’s all moth-eaten, look, that’s a pity, there’s a page here that looks like lace,” and examining it closely
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