Citation de OlivierMaldent
The urge to preserve, store and shroud her possessions has manifested itself quietly; she cannot remember when she began collecting the flakes at the bottom of the spice tin, the too-short-to-knit-with lengths of wool and the dried-up medals of soap, yet everywhere she looks rests another knot of plastic or cloth hiding the detritus of her existence. All has been condensed into tight bundles, her fifty-something years of town life - the papers, the gold, the money, the photographs, letters and cassettes - can be packed up, carried away on the back of a camel and blown away or destroyed in a rain storm. Her bungalow with no heir will slump into old age and crumble back into the sand, her life of solidity and bureaucracy and acquisition leaving less of a print than the circles scorched into the desert by long dead nomads.
