THIS IS the story of a certain spring, a spring which was more real, more dazzling and vivid than the other springs, a spring which simply took its literal text seriously, that inspired manifesto written in the brightest festive red, the red of a wax seal and of the calendar, the red of a coloured pencil and the red of enthusiasm - an amaranth of timely telegrams from far away...
Every spring begins this way, from those enormous and astounding horoscopes, beyond the scale of a single season of the year; and in each one - let it be told at last - there is everything: endless processions and manifestations, revolutions and barricades - and at a certain moment, through each of them, the hot wind of remembrance blows, that boundlessness of sadness and intoxication searching in vain for the adequate in reality.