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'WHEN I got up on Sunday morning, I thought I had awoken in the rue du Faubourg - Montmartre. It was raining, the sky was grey, the mill depressing. The thought of spending this cold, wet day by myself scared me, and suddenly I found myself wanting to go and find again the warmth I've always found in the company of Frédéric Mistral, the great poet who lives three leagues from my pines, in the little village of Maillane. No sooner thought than done: a staff of myrtle wood, my Montaigne, a blanket, and I was off!', page 150
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