Juste la fin du monde

It was like a small miracle to reread this text that I had known, badly known, in my twenties. And to discover that, perhaps, these words had been with me for years without my knowing it. It's as if I'd had to invent all my previous shows to gain access to Lagarce's writing and our similarities.

It's about love. It's all about love.

Hindered love, sweating love, love that's said badly, love that's too full, love that rubs, hurts, shoots, secret love, love at half-mast, love in suspense.

And time.

Time that passes, time that leaves imprints, time that we inherit, time that engulfs us, time that creates hollows, absences, heroes, memories, longings for elsewhere.

It's like a simple evidence: love and time, they're linked. They go together. For better or for worse.

And if there's one thing I'm obsessed with, show after show, it's love and time.