This column has no intention of staying for the new months, but I also have to say that Jean Claude Carriere has died – and I have the feeling that lately many people are dying, not just from the virus. Well, Carrie, a famous writer, wrote many of Luis Buñuel's most famous films. His death has reminded me of the memory book of Buñuel, Mon dernier soupir, which he read to me when I was young and left me a perfect memory. It can be said that the writer himself wrote: “I’m not a plumber. After long conversations, and true to everything I told him, Jean Claude Carrie helped me write this book.”

An excellent account, an incomparable collection of anecdotes, which shows you the insides of one of the most important filmmakers of the 20th century, and, personally, of the most beloved, without making any effort to hide anything, like the deficient rebel that goes through the whole book. Almost all the things that appear are really interesting, even some practices, such as making a dry-martini with his head: adding a few drops of “Noilly-Prat” on the hard ice and half a teaspoon of coffee; after smoothing, leave the liquid on the margin and reserve only the ice; on this ice add an empty gin, shake it and ready. That is all, unsurpassed – to see who now dares to say that these columns are of no use at all.

Yeah, I didn't remember that nostalgic. “I was lucky enough to spend my childhood in the Middle Ages. If you want a painful time, materially, but spiritually excellent. Something totally different from the present.” There are several of them. And I'm not interested in homesickness at all, even though I've ever felt it, even in relation to the things that I haven't lived. And even if I'm interested, I've read Axular. “In Ioana io, the future is ours, the future is presentable and not the other.” And Agota Kristof: “Yesterday everything was more beautiful,” he says, but then: “There is only one present.”