I could say that I am a European, and therefore everything that is European is not strange to me. That is where I would love to sign a sentence. But to what extent is that weighty judgment true? If I didn't have spots, I don't care about Paris, Rome, Berlin, Katowice, Timisoara, Tallinn, almost a neighborhood of the same city, hometown. The same celestial melody, for these hardened ears, galego, ladino, wales. Closer, at home, I would feel the Ukrainian fleeing blues blonde, as they say happens to the Poles, Slovaks, Romanians, who take escapes from the Russians, I know, than to the Syrian or Afghan refugees. But, well, I think that's not the case. Is there any rage in my eurocity? Is it a good European, all right, a way of being a pedigree?

He accompanies Paul Valéry. Born in the city of Sète, filmed by Agnès Varda as Georges Brassens, he remained faithful to the spatial environment that he saw born until the end. In fact, Valéry, Marseille, Nice, Genoa, was a southern poet, its anchorages, its comfort cities, its views to look at the world. Valéry dreamed of Europe, so he had little roasted sardine. He drank pink wine or Porto wine that beer or bourbon. He had palm, not oak in his coat of arms. Instead of the Atlantic, the Mediterranean impregnated “more than one sea, one nature”. And as a lingua franca, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, French prevailed over the globish which has colonized the continent. In fact, the Valéry yes to the south, as in the case of Albert Camus, includes the refusal to the north, to the east.

Valéry, few jokes. More intimidating. I'm interested in your look at the world today. As defined by Régis Debray, Valéry was a 19th-century poet, 20th-century thinker, a 21st-century chronicler, who died in 1945.