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« And yet, every morning, Brigitte was seen gathering dead wood in a larch grove a little way above the village. And so, in shoes much too big for her, she cut a small path through the snow; and, as she made the journey several times a day, it turned out that the path lasted, like a piece of false thread forgotten on a household sheet.
And so it was an easy walk from her home into the woods; but it was under the larches that the complications began, because the dead branches were buried in frozen snow, from which usually only their tips emerged; so she had to dig around them with her hands.
At the beginning we made fun of her:
— What are you up to? Running out of wood?
— Oh no, she said.
— What is it then? we said.
— It’s just in case the sun doesn’t come back »

Si le soleil ne revenait pas, 1937