January 2025

Two years ago, she left forever.

For forty-two years, we were the best friends in the world. We used to walk across Marseille to Exopotamie, a shop that no longer exists, to buy trinkets we didn't need. Over time, this succession of shops had become a stroll of pure pleasure and exchange — to enjoy each other's company and see pretty things. We had no money, so the pleasure was only for the eyes.

When she left, I lost more than a friend. I lost my memory — the recollections of the teenager I was and of the man I was becoming. Everything left with her. All that emptiness before me. I was lost. I didn't know how to cope with all that grief. I did what I have always done: I took all the negativity I felt and turned it into something positive, as far as possible. I looked for a way to pay tribute to her. Flowers wilt and tears serve no purpose. I wanted neither to draw nor to model with clay. So I wrote. I wrote a tale in which death was not the eternal winner.

I created Penelope — a fifty-year-old woman, combative and independent, in the London of 1953. A heroine who resembles her. Unyielding. Feminine and strong. Marie-Laure and Penelope are two different people, and yet, in many respects, the two of them are alike.