“There is no country but childhood's” said Roland Barthes in a lovely text simply entitled "The Light of the South Wes"t. This region that he had chosen from them all, Urt on the banks of the Adour, the village sheltering his mother’s house. He would often come here to rediscover his pleasure in writing: “The pleasure of these mornings in U.: the sun, the house, the roses, the silence, the music, the coffee, the work, the a-sexual calm, a break from aggressions.” It is here that he now rests in the same grave, close to the maternal breast.

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