I still love this , he said to no one. Despite everything. No — because of everything.
In his pocket was a letter from his friend Michel, dead now five years, who had written: “You left Tipasa, but Tipasa never left you. Go back before you forget how to be happy.” albert camus return to tipasa pdf
He stepped over broken columns as if stepping over his own youth. The yellow irises still grew between the stones. The Mediterranean still broke against the harbor in that particular way — not violently, but with a slow, heavy breath, like a sleeper turning. I still love this , he said to no one