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I wanted to know how things had happened in this life where I have never stopped moving, often in spite of myself. All these cities where I have lived (Port-au-Prince, Petit-Goâve, Montreal, New York, Miami, Paris, and I dare to imagine Tokyo too), enough to integrate them into myself without reducing myself to just one. I passed, barely surprised, from south to north, from rum to wine, from summer to winter, until I changed into a cherry blossom. I clandestinely crossed class and racial boundaries, or even those that separate one country from another. I accumulated various experiences over the course of sunny or rainy days, but I had not yet evaluated this journey. Last summer, in a hotel in Borneo, I discovered in the form of dazzling reflections, languid haikus, hasty descriptions of a place, a situation or a state of mind, what had happened in my life during the last half-century. A horizontal reader, I chose to live in my bathtub or in my bed without abandoning the hope that a stranger would knock at my door. I note that most people want to know what the writer is hiding while I am content with what he is trying to make me see. To remain in this simplicity close to childhood, I will add that I read a page with my eyes open, to go over it in my head with my eyes closed. The hot water of the bathtub allows me to escape, regretting not having done so at other times, like the time I did not take that little dirt road that had been calling me for so long, even if I did not know where it would have led me. Belatedly realizing that life is a highway, I try in vain to get off it by taking the wrong path at the right time. To finally discover that these little notes, like touches of color, draw a naive self-portrait like those child's drawings that move me so much. This book will have taken me longer than any other

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