Laurent Dupont woke at seven in the morning the way he woke every morning: with the full, precise awareness that he was exactly where he had been the day before and would be the day after, and that this continuity was not comfort but sentence.
His apartment was on Montmartre, on a rue that had a name he could never remember because he never had a reason to say it aloud. The window faced the white dome of the Sacre-Coeur, which rose above the rooftops like a question that had been asked so many times that no one remembered what it was asking. He was fifty-one. He had been a professor at the Ecole normale superieure until 2019, when he...
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