I didn't find this memoir of these two eccentric people so different from doing my memoirs of De Sade or Simone Weil. My parents in their own way are as odd as Sade.

Lovers, children, heroes, none of them do we fantasize as extravagantly as we fantasize our parents.

Why are there no great women artists?' sounds as ignorant of human geography as the query 'Why are there no Eskimo tennis teams?

I shall never cease to marvel at the way we beg for love and tyranny.

Only friends will tell you the truths you need to hear to make your life bearable.

The vast Pacific ocean would always remain the islanders' great solace, escape and nourishment, the amniotic fluid that would keep them hedonistic and aloof, guarded, gentle and mysterious.

Mine [parents] started out more from scratch, because I'm constantly aware of what they suffered in the war.