Christian Gallopin
But who is Germain Pouillon? A child abandoned in the depths of a Thénard farm? A young man caught in the absurdities of the Algerian War? A being perpetually condemned to flee? A non-violent man facing the murderous temperament of the world? The springs of the clock have been patiently winding themselves since long before his birth. And, once the gears are engaged, whether one is in Athens under Pericles or in Saint-Germain-des-Prés under De Gaulle, nothing can bend destiny. So, who is Germain Pouillon? A man like any other or a mask escaped from a Greek tragedy? “Rivers and ponds hide terrible secrets beneath their waters. Pieces of dead children. Wasted loves. Wavy hair, cut by the strength of the victors. Black bodies trampled, carried by the surf or the burning breath of mine dust. Venomous snakes and their forked tongues.” God here, Devil there. A plow horse and horseshoes. The eyes of a young gazelle caught in the gold of a lantern. Two knowing smiles. A few bursts of laughter. An adventure book with its red cover. The foam of a Paulaner beer enjoyed on a terrace. Hungry mouths gathered in a basket. An acacia stalk bumping against the edge of a dish. Three disgruntled cockroaches rolling on the red clay. A headless goldfinch. Seven marbles in a small box…






