ABSTRACT
The first time I saw Jacques Derrick (it must have been in 1962) he was walking fast and sure along a mountain’s crest, from left to right, I was at Arcachon, I was reading (it must have been Force et signification), from where I was I could see him clearly advancing black on the clear sky, feet on a tightrope, the crest was terribly sharp, he was walking along the peak, from far away I saw it, his hike along the line between mountain and sky which were melting into each other, he had to travel a path no wider than a pencil stroke.
