I chose to open these personal pages rather than a blog, first to be able to give to read the works of my friends, in digital form, but above all not to be constrained to follow the news closely. But this morning, the bullets explode in my headphones, at the very moment when I read that François, the hero of Houellebecq, hears them in the depths of the Romantic Museum, rue Chaptal. I believe in one of those déjà vu/heard illusions that are familiar to me. And I reflect that the said François, professor at Paris III, passionate about Huysmans, is never but an avatar of Hubert de Phalèse (see attached the Cap'agreg category). But the information becomes more precise. There are 12 dead at the Charlie-Hebdo headquarters. It's not my favorite weekly, but all the cartoonists, the oldest like Wolinski, the youngest like Charb, have formed and signed our vision of the world, among so many others. And Cabu had done me the pleasure of caricaturing me, or rather of stealing my portrait, returning it to me kindly when he granted me the right to place his drawing on these pages. Our meeting was (almost) fortuitous, in a bookstore where Sophie Horay was signing her latest publications. I don't know if it was humor, caricature, derision, but he knew how to see the world, individuals, deep within themselves. Twelve free spirits, shot down for ideas they fought with the pen. Protest. Be indignant. Rebel above all. No reason to surrender the field to obscurantism, nor to give up.