« A tomb is nothing but an empty chest. The one I love is contained entirely in my memory, in a still-scented handkerchief that I unfold, in an intonation that I suddenly remember and that I listen to for a long moment, my head bowed… He is in a short tender note whose writing will fade, in a worn book that his eyes flattered, and his form is seated forever, for me, – but for me alone – on this bench from where he watched, pensive, the Montagne aux Cailles turn blue in the twilight. » (Colette)