Part 1/4
“This land has been in our family for 100 years. I grew up in a somewhat medieval environment. The farm was a 450-year-old building with a fireplace in every room and walls one metre thick. We harvested the same vegetables at the same time of the year, we killed the pig every December. There was the idea that things had always been like that, and always would be. We couldn’t always pay the bills, but we never ran out of food.
The atmosphere at home was paradoxical. On the one hand there was my father, a very loving man, very devoted, but very gruff. The peasants in the region would always yell, that was the way they expressed themselves. And my father was the same, except that at home he didn’t speak. My mother was rather artistic, she dreamt of doing classical dance. So misunderstanding was guaranteed! But everyone worked, and everyone respected each other.
Doing the your job well was important. When people went to church, they would look over our wall to see the vegetable garden. If it was tidy, it was a way of showing that we were serious. The real test was the ploughing. In the village, they used to say: “Your grandfather ploughed this plot in two days with the horses!” And that showed what kind of man he was. Once, my father had gone to plough in the morning, and when he arrived in the evening he didn’t stop. In the morning he had breakfast and got back on his tractor for the day. That was typical. And we children spent a good part of the summer holidays in the fields.
Being an adult meant working. There was a basic logic: You want to eat? You have to work. Work isn’t something to be counted, it’s something to be done. Basta. Work had all its meaning, sleep and fatigue had none. As a child, we would go out to fetch wood with the wicker basket, and I remember feeling a sense of pride in coming back with that basket full, the symbolic offering of our contribution to the effort. At that time, I was already a peasant at heart. I had accepted my roots.”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 2/4
“In 1988 I took over the estate. There was so much work to do. All the administrative part was very difficult for me because I am dyslexic. It was a great source of guilt and shame. But I managed in my own way. I felt a responsibility to protect what was the result of a lifetime of energy.
At that time we were in conventional agriculture. I loved my herbicides, pesticides and fungicides. My role was to battle against nature, which was always taking over; nature was the invader. I would find what was unwanted, I was there to make the soil clean. For me the soil was not alive, it was just like clay.
But I was already beginning to have certain thoughts. I regularly went to CERN to see Rafael Carreras’ lectures, and one day this man made a crazy remark: “The tragedy in Switzerland is the death of agricultural soils and erosion.” This guy is a physicist, why is he talking to me, a farmer, about something about soil that I don’t know? And this question remained wide open in me.
I started making connections and asking very embarrassing questions. Every year when we ploughed, there were lots of stones. We would pick them up, but the next year there would be a lot of stones again. Why was that? When we were kids we never used slug pellets and now we have no crop if we don’t use them. Why is that? I never had an answer.
The salesmen of phytosanitary products took the time to explain to us that by using these products we were good farmers; “We are not here to play, we are here to feed humanity”. And when I asked: why do we have to put so much chemistry in the fields? I was told, “You’re not stupid! If you plant more wheat, you have to bring in more food! And if the wheat is sick, you have to treat it!” But these were the answers of the convinced. I could no longer believe what I was being told, and I felt increasingly uneasy. Until the day when I told myself that I will remain in a lie as long as I don’t leave this world…”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 3/4
“So in 2014 I turned to organic farming. Not because I was a convinced by organic farming, but because I was a traditionalist who wasn’t convinced anymore. I felt like I was part of a big family that understood me: you’re going to have a hard time, but we’re with you. My wife and children were very proud of me too. And I threw myself into organic farming like you would throw yourself off a cliff, having 300 meters to learn how to fly.
Organic farming wasn’t a world of truth, it was a world of ignorance. There was a huge lack of knowledge. Then there were books, videos, studies, and once I had a computer, I ate up so much information! It was overwhelmed by so many beliefs that were being destroyed. It’s very uncomfortable to face the unknown, but my dyslexic side had always pushed me towards what I don’t know.
I had always refused to go into debt for a tractor. The combine is 50 years old, the tractors between 20 and 40. It’s very basic, very well depreciated. And the maintenance is close to zero because I repair everything myself. My fields don’t need to produce for the bank so I could allow myself some failures.
I went to a bit of an extreme side. When I stopped using herbicides I didn’t want to compensate by ploughing, which is what everyone does. When I still used to plough, I would see a swarm of seagulls swooping down behind the plough to eat the earthworms. It was so pretty, but I didn’t realise that I was destroying the soil and the worms that were the expression of life in my soil. So I had stopped a few years ago.
And I added more difficulties. In organic farming, people often keep the same principles of assisting the plant with fertilisers instead of taking care of the soil. I used fresh horse manure which has lots of small undigested seeds. So I sowed my fields with weeds! I missed a quarter of my first crop, then a third, then half. It got worse and worse. And I said to myself: do whatever you want, but don’t damage your soil…”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 4/4
“I realised that they should no longer be called weeds but spontaneous grasses. They are the expression of the fertility of my soil. The more of them there are, the more I say to myself: wow, everyone wants to live here! I was a farmer who liked his herbicides and I became a farmer who liked his spontaneous plants. Then I realised that modern seeds are not aggressive. One day I sowed an old variety of rye. After a while the plot was covered with spontaneous plants. But a month later the rye had taken over. It was so dense, so beautiful! My crop had become my weed killer.
I had the proof that my principles were attached to nothing. I had to allow myself to be surprised, to observe my field. I had forgotten the essential, the life at the level of bacteria and fungi. If I have fungi in my soil, everything else will follow. And it’s so promising. I’m at almost 80% crop success, with similar productivity to conventional farming. And above all, my soil regenerates every year. I don’t recognise it anymore! In some places you can’t see any more stones, the erosion process has been reversed. The soil, which was very clayey, has become porous. And I don’t have any more problems with slugs. If I look after my soil, it will look after my wheat. Basta.
I see my job as the creation of a work of art where all my interventions must be necessary. I will have reached the essential when there is nothing more to remove. I see how complex life is, and I still haven’t understood anything. There is still room to be surprised. Soon I will be retired. My wife, who is younger, will take over the estate and I will support her in her experiments. My achievement will have been to give the next generation a land in better condition, capable of feeding humanity. I am slowly reaching the harvest of my life and I am looking forward to completing my own life cycle. We are so unique to ourselves, but so common to the living. Fortunately we are mortal, as Achilles said, that’s why the Gods envy us (laughs)!”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 1/4
“This land has been in our family for 100 years. I grew up in a somewhat medieval environment. The farm was a 450-year-old building with a fireplace in every room and walls one metre thick. We harvested the same vegetables at the same time of the year, we killed the pig every December. There was the idea that things had always been like that, and always would be. We couldn’t always pay the bills, but we never ran out of food.
The atmosphere at home was paradoxical. On the one hand there was my father, a very loving man, very devoted, but very gruff. The peasants in the region would always yell, that was the way they expressed themselves. And my father was the same, except that at home he didn’t speak. My mother was rather artistic, she dreamt of doing classical dance. So misunderstanding was guaranteed! But everyone worked, and everyone respected each other.
Doing the your job well was important. When people went to church, they would look over our wall to see the vegetable garden. If it was tidy, it was a way of showing that we were serious. The real test was the ploughing. In the village, they used to say: “Your grandfather ploughed this plot in two days with the horses!” And that showed what kind of man he was. Once, my father had gone to plough in the morning, and when he arrived in the evening he didn’t stop. In the morning he had breakfast and got back on his tractor for the day. That was typical. And we children spent a good part of the summer holidays in the fields.
Being an adult meant working. There was a basic logic: You want to eat? You have to work. Work isn’t something to be counted, it’s something to be done. Basta. Work had all its meaning, sleep and fatigue had none. As a child, we would go out to fetch wood with the wicker basket, and I remember feeling a sense of pride in coming back with that basket full, the symbolic offering of our contribution to the effort. At that time, I was already a peasant at heart. I had accepted my roots.”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 2/4
“In 1988 I took over the estate. There was so much work to do. All the administrative part was very difficult for me because I am dyslexic. It was a great source of guilt and shame. But I managed in my own way. I felt a responsibility to protect what was the result of a lifetime of energy.
At that time we were in conventional agriculture. I loved my herbicides, pesticides and fungicides. My role was to battle against nature, which was always taking over; nature was the invader. I would find what was unwanted, I was there to make the soil clean. For me the soil was not alive, it was just like clay.
But I was already beginning to have certain thoughts. I regularly went to CERN to see Rafael Carreras’ lectures, and one day this man made a crazy remark: “The tragedy in Switzerland is the death of agricultural soils and erosion.” This guy is a physicist, why is he talking to me, a farmer, about something about soil that I don’t know? And this question remained wide open in me.
I started making connections and asking very embarrassing questions. Every year when we ploughed, there were lots of stones. We would pick them up, but the next year there would be a lot of stones again. Why was that? When we were kids we never used slug pellets and now we have no crop if we don’t use them. Why is that? I never had an answer.
The salesmen of phytosanitary products took the time to explain to us that by using these products we were good farmers; “We are not here to play, we are here to feed humanity”. And when I asked: why do we have to put so much chemistry in the fields? I was told, “You’re not stupid! If you plant more wheat, you have to bring in more food! And if the wheat is sick, you have to treat it!” But these were the answers of the convinced. I could no longer believe what I was being told, and I felt increasingly uneasy. Until the day when I told myself that I will remain in a lie as long as I don’t leave this world…”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 3/4
“So in 2014 I turned to organic farming. Not because I was a convinced by organic farming, but because I was a traditionalist who wasn’t convinced anymore. I felt like I was part of a big family that understood me: you’re going to have a hard time, but we’re with you. My wife and children were very proud of me too. And I threw myself into organic farming like you would throw yourself off a cliff, having 300 meters to learn how to fly.
Organic farming wasn’t a world of truth, it was a world of ignorance. There was a huge lack of knowledge. Then there were books, videos, studies, and once I had a computer, I ate up so much information! It was overwhelmed by so many beliefs that were being destroyed. It’s very uncomfortable to face the unknown, but my dyslexic side had always pushed me towards what I don’t know.
I had always refused to go into debt for a tractor. The combine is 50 years old, the tractors between 20 and 40. It’s very basic, very well depreciated. And the maintenance is close to zero because I repair everything myself. My fields don’t need to produce for the bank so I could allow myself some failures.
I went to a bit of an extreme side. When I stopped using herbicides I didn’t want to compensate by ploughing, which is what everyone does. When I still used to plough, I would see a swarm of seagulls swooping down behind the plough to eat the earthworms. It was so pretty, but I didn’t realise that I was destroying the soil and the worms that were the expression of life in my soil. So I had stopped a few years ago.
And I added more difficulties. In organic farming, people often keep the same principles of assisting the plant with fertilisers instead of taking care of the soil. I used fresh horse manure which has lots of small undigested seeds. So I sowed my fields with weeds! I missed a quarter of my first crop, then a third, then half. It got worse and worse. And I said to myself: do whatever you want, but don’t damage your soil…”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 4/4
“I realised that they should no longer be called weeds but spontaneous grasses. They are the expression of the fertility of my soil. The more of them there are, the more I say to myself: wow, everyone wants to live here! I was a farmer who liked his herbicides and I became a farmer who liked his spontaneous plants. Then I realised that modern seeds are not aggressive. One day I sowed an old variety of rye. After a while the plot was covered with spontaneous plants. But a month later the rye had taken over. It was so dense, so beautiful! My crop had become my weed killer.
I had the proof that my principles were attached to nothing. I had to allow myself to be surprised, to observe my field. I had forgotten the essential, the life at the level of bacteria and fungi. If I have fungi in my soil, everything else will follow. And it’s so promising. I’m at almost 80% crop success, with similar productivity to conventional farming. And above all, my soil regenerates every year. I don’t recognise it anymore! In some places you can’t see any more stones, the erosion process has been reversed. The soil, which was very clayey, has become porous. And I don’t have any more problems with slugs. If I look after my soil, it will look after my wheat. Basta.
I see my job as the creation of a work of art where all my interventions must be necessary. I will have reached the essential when there is nothing more to remove. I see how complex life is, and I still haven’t understood anything. There is still room to be surprised. Soon I will be retired. My wife, who is younger, will take over the estate and I will support her in her experiments. My achievement will have been to give the next generation a land in better condition, capable of feeding humanity. I am slowly reaching the harvest of my life and I am looking forward to completing my own life cycle. We are so unique to ourselves, but so common to the living. Fortunately we are mortal, as Achilles said, that’s why the Gods envy us (laughs)!”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 1/4
“This land has been in our family for 100 years. I grew up in a somewhat medieval environment. The farm was a 450-year-old building with a fireplace in every room and walls one metre thick. We harvested the same vegetables at the same time of the year, we killed the pig every December. There was the idea that things had always been like that, and always would be. We couldn’t always pay the bills, but we never ran out of food.
The atmosphere at home was paradoxical. On the one hand there was my father, a very loving man, very devoted, but very gruff. The peasants in the region would always yell, that was the way they expressed themselves. And my father was the same, except that at home he didn’t speak. My mother was rather artistic, she dreamt of doing classical dance. So misunderstanding was guaranteed! But everyone worked, and everyone respected each other.
Doing the your job well was important. When people went to church, they would look over our wall to see the vegetable garden. If it was tidy, it was a way of showing that we were serious. The real test was the ploughing. In the village, they used to say: “Your grandfather ploughed this plot in two days with the horses!” And that showed what kind of man he was. Once, my father had gone to plough in the morning, and when he arrived in the evening he didn’t stop. In the morning he had breakfast and got back on his tractor for the day. That was typical. And we children spent a good part of the summer holidays in the fields.
Being an adult meant working. There was a basic logic: You want to eat? You have to work. Work isn’t something to be counted, it’s something to be done. Basta. Work had all its meaning, sleep and fatigue had none. As a child, we would go out to fetch wood with the wicker basket, and I remember feeling a sense of pride in coming back with that basket full, the symbolic offering of our contribution to the effort. At that time, I was already a peasant at heart. I had accepted my roots.”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 2/4
“In 1988 I took over the estate. There was so much work to do. All the administrative part was very difficult for me because I am dyslexic. It was a great source of guilt and shame. But I managed in my own way. I felt a responsibility to protect what was the result of a lifetime of energy.
At that time we were in conventional agriculture. I loved my herbicides, pesticides and fungicides. My role was to battle against nature, which was always taking over; nature was the invader. I would find what was unwanted, I was there to make the soil clean. For me the soil was not alive, it was just like clay.
But I was already beginning to have certain thoughts. I regularly went to CERN to see Rafael Carreras’ lectures, and one day this man made a crazy remark: “The tragedy in Switzerland is the death of agricultural soils and erosion.” This guy is a physicist, why is he talking to me, a farmer, about something about soil that I don’t know? And this question remained wide open in me.
I started making connections and asking very embarrassing questions. Every year when we ploughed, there were lots of stones. We would pick them up, but the next year there would be a lot of stones again. Why was that? When we were kids we never used slug pellets and now we have no crop if we don’t use them. Why is that? I never had an answer.
The salesmen of phytosanitary products took the time to explain to us that by using these products we were good farmers; “We are not here to play, we are here to feed humanity”. And when I asked: why do we have to put so much chemistry in the fields? I was told, “You’re not stupid! If you plant more wheat, you have to bring in more food! And if the wheat is sick, you have to treat it!” But these were the answers of the convinced. I could no longer believe what I was being told, and I felt increasingly uneasy. Until the day when I told myself that I will remain in a lie as long as I don’t leave this world…”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 3/4
“So in 2014 I turned to organic farming. Not because I was a convinced by organic farming, but because I was a traditionalist who wasn’t convinced anymore. I felt like I was part of a big family that understood me: you’re going to have a hard time, but we’re with you. My wife and children were very proud of me too. And I threw myself into organic farming like you would throw yourself off a cliff, having 300 meters to learn how to fly.
Organic farming wasn’t a world of truth, it was a world of ignorance. There was a huge lack of knowledge. Then there were books, videos, studies, and once I had a computer, I ate up so much information! It was overwhelmed by so many beliefs that were being destroyed. It’s very uncomfortable to face the unknown, but my dyslexic side had always pushed me towards what I don’t know.
I had always refused to go into debt for a tractor. The combine is 50 years old, the tractors between 20 and 40. It’s very basic, very well depreciated. And the maintenance is close to zero because I repair everything myself. My fields don’t need to produce for the bank so I could allow myself some failures.
I went to a bit of an extreme side. When I stopped using herbicides I didn’t want to compensate by ploughing, which is what everyone does. When I still used to plough, I would see a swarm of seagulls swooping down behind the plough to eat the earthworms. It was so pretty, but I didn’t realise that I was destroying the soil and the worms that were the expression of life in my soil. So I had stopped a few years ago.
And I added more difficulties. In organic farming, people often keep the same principles of assisting the plant with fertilisers instead of taking care of the soil. I used fresh horse manure which has lots of small undigested seeds. So I sowed my fields with weeds! I missed a quarter of my first crop, then a third, then half. It got worse and worse. And I said to myself: do whatever you want, but don’t damage your soil…”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 4/4
“I realised that they should no longer be called weeds but spontaneous grasses. They are the expression of the fertility of my soil. The more of them there are, the more I say to myself: wow, everyone wants to live here! I was a farmer who liked his herbicides and I became a farmer who liked his spontaneous plants. Then I realised that modern seeds are not aggressive. One day I sowed an old variety of rye. After a while the plot was covered with spontaneous plants. But a month later the rye had taken over. It was so dense, so beautiful! My crop had become my weed killer.
I had the proof that my principles were attached to nothing. I had to allow myself to be surprised, to observe my field. I had forgotten the essential, the life at the level of bacteria and fungi. If I have fungi in my soil, everything else will follow. And it’s so promising. I’m at almost 80% crop success, with similar productivity to conventional farming. And above all, my soil regenerates every year. I don’t recognise it anymore! In some places you can’t see any more stones, the erosion process has been reversed. The soil, which was very clayey, has become porous. And I don’t have any more problems with slugs. If I look after my soil, it will look after my wheat. Basta.
I see my job as the creation of a work of art where all my interventions must be necessary. I will have reached the essential when there is nothing more to remove. I see how complex life is, and I still haven’t understood anything. There is still room to be surprised. Soon I will be retired. My wife, who is younger, will take over the estate and I will support her in her experiments. My achievement will have been to give the next generation a land in better condition, capable of feeding humanity. I am slowly reaching the harvest of my life and I am looking forward to completing my own life cycle. We are so unique to ourselves, but so common to the living. Fortunately we are mortal, as Achilles said, that’s why the Gods envy us (laughs)!”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 1/4
“This land has been in our family for 100 years. I grew up in a somewhat medieval environment. The farm was a 450-year-old building with a fireplace in every room and walls one metre thick. We harvested the same vegetables at the same time of the year, we killed the pig every December. There was the idea that things had always been like that, and always would be. We couldn’t always pay the bills, but we never ran out of food.
The atmosphere at home was paradoxical. On the one hand there was my father, a very loving man, very devoted, but very gruff. The peasants in the region would always yell, that was the way they expressed themselves. And my father was the same, except that at home he didn’t speak. My mother was rather artistic, she dreamt of doing classical dance. So misunderstanding was guaranteed! But everyone worked, and everyone respected each other.
Doing the your job well was important. When people went to church, they would look over our wall to see the vegetable garden. If it was tidy, it was a way of showing that we were serious. The real test was the ploughing. In the village, they used to say: “Your grandfather ploughed this plot in two days with the horses!” And that showed what kind of man he was. Once, my father had gone to plough in the morning, and when he arrived in the evening he didn’t stop. In the morning he had breakfast and got back on his tractor for the day. That was typical. And we children spent a good part of the summer holidays in the fields.
Being an adult meant working. There was a basic logic: You want to eat? You have to work. Work isn’t something to be counted, it’s something to be done. Basta. Work had all its meaning, sleep and fatigue had none. As a child, we would go out to fetch wood with the wicker basket, and I remember feeling a sense of pride in coming back with that basket full, the symbolic offering of our contribution to the effort. At that time, I was already a peasant at heart. I had accepted my roots.”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 2/4
“In 1988 I took over the estate. There was so much work to do. All the administrative part was very difficult for me because I am dyslexic. It was a great source of guilt and shame. But I managed in my own way. I felt a responsibility to protect what was the result of a lifetime of energy.
At that time we were in conventional agriculture. I loved my herbicides, pesticides and fungicides. My role was to battle against nature, which was always taking over; nature was the invader. I would find what was unwanted, I was there to make the soil clean. For me the soil was not alive, it was just like clay.
But I was already beginning to have certain thoughts. I regularly went to CERN to see Rafael Carreras’ lectures, and one day this man made a crazy remark: “The tragedy in Switzerland is the death of agricultural soils and erosion.” This guy is a physicist, why is he talking to me, a farmer, about something about soil that I don’t know? And this question remained wide open in me.
I started making connections and asking very embarrassing questions. Every year when we ploughed, there were lots of stones. We would pick them up, but the next year there would be a lot of stones again. Why was that? When we were kids we never used slug pellets and now we have no crop if we don’t use them. Why is that? I never had an answer.
The salesmen of phytosanitary products took the time to explain to us that by using these products we were good farmers; “We are not here to play, we are here to feed humanity”. And when I asked: why do we have to put so much chemistry in the fields? I was told, “You’re not stupid! If you plant more wheat, you have to bring in more food! And if the wheat is sick, you have to treat it!” But these were the answers of the convinced. I could no longer believe what I was being told, and I felt increasingly uneasy. Until the day when I told myself that I will remain in a lie as long as I don’t leave this world…”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 3/4
“So in 2014 I turned to organic farming. Not because I was a convinced by organic farming, but because I was a traditionalist who wasn’t convinced anymore. I felt like I was part of a big family that understood me: you’re going to have a hard time, but we’re with you. My wife and children were very proud of me too. And I threw myself into organic farming like you would throw yourself off a cliff, having 300 meters to learn how to fly.
Organic farming wasn’t a world of truth, it was a world of ignorance. There was a huge lack of knowledge. Then there were books, videos, studies, and once I had a computer, I ate up so much information! It was overwhelmed by so many beliefs that were being destroyed. It’s very uncomfortable to face the unknown, but my dyslexic side had always pushed me towards what I don’t know.
I had always refused to go into debt for a tractor. The combine is 50 years old, the tractors between 20 and 40. It’s very basic, very well depreciated. And the maintenance is close to zero because I repair everything myself. My fields don’t need to produce for the bank so I could allow myself some failures.
I went to a bit of an extreme side. When I stopped using herbicides I didn’t want to compensate by ploughing, which is what everyone does. When I still used to plough, I would see a swarm of seagulls swooping down behind the plough to eat the earthworms. It was so pretty, but I didn’t realise that I was destroying the soil and the worms that were the expression of life in my soil. So I had stopped a few years ago.
And I added more difficulties. In organic farming, people often keep the same principles of assisting the plant with fertilisers instead of taking care of the soil. I used fresh horse manure which has lots of small undigested seeds. So I sowed my fields with weeds! I missed a quarter of my first crop, then a third, then half. It got worse and worse. And I said to myself: do whatever you want, but don’t damage your soil…”
(Corsinge | translated from French)
Part 4/4
“I realised that they should no longer be called weeds but spontaneous grasses. They are the expression of the fertility of my soil. The more of them there are, the more I say to myself: wow, everyone wants to live here! I was a farmer who liked his herbicides and I became a farmer who liked his spontaneous plants. Then I realised that modern seeds are not aggressive. One day I sowed an old variety of rye. After a while the plot was covered with spontaneous plants. But a month later the rye had taken over. It was so dense, so beautiful! My crop had become my weed killer.
I had the proof that my principles were attached to nothing. I had to allow myself to be surprised, to observe my field. I had forgotten the essential, the life at the level of bacteria and fungi. If I have fungi in my soil, everything else will follow. And it’s so promising. I’m at almost 80% crop success, with similar productivity to conventional farming. And above all, my soil regenerates every year. I don’t recognise it anymore! In some places you can’t see any more stones, the erosion process has been reversed. The soil, which was very clayey, has become porous. And I don’t have any more problems with slugs. If I look after my soil, it will look after my wheat. Basta.
I see my job as the creation of a work of art where all my interventions must be necessary. I will have reached the essential when there is nothing more to remove. I see how complex life is, and I still haven’t understood anything. There is still room to be surprised. Soon I will be retired. My wife, who is younger, will take over the estate and I will support her in her experiments. My achievement will have been to give the next generation a land in better condition, capable of feeding humanity. I am slowly reaching the harvest of my life and I am looking forward to completing my own life cycle. We are so unique to ourselves, but so common to the living. Fortunately we are mortal, as Achilles said, that’s why the Gods envy us (laughs)!”
(Corsinge | translated from French)