« Girls are born in roses. The boys in the cabbages. Augustine and raspberries, in brambles. Augustine read in a book that these fruits did not come from a seed, but from a sucker, a rejection that originates on a root. He, too, has deep roots. So deep that he sometimes has trouble knowing where he comes from. Beneath the brambles, a kingdom may be hiding. A kingdom where the offspring would no longer suck, but dragons. A kingdom where the world would be inverted, where the roots would play with the stars and where one would sleep on the clouds. »

« What is the meaning of life? I'm sure the cans of tomato sauce don't care. Probably focused on thinking about something else. »

« Augustine loves Wednesdays, they are wise as pictures. Away from the kids running in the parks, away from the basketballs bouncing off the concrete. Away from the nannies shouting "stop eating sand!" Away from the airy centers that aren't really. Far from others who do not understand this twelve-year-old, in love with loneliness. Augustine knows it, he's weird. Strange as a silk that scratches, a perfume that stings, a fruit without flavor. Augustine is different. He doesn't like to woo the world, he doesn't bend when the Kings show up. He doesn't laugh at all the buffoon's jokes and can guillotin you with simple words. Often he tells you stories of dragons you don't believe in. Often he dreams of throwing you at the stake because dragons really exist. Augustine is this child that we love in the neighborhood, but who is never invited to taste. Augustine is invisible, but the eyes judge him, ordain him and forge him. Augustine is this soldier stationed at the front, unarmed, without companions. The enemy wounds him and when he shouts, he is asked to shut up. He fights a battle without howling, without pain, without bombs, without trembling earth. A silent but deafening struggle. This kind of war that is not talked about in the history books. An inner struggle, which, for others, is only rumor. »