« so you’re a philosopher ? » « yes » he answered simply « how did you guess? » « well » I respond «there are many books on this table » The table was rather small, short-legged, made out of massive wood. This small table was covered with books, but only written by unknown auteur: Paristote, Alto, Murx, Hagal , Luc boat ( he immediately told me his disaccords with him), Julien Perret, etc… The room was clearly small, small and packed; books everywhere, piles of books laying on the floor , two armchairs, a small desk , shelfs everywhere, this small table, a window, with a landscape, blue sky and oranges trees blowing up like fireworks , and at least the philosopher; an old man, small eyes, thin eyebrows, long beard with a mustache as long as the beard , he was wearing a tweed jacket, a green nice one, Scottish style and he was smoking from a pipe, blue smoke around him , he was smiling and open to any discussion. « you need to unlearn » he said with a smile. « wait a minute… » I re