When I was thirteen I was handed a book by a friend. The cover art was off-putting” – a red ocean, a mountain in the background with a human heart at its center, the head of a statue in the foreground. I hesitated to accept it, but this friend, who wasn’t much of a reader, stared at me for a moment and said, « You’ve got to ». Now, thirty years later, I remember that book more vividly than anything else I have ever read.
Michel Bernanos was the fourth of six children born to Georges Bernanos, the famous French Catholic writer of rural damnation. He was the only one to become a writer, though in the vein of the fantastic and often under pen names, so as not to partake unfairly of his fathers fame.