With a French accent a man asked me where Oscar Wilde is buried. As that happened to be the last place I wanted to visit in the Pere Lachaise Cemetery, we started walking together along the narrow paths. In fact, the tomb of Wilde would be hard to miss: the stele was plain, but the red lip prints on its glass cover dominated the entire grey space. Apparently for us admirers of a genius who championed love and beauty all his life, nothing was more fitting than a kiss that recognized love, with bright traces that nodded to beauty. Speaking through the lip prints, Wilde invited me to look at the stars waiting to shine behind the gloomy sky, and I used to take comfort in his words where death, turned into a line in a poem on eternity, triumphed
