Une vie, un rêve, un peuple, toujours errants

First edition, one of a limited issue for which no deluxe paper copies were produced.

Small stains to the lower left corner of the upper cover and to the top edge.

Presentation copy by Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine : "à M. Maurice Genevoix, écrivain et pêcheur comme moi, ces images d'un Maroc étrange, en hommage fraternel. Khaïr-Eddine."

By offering "these images of a strange Morocco," Khaïr-Eddine recalls their deep bond with the rivers which first cradled their childhood and later nourished their literary creation: the torrents and streams of the Anti-Atlas mountains for Khaïr-Eddine, the Loire for Genevoix. The latter wrote notable fishing novels, Rémi des Rauches (1922) and later La Boîte à pêche (1926). He was undoubtedly delighted in reading this incisive work by "that great vituperator," (Salim Jay) whose fishing scenes nevertheless seem imbued with a gentle dreamlike quality:

"It was a very small town, a seaside resort without tourists, with broad avenues, low houses no more than two storeys high, and fishing-tackle shops where I stopped, breathing in the sea spray and the iodine-laden air from the open sea, to buy a casting rod, a centrepin reel and fresh bait. Everything was handed to me without payment. Money was not accepted in that town. This did not surprise me. A little later, the town vanished. And there I was, rod in hand, standing on a rocky platform, with a creature half dog and half fish at the end of my line; the sea was inexorably covering the rock, lashing me with foaming breakers. Irresistibly, my prey was dragging me towards the seabed, but I did not give up. I fought on determinedly, expecting at every turn of the reel to hear the nylon snap. My obstinacy was such that in the end the rod itself vanished from my hands, just as the town had done. Only the dog-fish remained, half submerged, grinning, jaws open and drooling. The monster was mocking me. It had swallowed line and lure without my noticing. And it spoke, spoke inside my head, sending telepathic commands and trying to torment me mentally. It wanted me to follow it into the depths of the abyss. No, it was neither an ordinary dog nor a fish. The diving suit was all it wore. It had taken my bait because no one ever came fishing there. It knew the region perfectly. The town? What town? There had never been a town here. Nor any men. The fellow who had handed me the fishing rod? A shadow, my friend, nothing more. But was I not being rather naïve? Of course, of course, I knew nothing of this world; I was simply lost. What was it doing there? It was on a mission. It had always been on a mission in this place. It did not think it had ever left. What was the mission? It did not know itself. Perhaps it was waiting for me; yes, that could only be it. And now that I had arrived, all that remained was for me to accompany it. Where to? It had no idea. Our instincts would guide us towards the destination. But that's absurd, it read in my mind; one can neither turn back nor (at least in my case) plunge into the sea. Only this submerged rock remains, and its surface is shrinking more and more. What if I felt myself over to see? Very well. Good heavens! What has happened to me? I was bewildered. My body was that of a dog-fish and I had absolutely no impression of wearing a diving suit. No! I had truly transformed into some sort of ichthyosaur."

"Passionate about fishing, he can speak about the sport for entire nights. He knows marine life inside out, just as he knows whole pages of Rimbaud by heart." (Tahar Ben Jelloun).