"What we call love is exile, with every now and then a postcard from the country." A man, on a bench. Fallen, driven from his home, he does not suffer. Is he mad? Is he an idiot? A woman takes him in. From their meeting, the incredible will occur. In Samuel Beckett's production - Nobel Prize for Literature - narrative texts are not legion, news even less. Written in the first person with a concise stroke, Premier amour (1946), as masterful as it is beautiful, as innovative as it is powerful, condenses the existential doubt and bitter humor that will permeate the entire theatrical work of its author. In a setting that is extremely stripped down, as simply and as intensely as possible, François-Xavier Fernandez-Cavada and Barbara Baker get together to carve their way in this diamond forged with great strokes of absurdity and silence. Fragile and precious, like a first date… Or the last.