"It's hard to talk about Nohant without saying something about my present or past life," George Sand wrote. It was by Nohant, by her house, that I met her. To tell the truth, she was not a model of my youth. For "the good lady", I did not have attraction. His novels, La Petite Fadette , etc., which the grandmother of Marcel Proust held in such high esteem, seemed to me to be good for the distribution of prizes. I participated in the depreciation Sand suffered after his death. I found her of an age which had little more to say to the girls of Simone de Beauvoir, of which I claimed myself. My discovery was partly fortuitous. The home of the Indre, inherited from her grandmother, represents her roots, but also a refuge against Paris, which made her fame and she did not like, an "oasis" conducive to work: she wrote there essential of his work, as Chopin composed most of his own. Nohant, she dreamed of it as a phalanstery of artists, an egalitarian community, a place of creation and exchange through music (Liszt, Chopin, Pauline Viardot), painting (Delacroix, Rousseau), writing ( Flaubert, Dumas, Fromentin, Renan, Turgenev ...), theater, conversation. This place, Sand has invested. Art establishes the communion of hearts and minds. It is also a political unit, inspired by the socialism of Pierre Leroux, republican core support of newspapers and ferment subversive ways of living and thinking. Nohant is the crucible of a utopia, penetrated by the desire to change the world. No more than anyone, Sand did not realize her dream. Today, we have this place of stone and paper, witness of a love story with infinite accents.