Two hundred and eighty copies sold. I write it in full, it seems more important that way. In one year, one could say despite the good reviews, I only sold this small pile of Falaise. What more can I say? Should I consider the small size of the market in all its dimensions? Indifference? That success or talent is not measured by sales? That the act itself is successful? That I’m already lucky to have my name in some literary production databases?
All right, and I’ll gladly concede that. Let me be superficial here: I wish I had sold more for the money. For the rest, I have in my head all the versions and variations of these reflections on art that have been written and repeated for ages. It is necessary to be zen since, like the old fervors, in a few years only weakened bones and rocks good for splitting the horizon will remain.
It is better to remain silent, not forever, but to better play the cards of one’s creativity, of one’s life.