Modifié le : 2017/10/22

It was the big night, as they say. The book is already in the mem­o­ry of oth­ers. For a few weeks, I had been asked if I was ner­vous, peo­ple were exclaim­ing in front of this feat of writ­ing, wish­ing me suc­cess in book­shops, inter­views and, why not, the mak­ing of a film of the story.

I was­n’t say­ing no to all this. That evening was my feast day, my pride and, next to it, my humil­i­ty. I know what the cul­tur­al world is like in this lit­tle beau­ti­ful big province, a world that is prob­a­bly no dif­fer­ent from the one that is expe­ri­enced in all the tiny uni­vers­es on the plan­et. Pub­lish­ing nowa­days is the act of the trou­ba­dour walk­ing his life accord­ing to the inns and cities where he stops.

I don’t make fool myself. I drink from my bot­tle and, for the drunk­en­ness, it’ll be extra !

All this being said offi­cial­ly, I was pam­pered, hap­py, moved to be with my friends, to go with my lit­tle speech.

Real post­par­tum feel­ing, before, dur­ing and after that date of Jan­u­ary 26th and, all week long, I was­n’t quite there. So it’s done, assumed, life goes on. And since the longevi­ty of a work is mea­sured by the sup­port of its read­ers, Falaise is no longer real­ly my child ; it is a book in its own right. Inchallah.

I have already received some enthu­si­as­tic reports from friends. I have asked every­one for hon­esty and I believe that I will receive it, at least I hope so. How could I not ? What’s the point of lying polite­ly to oth­ers ? Do you like it ? Say it. Are you con­fused ? Say it again. Do you hate it ? What can I do about it ? I will take note of it and make my own opinion.

What to write now ? I have ideas, I have many dreams. There is this uni­verse dreamed of sev­er­al years ago, a large island wheel, like a clock, a zodi­ac dra­mat­i­cal­ly inclined in the water. I get there naked, frozen as if my con­scious­ness had escaped from my body to final­ly live as if I had dreamed of my death. A beau­ti­ful dream any­way, because I was walk­ing on a silent, cold, white site, the branch­es of the trees translu­cent like ice.

I used to read sci­ence fic­tion, per­haps not the one that feeds cin­e­mas but rather extrap­o­lat­ed philo­soph­i­cal exer­cis­es. I will always be like this, sem­per ipse ero, as my mot­to says. To be con­stant­ly in search of mean­ing, like a blind man tap­ping his cane in front of him, smil­ing and his soul perched at the top of existence.