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Desarthe / Sylvia Townsend Warner Francis

Mr. Chairman,

I have chosen to send Mr. Fortune's Maggot by Sylvia Townsend Warner ,
not because the author is a woman,
not because this woman was a communist,
not because she was homosexual
but because I read somewhere that you identify with Holden Caulfield, a hero of JD Salinger, and I found it preposterous enough to think that our commonalities (I naive enough to believe zero) were more numerous there seemed.

Maybe deep down you think, like me, that education is the only priority, the study of ancient languages must not only be supported but encouraged, that the epistemic drive is our most precious as the values of solidarity and mutual aid are the only ones that really are worth to be transmitted, that social harmony comes from understanding, not punishment, being a land of welcome is proud to strongly defend that consumerism is a poison and the time to live a luxury that should be afforded to all.

may be dreaming.

Mr. Fortune's Maggot is a bildungsroman in reverse, is the story of a Catholic missionary sent to a Pacific island in order to evangelize the Indians and discovers along the way that savagery is not sitting where he thought. Mr. Fortune unlearn what he thought he knew, is the sublime experience of doubt and accesses a new form of transcendence. The book is wonderfully funny and deep, a little treatise of humanism that I am writing this because I think what we lack most cruelly today.

May you take the time to read. It's so good. And talking of the time, let us hope that whoever is lost, that we do not spend at work, which is a treasure in one of our greatest authors went looking for a missing key to all those who think that we are the world only to be effective. Without metaphysics, there is only anxiety. How sad.

Sincerely, Agnes


Desarthe *


colissimo No. 66 915 78 364 3 8V

* last novel appeared, Eat Me, Editions de l'Olivier, 2006.
www.agnesdesarthe.com

Who Invented Checkered Table Cloths

Bégaudeau / Denis Diderot

Dear President,

this mumble I enclose a novel that does you no good.
one hand, you will not read any more than you read this letter - and why I write it then?
I will.
You never read too much, not now that you're going to start. In high school you wisely enquiller classics imposed by your teachers of French, because he had to, because it was your duty, your homework you already requested more than your rights. Accomplished your mission school c'en was finished novels. Once, I heard you say Journey to the End of the Night your favorite book. It should be on the agenda of the bin when you've spent.

other hand I doubt that the books are of any use in exercising the power. See Mitterrand. Great reader, is known. Buff leftist writers like Zola, Chardonne Barres. Everything has it that his seven-double was profitable for our nation, France? Not sure. It may even be the best of his reign has taken to which he did not do the literature. With you, the problem does not arise, especially as you stay, especially do not put yourself in the mix of head towels with towels governance literature.

So do I correct my introductory formula: this mumble I enclose a novel which I hope with all my heart that you used to do nothing. Which I fervently hope it will serve you well rediscover, or just discover that some things down here are useless. You will be amazed, you who have mobilized all the atoms at your fingertips for the ridiculous presidential race, and how do you fill your life post-Elysian? What will you do subsidiary of years refractory to manipulation? You will be helpless before the obvious futility of your body. Hence the need to accustom yourself to ridiculous now. I could send you a Rubik's Cube, it will be a book.

You often hear people you call leftist intellectuals or sores that literature is necessary, in the sense of a need, an emergency as they say, active. You know how you do well not to listen. Literature can serve at most Dining - chips - to buy an apartment - a studio - to bang girls and / or boys, to overcome the lack of girls and / or boys, to dry her tears when ever you like to pay . For the rest: activity purely for free - and also not too expensive.

Jacques, as you may recall, is fatalistic. He believes that whatever happens happens, that all our misfortunes were written up there. There is a need to work. Jacques is as leftist intellectuals when they talk about literature, like you who think the pedophilia is genetic, just like you who basically believe that the fate of each is written on the scrolls of his native strength. Like you who surprisingly do not believe at all what you may have caught the end of your campaign slogan.

Diderot is a materialistic merry. Materialist everything is matter. Happy: the material is endless. Writing these little things are the novels is to Diderot weaving texts which borrows from the labyrinth maze infinitely expandable material, and, in our case, to contradict Jacques de facto by throwing it like a ball in the pinball hellish as possible. When writing is like when we are together: everything is possible. Write the hens have teeth, they can. Write and dental expenses that chickens are not necessarily reimbursed by social security is possible. And that the coup hens avoid chocolate and strawberry Tagada. And they compensate with sugar-free chewing gum. And their cocks are so vulgar they disapprove an air and snuff at a time.
Possibly.
is mapped onto the logic of arbitrariness. The need declined from decrees absurd, ridiculous, unnecessary. It's free, they eat no bread, it did not produce either, it does not multiply, it is useless, it does you no good, nor will not do you anything that stammers and why have I written so ?
Because it amuses me.

Francis Bégaudeau *

colissimo No. 5 8V66915 78,162

* last published novel: The Class , Portraits, 2006

(Price Telerama / France Culture 2006)

Forthcoming: End of story, Portraits, August 2007