Public Enemies (26 page)

The first thing they say to me, and the most important, is to keep on writing. They usually put it as simply, as brutally as that. The phrase they most often use is “Keep on writing.”

But why, first of all, do they say this to me? I don’t think my writings bear the mark of any particular suffering. When asked if writing is painful or pleasurable for me, I’ve never known how to answer; the truth, I think, is that it is something else and can take either of those forms. An extreme nervous
agitation, an exaltation that can be rapidly exhausting. In a long article that appeared in that curious publication
La Revue des deux mondes
^*
(a magazine, it is strange to think, that has existed at least since 1830, which saw and supported the rise of the Romantic movement in France!), a writer named Marin de Viry made an interesting analogy between writing and cycling. People tend to praise the mountainous stages, he said, where each new sentence, like each turn of the pedals, seems to display superhuman effort; but the stages of flat open country where nothing seems to be happening but where, at any moment, things can change dramatically have their own charm; the long stages along flat stretches, or stretches that only seem to be flat. The writer, I think, was comparing me to a flat stretch; it was kind of him, but not, I think, entirely true. What my novels make me think of above all are the
downhill stages
(people know little about them, in general; there are no spectators on the downhill stages, the exercise is too abstract, even the motorcycle cameras seem to hesitate, for fear of going off the road). I feel that I am writing a novel when I have put in place certain forces that should naturally lead the text to self-destruct; to an explosion of flesh and spirit, to total chaos (but they must be natural forces which give the impression of being inexorable, which seem as dumb as gravity or destiny). My job, at this point, involves keeping it on the road, allowing it from time to time to skirt the void without allowing it to fall in. It can be exhausting, if you like, though not in the usual sense; mostly, it’s dangerous.

My readers, in any case, are not supposed to realize this. I brake gently from time to time, I adjust the handlebars, but these are microadjustments, in principle imperceptible to
those watching; the result should give the impression of a perfect, geometric trajectory inscribed since time immemorial.

My readers probably guess this and were they to pore over the text they would quickly realize everything. But I think most of them simply read and enjoy the pleasure, both intellectual and sensual, of a successful downhill run (on a bicycle or on skis, the principle is the same; Formula One is a little less interesting, there is the overtaking, the accelerating, there are artifacts). And if they tell me, in a tone that is almost commanding, to keep on writing, if every time they suspect that I am
the kind to give up
, it is for other reasons.

I expect it is because they have
seen
me, on television or at some public event; or that they’ve read one of my interviews. And each time, they realized that I bore easily, sometimes to the point where I seem to be struggling not to nod off; that I was not, in any case, terribly brilliant or terribly talkative; that, all in all, I played the role of author very badly.

I am about as ill adapted as it is possible to be for a public role. I spent my school days trying to avoid calling attention to myself and my professional life in much the same frame of mind. As a child I dreamed of subjugating humanity, of captivating or of vanquishing it, and leaving my mark on it; but I also dreamed of staying in the shadows, of hiding behind my creations.

I think it can be said that that’s been a complete washout.

Philippe Sollers has managed to be a constant presence in the media for more than forty years and people have learned nothing, or almost nothing, about his private life. That’s what you call success; of course he began his career in an era
infinitely less brutal than ours, and people maintain certain habits; even so it is a stunning achievement.

You, and I apologize for saying this, have been rather less successful; but it’s true that you started later and on territory that, from the first, was much more dangerous.

As for me, well, I don’t need to draw you a picture.

During certain encounters with certain readers, I have sometimes been weak enough to complain, to deplore the hostility, even the hatred that greets every book I publish. Their response has always been the same (and I mean in absolutely 100 percent of cases; I cannot remember a single exception). It amounted to saying, “I don’t understand … you should be
above all that.
”

I could tell they were a little disappointed. To be honest, I was a little disappointed in myself. Because it’s true, I remember a time, though it’s a long time ago now … it must have been around 1990. I had already published a number of poems and articles in
La Nouvelle revue de Paris
, but my book about Lovecraft hadn’t yet appeared in the collection
Les Infréquentables
. I must have been unemployed, because I had the time to go to the weekly meetings of the magazine. Michel Bulteau had just published his own book (about Frederick Rolfe, Baron Corvo) in the same series. That day, there had been an article in
L’Express
by Angelo Rinaldi,
^*
seriously panning the book.

It may be useful, in order to appreciate the anecdote, to know something about our future positions. Well, Angelo Rinaldi has invariably given my novels mixed reviews, in
which the negative has eventually won out; he has never, however, lowered himself to personal hostility, never reached the level of vulgarity of an Assouline or a Naulleau. At the end of the day, Angelo Rinaldi does not like my books, which, obviously, is his right.

There were quite a lot of people at the meeting that afternoon (the press officer, the publishing director, a number of the writers for the magazine), and they all commented on the review, dissected it, discussed the possibility of a
counterattack
. I was astonished. At the time, I didn’t know who Angelo Rinaldi was (for younger readers, I should point out that he was an influential French literary critic in the 1980s and 1990s). I couldn’t think who would read
L’Express
(I still can’t). After a while, I sensed that I was starting to rile people, dumbly repeating in various forms, “But it doesn’t matter, it’s just an article in a
maga-ziiiiiiiine …
”

Michel Bulteau glanced at me irritably; he must have been thinking that
I would understand in time
.

In short, we
decline
, that’s what I mean to say; we start off placing the book on a pedestal, on a very high pedestal, and everything else (newspapers, magazines) doesn’t exist, has no importance whatever, they are simply a teeming mass of parasites who disturb the unique and perfect relationship between an author and each and every one of his readers.

And then eventually you come to realize the reality. What got me, my personal Achilles’ heel, was money. For me, everything was played out in the few days surrounding the publication of
The Elementary Particles
. In those few days I realized that I had a chance, a small chance, of escaping from the world of work. It was wonderful, it was unhoped for. So, yes, I moved heaven and earth to widen the crack through which the light was streaming. I did all the media, absolutely all of them. Because it has to be understood that
while I had perfectly nice work colleagues (especially at the Assemblée Nationale), office work was a complete waste of time for me; from the first it was only ever a job that paid the rent.

And, at the time, I thought that book sales had some connection with the media coverage they got. Actually, everyone around me seemed to believe it too. For PR people, that’s normal, it’s their job. For a publisher, it’s a little more curious; you expect him to be a businessman, you assume he looks at the bottom line from time to time, that he should have worked it out by now. But publishers, like producers, are probably not really businessmen; they too are hoping for a certain
cultural recognition
, which, curiously, they associate with the media rather than, say, with university work.

Deep down, I was never really interested in celebrity. If, for example, I had had a small private income, I would certainly have written books (I might well have written more), but I would never have set foot in a television studio.

Be that as it may, after the sensational success of
The Elementary Particles
, I was caught up in the system; and I had also become the
man to bring down
. At first, in the hands of old codgers like Angelo Rinaldi and Michel Polac,
^*
things were relatively calm, they remained within the bounds of the
literary polemic
; but I would quickly experience much worse. I would quickly realize that in interviews, just like on an American cop show, everything I said “could be taken down and used against me.” And even things I didn’t say. Demonpion, a specialist on the subject of me, quickly defined how my statements should be treated. Either I express a reprehensible opinion, in which case it’s very simple, I’m a bastard;
or I don’t express the required reprehensible opinion, in which case I’m a bastard and a hypocrite.

An example taken from an interview with this creep:

“Do you think he’s an Islamophobe?”

“Yes, yes, absolutely, I can prove it, his own statements prove it.”

“Do you think he’s racist?”

“Here, you have to be careful,
because he’s usually very cautious.
”

(I can’t guarantee I’m quoting word for word, but I have scrupulously respected the spirit, it can easily be checked.)
^*

(It’s important to point out that this did not happen under some fascist dictatorship, or during the period of the Moscow trials, but in France three years ago.)

You are completely right, I shouldn’t lump these things together. On the one hand, the scum I’ve just mentioned are no better than those who officiated during the Nazi dictatorship; in human terms there is no progress, there’s no point deluding yourself, only the historical circumstances are different. But in present-day France, I am not running the risk of extermination or torture or even being imprisoned (although, if memory serves, one of the Muslim organizations that sued me called for a sentence of one year in prison; though in that case it was generally considered that the summing-up was ridiculous and had no chance of succeeding). In fact, I risk rather less in an interview than I risked during the multiple
oral exams and the
concours
that punctuated my career as a student (in which there were
bastard examiners
and
trick questions
). I am risking no more than I did during the annual career assessments that were rituals of my professional life.

So there is nothing to be really afraid of; there is something to be
a little afraid of
; and to be honest I don’t share your absolutely negative attitude toward fear. Psychologists, in general, consider that a moderate level of fear, producing a reasonable level of stress, improves a candidate’s intellectual performance, at least where it is not a case of being truly creative, but of giving someone else the minimal social satisfaction, the feeling of being worked up one expects at an exam or an interview.

I took the whole “unauthorized biography” thing a lot more badly. Because, after all,
what gave him the right
? And why should I even have to complain about something so obviously immoral? Why is it that such a work is not banned by its very nature? Where are Demonpion’s search warrants, his police powers? What gives him the right to violate the confidentiality of private letters? There is clearly something in the very functioning of our societies that I can’t bring myself to accept.

How did I proceed in this case? Pretty stupidly, I think. I did not, as you suggest,
act in advance
, and it’s true that I regret not having, like you, attempted a little
physical intimidation
of the author. It would probably have worked and, given the evident shortcomings of the legal system, would have been absolutely legitimate. And, contrary to what he claimed, I did not even try to put “a spoke in his wheel.” To anyone who phoned me and asked if I wanted them to cooperate, I said of course not, but that’s about all.

Some people cooperated without asking my opinion, some of them long-standing friends; I felt, I admit, very sad about that, but I didn’t think twice about deleting them from my address book.

It was much easier for me to deal with the media that had published information, without my consent, whether true or false, which I believed concerned my private life. This simple operation sorted out a lot of things and the results are slightly farcical. To my mind, the only French dailies I can deal with now are
l’Humanité
and
La Croix
.
^*
Among the weeklies, we have
Elle, Les Inrockuptibles, VSD
, and
Paris Match
. Things look much more positive with the monthlies. I’ve never had any issues with
Le Chasseur Français
or
Chiens 2000 …
Okay, I’m joking, but most women’s magazines, like I said before, and most upmarket men’s magazines have demonstrated exemplary propriety.

To be honest, from the very beginning of my career, I’ve been struck by the fact that the most interesting interviewers did not necessarily come from what one might think of as the most respectable magazines. Clearly, in our strange society, it’s not only the reputations of people that are often inaccurate … One sometimes feels Orwellian in the face of the accumulation of diametrical, performative lies, what one might precisely call
antitruths
. I find it interesting though not fascinating; Philippe Muray died too soon.

At the time, all this was painful, but I had certain resources; not least my
hatred
for the journalist Demonpion. As with fear, I don’t share your entirely negative view of hatred. It is a
feeling I have rarely felt; but I remember that I found something refreshing, something bracing, about it.