Literature in the intestine In 1949, Gracq journal publishes his pamphlet Literature in the stomach. What annoyed Gracq in literary circles, as one of the criticisms of some writers is the noise : no one, mainly generated by the work itself, but the message accompanying its release. Background noise, noise corridors, rumors, it seems that p éremptoires at very short expiration date. Unquenchable need for novelty. course, nothing has changed since.
Each book read is immediately appreciated, not for himself (who still read books "
for themselves," if children and adolescents?) But the rest, the vast remainder. As we judge the quality of Beaujolais Nouveau
, by finding "
a taste of something else .
For the author who publishes, he knows that to be appreciated, he will be compared, similar - though not certain the comparison is in his favor. What is not comparable, which has no equal, is most often dismissed: bitter potion that recalls nothing known.
In this game of comparison, of reminiscence, the author is often lost. His identity is being diluted in the likeness
. What he strives to make unique
certainly resembles something or someone, who was born earlier, would have written before, and better. Too late, your quick does it mean, the place is taken.
I've probably been lucky: my books have too often suffered from being compared. But when it happened, that their always hurt. When
Point Side appeared, for example, I learned with horror that I had seized (sic) of hackneyed themes, treated much earlier and much better by Theo Van
Lishoud in
Brothers. I who had never read, I was heartbroken as a crime in a dream. Not
sought me
seize of anything, I just wanted to tell a story without worrying at all whether it was original (I'm assuming that it
n ' there is no original story , while having been told since ancient times). Now that
How (well) missed his vacation was published, I read on a blog (probably played by a woman, as 99% of reading blogs) I would have done under the
Martin Page, and that in humor, I can not hold a candle to the one I have no doubt tried to copy, namely
Stéphane Daniel in the series of adventures
Gaspar Corbin.
Again, I plead not guilty, never having read it, not even knowing it exists!
But, you say, the comparison may be flattering. Certainly. Except for a proud (whose motto might be that the great Jean-Jacques my master: "If I
not better, at least I am different "), they are rarely happy.
But the worst is not here.
The worst is being accused of both quasi-plagiarism, and failure. Leaves to imitate, as well do it well, is not it? Now I, I miss me. Not only am I a copious, and besides, I meat! Shame, what. For example, to
How (well) missed his vacation , well, it's less fun
. Ah. The jokes do not fly every time, it seems. Flute then! It even seems that there is too much emotion, too much pathos
. Ha, that's it.
of melodrama, even?
Really? But that lady, well then, I must tell you: it's my thing to me, the melodrama! Pathos. I fiber pathetic. When I write, the two key accessory on my desk are a pair of speakers and a packet of tissues.
I make
literature on instinct, without reading buddies.
Like all writers I do it by feel and I have not taken a course contrary to what some readers think I does not recipes.
I do not cheat. If I wallow is alone, not because I copied. In my life I have never cheated, even in school yet, in some subjects I had many reasons to do it!
I make
literature bowel , writing rot-gut, trying to produce and maintain areas of discomfort, discomfort, doubts.
But as said Gracq, it is now very difficult for the author to make its voice heard amidst the noise is believed he tried to foster.
