The American writer returns with a magnificent, gripping novel, full of humanity and humor. Real Ford, yes!
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Journalist at the Culture department
By Jean-Claude VantroyenPublished on 10/10/2024 at 6:53 p.m.
Reading time: 2 min
Special correspondent in Paris
Lelegance and irony. These are two adjectives that go well with the American writer Richard Ford. At 80 years old, the man remains of rare elegance. Tall, slim, green sweater over jeans and sneakers. Amused sky blue eyes, a smile on his lips. He has just told a joke to the boss of Éditions de l’Olivier, Olivier Cohen, and they both burst out laughing. The man is affable, considerate. Ready for maintenance. A pro. But a pro who loves this exercise. He didn’t feel in great shape that Thursday at the end of September. The guest of the Festival America did not appreciate the rain in Paris. But there’s no question of missing an interview. “I like that,” he says, “the confrontation with someone who has read me carefully.” Elegant, they said.
I try to be a good writer, so I try to do the language of the book in the best way possible
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