The Grasset house splits a half-page of advertising in The World to praise, among his latest books, those which have been distinguished by a literary prize. With, for each of them, a backfiring qualifier taken from a review published in the press. Either : “Striking”, “Shattering”, “Inflamed”, “Brilliant”, “Magnificent”, “Magisterial”, “Dizzying”, “Exciting”.
The reader, in truth, is very confused. Does he want to read a book that is rather gripping, or moving, even fiery, or why not brilliant, or downright magnificent, or why bother, dizzying, or, for that matter, exciting? The reader hesitates. He wonders if he does not rather want to read a book which would be both gripping and moving, but also brilliant in the fiery genre, or which, while obviously exciting, which is the least of things, would be dizzyingly dizzying.
Because a magnificent book, okay. But what tells us that he shines with his fiery side? And if it's not gripping, frankly, what's the point? As for the authors, I imagine them to be dreamers. They would have liked to have written a moving book, but, no luck, it was someone else who wrote it. They just wrote a brilliant book. Not even beautiful. The shame. I remember a friend who, in a restaurant, always asked “a good Bordeaux”. Dear bookseller, just give me a good book.
