PORTRAIT – In life, which he almost lost recently, as in his last book A man alonethe novelist, more modest than he appears, oscillates between burlesque and tragedy, comedy and drama. Eternal little boy in search of a father.
A grapefruit avocado rosette? A beef fillet with mustard sauce? « It’s the specialty, it’s very good, with fries. Although, I shouldn’t. » Wild turbot dumplings? A roast pheasant supreme? « No, it’s too much. It is Alexandre Dumas it’s Porthos ! »
It’s been ten minutes that we’ve been talking about the menu of Voltaire, the restaurant that Frédéric Beigbeder chose for lunch – and discussing the publication of his latest book, A man alone (Grasset) – when suddenly he says: « Okay, I have to get a shot. » And to unpack again, on the white-covered table, the small insulin syringe that he will stick in his stomach. Before launching, hilarious: « It’s horrible. I have heart disease and diabetes ! A living dead. A zombie ! »
A zombie, no. But a writer almost in his sixties who, although he wishes to take the matter with derision, had a
This article is reserved for subscribers. You have 86% left to discover.
Flash Sale
€4.99 per month for 12 months. No commitment.
Already subscribed? Log in
