CHRONICLE – Without forgetting that most of them will end up in a wreck, like a dented car, the diesel of an average French person. They will have existed, for the duration of a mirage, and will sit in the libraries of their authors.
It’s literary awards season. Each author wants their own, that’s normal, there are so many. Over the year, around two thousand are awarded, all institutions combined. Not all are equal. The lords of the place, those after whom everyone runs, are the laurels of autumn. They ennoble you, earn the novels they crown, in addition to a pretty headband, comfortable sales. Even if Mélissa Da Costa, without any distinction, will always be in the lead. The public appreciates being guided. Despite everything he hears about the jurors – their ties to publishers, their guilty friendships, their Parisian snobbery, their tendency to alcoholism – he continues to trust them. It’s like with politicians: we know they’re deceiving us, but we persist in following them.
Human beings do not like to be isolated; that’s how it is. Just look at his behavior on the beach. On kilometers of sand, he will always come and put down his towel…
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