“This prize gives meaning to all the writers we seek to silence in the Arab world”

Interview The day after the prestigious Goncourt 2024 prize was awarded, the winner and author of “Houris” gave us an interview.

How was your first night after receiving this long-awaited Goncourt Prize?

Camel Daoud I couldn't sleep, there was too much excitement after this adrenaline day. I'm so moved. It's trite to say it, but I lack words to describe it. I thought a lot about all those who had lent or sent me books since I was nine, to my family, to my wife, to my children, to my teachers too.

How did it feel to place your own book in the Drouant library dedicated to the winners of the Goncourt Prize, alongside “In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flowers” ​​by Marcel Proust (Goncourt 1919) or “ life ahead » by Emile Ajar/Romain Gary (Goncourt 1975)?

Honestly, it's overwhelming. I didn't expect it, because I didn't know this rite. It’s overwhelming because I’m self-taught, I still have imposter syndrome. And so I said to myself, “Okay, now what’s going to happen the day people find out that I can’t write?” »

You who said you left your village of Mostaganem to become famous, has this Goncourt come to fulfill this wish?

This prize is the best welcome gift that France could offer me. But she has already brought me a lot of kindness since I moved to Paris last year; my family and I were helped, welcomed, there is nothing more precious, because when you change countries, lives, there are moments of great solitude. I have already said it, I was born the first time from my mother's womb in Algeria and I was born a second time through French literature. I of course thank France which welcomed Romain Gary, Apollinaire, Kundera, and so many other authors before me. And I have the pretension to place myself in that family, at least in a few years, I would perhaps have the legitimate pretension of placing myself in that family. This country loves literature. When I go to festivals where I sign to the point of exhaustion, I say to myself: but where is this cultural decline that we are talking about? This does not mean that culture, booksellers, publishers are not experiencing any difficulties and that there is not much to be done to support them. But France is a paradise for books and writers. You can't imagine how lucky you are. When I came to Paris for the first time at 26, I was able to find in the same place, in a bookstore, all the books that I had always missed in Algeria. It was so violent that I came out and vomited.

Also read

You had already experienced the wait for the jury's deliberations in 2014 for “Meursault, contre-investigation”, does this victory make up for the disappointment of not having won then?

I have always believed that the world is neither fair nor unjust. It is to the candidates for the life of doing their proofs and find their way through this magnificent labyrinth. If “Meursault” was ultimately not selected, it was up to me to make an effort to write the novel that could be rewarded. So no, I'm not working on this idea of ​​repair. I am not the political Algeria that expects reparations. All literature is a beautiful adventure. This race for prizes, even if it is stressful, is a great adventure.

Also read

On Monday, you immediately published on X-Twitter, in the car that took you to Drouant for the famous winner's lunch, this message accompanied by a very beautiful photo of your parents: “It’s your dream, paid for by your years of life. To my deceased father. To my mother who is still alive, but who no longer remembers anything. No words exist to say the true thank you. »

One must succeed out of respect for the sacrifices of one's own parents. My parents were poor in poor socialist Algeria. My father, who was a police officer, wanted his children to be educated, both boys and girls. And my mother, who can neither read nor write, always believed that I was destined for a great life. She gave me confidence in myself. This is what I call the Romain Gary syndrome: when you have a mother who sees your destiny in such a splendid light that the least polite thing is to honor this vision. This is what I owe to my parents. I also have the impression that in a writer's bibliography there is always the father's novel and the mother's novel in one form or another.

Is your novel “Houris”, which transcribes the dialogue of a mother with the child she is carrying, the novel written for your mother?

I don't know yet. These are things that we discover later.

Do you give a particular meaning to this prize awarded to a novel which is banned in Algeria and which deals with what this country finds so difficult to evoke, that is to say this terrible decade of the civil war?

Yes, I would like this novel to take on the meaning of triggering thoughts and words about this period. We need it in France, but especially in Algeria, for obvious reasons, and throughout the world too. So I dream of the moment when speech will be unbridled. The ban is useless. Banning this book or banning speech, we will never be able to. This book is circulating. This book will be read, loved, hated… This reward is a form of recognition for the writer and for the writing first, but above all a form of recognition for these dead who have no body, who have no tribute, who have no monument. And this prize finally gives meaning to all the writers who are currently being silenced in the Arab world, against this terror which is being exercised on them. In fact, the issue is the writers of the future.

Also read

“Houris” is also a great book about women and the fate that befalls them. You mentioned the case of Ahou Daryaei, this young Iranian student who undressed on her campus after being attacked by two patrolmen from the moral police for an allegedly ill-fitting veil. Do you dedicate this prize to him?

Totally. Well, I don't even dare to do it, because what is a book worth compared to its courage? She's the one who changes things, it's not me. But this image, I retweeted it, I reposted it. She is fascinating. It is also humiliating. It is hurtful, it is painful, it is tragic. And finally, it exhausts. It exhausts our words somewhere.

What would the little boy from Mostaganem want to say to the writer we honor and celebrate today?

He can undoubtedly be happy, because the child has always dreamed of being an cosmonaut and he looks with joy and pride at the adult who has succeeded in building a rocket. So, what can the child say to the writer? “Write stories. » I'm trying to write books for children at the moment, because they're the gigantic issue. I really want to get into comic book scenarios, for example.

What will the next book be?

I had read somewhere that Hemingway said “What’s the point of writing a novel that has already been told?” » So I won't answer. On the other hand, I can say that I want to write an essay soon.

Last night, at Gallimard, with tears in your eyes, you said: “I’m thinking about mine.” These “mine”, who are they?

My Algerian village, my neighborhood, my tribe, the people who are so close to my own blood. Great success has this strange effect of plunging us into memory. It's paradoxical. We are in the present, but at the same time, we go back very far in our memory to remember details of the past. That's how it is. There is something that pushes us to take stock in joy when it is extreme.

What can we wish you for the future?

To win the Goncourt again in ten years with a book written under a pseudonym, in the style of Ajar/Gary!

> Kamel Daoud will be one of the guests at the Festival du Nouvel Obs which takes place on November 23 and 24 in Paris.