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In the short space of time since the Liberation, Beauvoir had established herself as a writer and intellectual. Her first philosophical essay, Pyrrhus et Cinéas, had been well received, and in 1945, her second novel, The Blood of Others, had been praised as the first novel of the Resistance. In the public realm, her name was firmly linked to Jean-Paul Sartre’s, and to existentialism, which was becoming so fashionable that Sartre had to hire a secretary. No longer a beginner, no longer unknown, Beauvoir had nothing to prove; she could write about anything. She decided to write about herself.
02/09/2010 06:32 AM
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‘Sorry, but it’s no longer the way it used to be. There’s nothing more I can do for you. Under Bongo Senior, this would have been unthinkable. But Bongo Junior doesn’t have the same grip on the situation – and nor do I, nor does France. We go through the motions but we’re no longer in control.’ I received this text message on 9 August 2009 from Robert Bourgi, known in Paris as ‘the attorney of la Françafrique’. It’s probably not the last word on France’s incestuous relationship with her former colonies in sub-Saharan Africa, but it put an end to my four-day wait at a rat-infested border post, where I’d hoped to be allowed into Gabon.
02/09/2010 06:32 AM
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For any serious French writer who has come of age during the last 30 years, one question imposes itself above all others: what do you do after the nouveau roman? Alain Robbe-Grillet, Claude Simon et compagnie redrew the map of what fiction might offer and aspire to, what its ground rules should be – so much so that some have found their legacy stifling. Michel Houellebecq’s response has been one of adolescent rejection, or, to use the type of psychological language that the nouveaux romanciers so splendidly shun, denial: writing in Artforum in 2008, he claimed never to have finished a Robbe-Grillet novel, since they ‘reminded me of soil cutting’.
02/09/2010 06:32 AM
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In a couple of days I’ll sit down in a small, noisy, cluttered room with lawyers, the realtor, my sister and brother-in-law, and hand the keys to this house over to a very pleasant young Chinese couple who will begin their own lives together here. They are very excited. I am not. I like it here. This is home, even if I haven’t really lived here for 42 years, my psychological redoubt: red brick, slate-roofed, sitting on a 500-foot basalt sill that reaches down to the ‘lordly Hudson’. It is what is most solid about me and what has allowed me to live the sort of life one might not associate with any notion of solidity.
02/09/2010 06:32 AM
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The letters page from London Review of Books Volume 32 issue 3
02/09/2010 06:32 AM
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Table of contents from London Review of Books Volume 32 issue 3
02/09/2010 06:32 AM
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