I know we’re not supposed to be talking about a book that hasn’t been released yet. In itself it’s a bit absurd, it would be like saying that we shouldn’t talk about Christmas before December 25, right?
I already talked about the urge to read, from the desire that arises for x or y reason and that makes me throw myself on a book when I tend to accumulate, to leave lying around before taking the plunge.
My nature when it comes to reading always amazes me (ra). I have the effect of a dragon with two heads: a reasonable face, bordering on dilettantism, with an annoying tendency to put everything off until later, and a maniac side, which is attached to dates, would like to read the literary season in time, to be news, discover a book as soon as it passes the door of my apartment or my office.
I still cannot clearly identify the knot that links one of these hemispheres of my reading personality to the other and that makes me the reader that I am. Especially since in my everyday life, I am downright maniacal and that only extreme tiredness can make me fall into apathy.
But back on topic. What I mean is that the wait seems to me essential. It is in this interval between the moment when desire is fixed and that when it is realized that I have always found my greatest happiness. So if I listened to myself, I would post this article today, but I also know how to be reasonable and I don’t feel like an adventurer on these issues. All that to say that I am going to program this article so that it does not appear until January 3, the day after the day of publication of To break up.
But it’s December 11th and I finished reading Yann Moix’s latest novel yesterday. It’s been a while since I wrote anything: I have 5 drafts waiting that I will try to clean up (to clean up) so that this blog is a little up to date. (Because I kept reading despite my silence)
To break up, therefore, is a book of great beauty. A text like I seem to see too little, a text that speaks, that paints and that moves. I do not know if there are people who have not experienced a breakup, there may be. And when we read Yann Moix, we tell ourselves that we are lucky to have experienced such grief one day, to have faced such a storm, such a shock, because without that we would have a hard time knowing who we are.
The ruptures are made of abominable moments when we see ourselves in black, when we are unable to put the words on what the person we love has seen in us. But there are also these moments of extra-lucidity when we manage, as if by magic, to put our finger on what we lack while being able, at the same time, to recognize some qualities. The epiphany of rupture is an encounter with oneself that could not have happened otherwise, in another place, at another time. It is this almost enjoyable point of contact where, suddenly, we see ourselves as the other has seen us, where we see ourselves as in a mirror, and where, above all, these two images come to overlap to offer us contemplate a kind of ultimate image which, if it is not completely correct, approaches it a little.
Who cares who Yann Moix is. Whether we like it or hate it, we are not just janitors and what interests us in this text is exactly what it offers us: not his moods but the story a break with the other and a meeting with oneself. And frankly, it’s rare enough to be emphasized, it’s something amazing. I still wonder how writers (and artists in the broad sense) do to achieve this feat: talking about others by talking about yourself. We call it universality and it feels good.
A final word, finally, to salute the style and mastery of the verb of Yann Moix.
To read, absolutely.