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Finally, the lack of enthusiasm with which the French fought in 1940. When people condemn the spirit of Munich, I always feel a certain unease, because Munich after all was in 1938—twenty years after 1918. Twenty years isn’t much. And I think one has to beware of reading it as ideological. Because the first thought that occurred to most French people in 1940 was not, I think, “The struggle against Nazism has started,” but something more like “Here we go again with the Huns.”

If I don’t know quite what my parents did during the Second World War, I know even less about what my grandparents did during the previous war. There is, however, a number I remember because it struck me at the time. My grandmother was part of a family that in 1914 comprised fourteen brothers and sisters. By 1918, there were only three left. This is what they call “taking a heavy toll.”

For my part, I have little with which to reproach France; I didn’t even do my service militaire—I was exempted category P2 or P3,* I don’t remember now. (Nowadays things are okay, we have a professional army; under such circumstances it’s easier to love one’s country, since the love is risk free.) But it’s like being in a relationship; you can’t quite remember what irritated you about your partner, you can even find some good things to say about them, but there’s nothing to be done, when it’s over, it’s over, and I won’t fight for France or for the Republic or for anything like it (always supposing I’m prepared to fight for anything).

In short, our different families have given us different visions of France, something confirmed rather amusingly by the way you write about taxes. When you say you “haven’t got the nerve” to be a tax exile it’s obvious that you think of it as morally reprehensible, whereas I can honestly say that I don’t. I can assure you, dear Bernard-Henri, that I have absolutely no feelings of guilt. I have never felt any duty or responsibility toward France and choosing which country I live in has about as much emotional resonance for me as choosing which hotel I stay in. We are only passing through here on earth, I understand that perfectly now; we have no roots, we bear no fruit. In short, our mode of existence is different from that of trees. That said, I’m very fond of trees, in fact I’ve come to love them more and more; but I am not a tree. We are more like stones, cast into the void, as free as they are; or if you absolutely insist in seeing the glass half full, we are a little like comets.

I find what I’ve just written a little sad, suddenly; but it’s true, unfortunately, that in my life I feel as though I’m in a hotel; and I know that sooner or later I’ll have to check out. I can’t cope with this; I’m going to try to tackle some lighter subjects.

It’s possible that one day I will come back to France, and it would be for a very simple reason: I will have had enough of speaking and reading English every day. It annoys me that I feel so attached to my language, I feel it smacks of literary posturing, but it’s the truth. Besides, why should it be reserved for writers? The language we speak, that we use to express ourselves, is an important thing in a man’s life—at least as important as the food he eats.

And the French language is truly one of the successes of this country, harmonious, a little muted with limited tonalities. When traveling, I have sometimes felt the violent, irresistible urge to read even just a few lines in French; in this state of withdrawal I have sometimes gone so far as to buy L’Express.

(There are places in Asia where you can’t buy a newspaper or a paperback book in French, but you can still find the international edition of L’Express.)

(I have to say it is an incredibly bloody boring magazine.)

(But it’s got great distribution.)

There is also what one might call the France of Denis Tillinac*—all local color and duck confit. I had barely experienced it until two or three years ago when, for a variety of reasons, I had to crisscross the country. And I have to admit,