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*“Valmont” presumably refers to the vicomte de Valmont, a character in Les Liaisons dangereuses (Dangerous Liaisons) by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos. He dies in a duel.

†Arturo Pérez-Reverte Gutiérrez, Spanish novelist and journalist.

February 8, 2008

Dear Bernard-Henri,

I believe you. Initially, your letter produced a sense of shock, but I chose to believe you—and I deserve a certain amount of credit for doing so, because an ego as robust as yours amounts to a mystery, even an anomaly.

The last time I felt so shocked goes back—the comparison is unfortunate, but I can’t help that—to an interview with Yasmina Reza in which she related how Nicolas Sarkozy had greeted the prospect of her book about him. Our president, apparently, accepted with the words “Even if you demolish me, you will make me greater.” I had to read the sentence three times before I accepted the fact: there truly are people whose ego has such power. In moments of rare good humor, I have subscribed to Nietzsche’s famous dictum: That which does not kill me makes me stronger (most of the time I would be tempted, more prosaically, to think, That which does not kill me hurts me, and eventually weakens me). But I think Nicolas Sarkozy has gone one better.

You are not quite there, but then you are not a warrior or a politician but a writer. And such small fry are not noted for their invulnerability to wounded pride. How does a writer usually react when someone tries to hurt him? Quite simply, he suffers.

Incidentally, it is remarkable to note quite how powerful the writer’s identity is. I don’t know how many films Cocteau, Guitry, and Robbe-Grillet* and Pagnol made, but when we think of them we see them first and foremost as writer. There are, a contrario, some people who remember that Malraux was minister of culture. But I have no doubt that a few decades from now, that will be completely forgotten—you only have to think of the faint astonishment we feel now when we remember that Lamartine really stood as a candidate for president of the Republic.

The fact remains that you have developed a sort of magic potion that diminishes your vulnerability, and I would be interested in the recipe, especially as I am releasing a film this year and can therefore look forward to a screening of copious insults and spitting—from my traditional enemies and from others I have yet to discover: that about sums up my calendar for 2008.

There is, of course, the Obélix solution—fall into the cauldron as a baby—and the worst thing is that, in your case, that’s probably the right answer, the trouble is, it doesn’t help me much. We all end up becoming like our fathers, more or less; this is a penny that has long since dropped on me with the elegance of a concrete block, and it’s possible that, from your time with your father, you have drawn only powerful, luminous images; in my case, the results are more mixed.

But, then again, the disturbing Chapter 5 of Comédie suggests that your secret may lie in a careful utilization of the social self. My first real contact with such realities dates back to 1998, when the ubiquitous Jérôme Garcin, flanked by his sinuous acolyte Fabrice Pliskin, contacted me to invite me, together with Philippe Sollers,* to debate in the columns of their magazine. I can still see their irritated faces when they found out that we had had dinner together the night before. “You’ve met each other before …?” Jaws dropped. Of course we have, arsehole, is that against the law? The two cronies obviously wanted to goad the man with the cigarette holder through the “vitriolic portrait” of him I give in The Elementary Particles. The problem was that, at the time, Philippe was completely prepared to forgive me. First and foremost, it must be admitted, because I was in a position of strength. That’s the trouble with Philippe, he is a barometer: he attacks me when I’m weak, supports me when I’m strong, he’s a more accurate barometer than an army of frogs.

But I had also spun him a line in suggesting (quite honestly, in fact) that I had had no intention of painting