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By Root 815 0

On the one hand, the scum I’ve just mentioned are no better than those who officiated during the Nazi dictatorship; in human terms there is no progress, there’s no point deluding yourself, only the historical circumstances are different. But in present-day France, I am not running the risk of extermination or torture or even being imprisoned (although, if memory serves, one of the Muslim organizations that sued me called for a sentence of one year in prison; though in that case it was generally considered that the summing-up was ridiculous and had no chance of succeeding). In fact, I risk rather less in an interview than I risked during the multiple oral exams and the concours that punctuated my career as a student (in which there were bastard examiners and trick questions). I am risking no more than I did during the annual career assessments that were rituals of my professional life.

So there is nothing to be really afraid of; there is something to be a little afraid of; and to be honest I don’t share your absolutely negative attitude toward fear. Psychologists, in general, consider that a moderate level of fear, producing a reasonable level of stress, improves a candidate’s intellectual performance, at least where it is not a case of being truly creative, but of giving someone else the minimal social satisfaction, the feeling of being worked up one expects at an exam or an interview.

I took the whole “unauthorized biography” thing a lot more badly. Because, after all, what gave him the right? And why should I even have to complain about something so obviously immoral? Why is it that such a work is not banned by its very nature? Where are Demonpion’s search warrants, his police powers? What gives him the right to violate the confidentiality of private letters? There is clearly something in the very functioning of our societies that I can’t bring myself to accept.

How did I proceed in this case? Pretty stupidly, I think. I did not, as you suggest, act in advance, and it’s true that I regret not having, like you, attempted a little physical intimidation of the author. It would probably have worked and, given the evident shortcomings of the legal system, would have been absolutely legitimate. And, contrary to what he claimed, I did not even try to put “a spoke in his wheel.” To anyone who phoned me and asked if I wanted them to cooperate, I said of course not, but that’s about all.

Some people cooperated without asking my opinion, some of them long-standing friends; I felt, I admit, very sad about that, but I didn’t think twice about deleting them from my address book.

It was much easier for me to deal with the media that had published information, without my consent, whether true or false, which I believed concerned my private life. This simple operation sorted out a lot of things and the results are slightly farcical. To my mind, the only French dailies I can deal with now are l’Humanité and La Croix.* Among the weeklies, we have Elle, Les Inrockuptibles, VSD, and Paris Match. Things look much more positive with the monthlies. I’ve never had any issues with Le Chasseur Français or Chiens 2000 … Okay, I’m joking, but most women’s magazines, like I said before, and most upmarket men’s magazines have demonstrated exemplary propriety.

To be honest, from the very beginning of my career, I’ve been struck by the fact that the most interesting interviewers did not necessarily come from what one might think of as the most respectable magazines. Clearly, in our strange society, it’s not only the reputations of people that are often inaccurate … One sometimes feels Orwellian in the face of the accumulation of diametrical, performative lies, what one might precisely call antitruths. I find it interesting though not fascinating; Philippe Muray died too soon.

At the time, all this was painful, but I had certain resources; not least my hatred for the journalist Demonpion. As with fear, I don’t share your entirely negative view of hatred. It is a feeling I have rarely felt; but I remember that I found something refreshing, something