By Tristan Garcia
Tristan Garcia makes use of intercourse, friendships and amorous affairs to teach what occurs to humans while political beliefs - Marxism, homosexual rights, sexual liberation, nationalism - come to an finish. As Elizabeth Levallois, a cultural journalist, appears again at the decade and at the ravages of the AIDS epidemic in Paris, a drama unfolds - one during which love turns to hate and constancy turns to betrayal, in either affairs of the center and politics. With nice verve and ingenuity, Garcia lays declare to an period that promised freedom as by no means earlier than, and he paints an indelible, sharp, yet sympathetic portrait of intellectuals misplaced within the age of MTV. Read more...
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He simply took money for granted. So many things were a discovery to Willie, practically everything in fact. He had two piercings. Doum got Willie to read Foucault, and Doum knew Foucault so well—I mean personally, plus he took his courses at the Collège de France—that he never really bothered with the books. Willie was reading everything that Doum knew without having to read it, without even having to think of it anymore. He’d read ten, maybe twenty times, what Foucault said about the war—thanks to Dominique, who was a close friend of Defert’s, he had access to students’ notes, to the archives, to the unpublished Aveux de la chair.
As usual, his mind was on other things. ” The interviewer took the bait, naturally. ” “Oh, I’m just saying, because I’m Jewish, you know? So it’s cool. ” “But so anyway, I totally agree. He was a natural. I won’t name any names, but you know the kind I mean. It’s just too much. ” “Too many—” “Faggots. Too many faggots. I’m totally with M. ” He took a drag on his cigarette, legs crossed, and didn’t say another word. Later on that evening was the only time I ever saw a whole nightclub burst into applause.
As far as I know, he never set foot there again after he’d finished moving in. I swear, if I go up there I’m going to throw myself off the balcony. ” I’d stopped trying to understand. It was just his way, I think, of pushing his solitude aside. He’d been too alone—utterly, utterly alone. He took his boxes, he carried them upstairs, and it was over. He always slept, he always lived, in other people’s houses, the houses of friends or lovers. I ran into Doum at the paper. And yet he and everybody else thought of Will as a sort of lunatic who’d made a fool of himself.