Henri Raczymow is sad.
He thinks he's written his whole life for nothing.
He does not even denigrate himself to be contradicted, like François Nourissier;
no, he humbly analyzes the failure of a writing life.
He can see that no one recognizes him in the street.
The press does not talk about his books, he does not sell a copy and the journalists all prefer to interview Camille Kouchner.
By his own admission, he is neither Chateaubriand nor Proust.
He considers himself to be doomed.
To read also:
Frédéric Beigbeder: "La familia grande, the war of generations"
His book revolted me.
How can such a gifted writer suffer so much from lack of recognition?
Proof that the world is walking on its head.
Dear Mr. Raczymow, your feeling of injustice is fully justified.
I have been criticized a lot for being annoyed by the success of Léna Situations.
The Instagrammable fashionista certainly deserved the silence more than my repeated relentlessness.
My answer is: Raczymow's failure.
I want to restore some semblance of hierarchy on this earth.
The role of a literary critic
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