Every love story has a beginning.
That of Robert Littell with Russia begins in 1964 at the Finnish border:
“I had just left my job at
Newsweek,
my wife and I had left Paris by car.
Behind the barrier, a young man held his sentry box;
four guys checked our visas, as soon as they left the young man bent down to pick a flower and hand it to my wife: “Your first Russian flower.”
I immediately understood that I was entering a country truly apart, and that I was not going to leave it anytime soon;
after all, Russia is a bit like my DNA.”
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From his Jewish ancestors, who emigrated from Lithuania in the 19th century, does the “American John le Carré” derive his naturalness, his malice, his modesty?
A disarming freshness in the light of a work recognized everywhere.
This 87-year-old young man, in a white T-shirt and sports pants, is the author of 23 novels, widely translated, 23 page-turners on a Cold War background, almost as many shades of red, this blinding red...
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