Clara Benador electrifies the literary season

I discovered it one night on the stage of the Silencio, the Parisian club imagined by David Lynch, the appearance of a haunted pallor of the moon, as if coming out of a dream by Jean Lorrain.

I have seen her since, at night, in a few amusing excesses with her man or in a group, as if darkness were a necessity in her home.

As if daylight stood in the way of the honest truth of any intense encounter.

I discovered her one morning at Gévaudan, a café on rue du Bac.

I am wary: is the Beast waiting for me, lurking in the shadows?

Beauty, in any case, is there, hair pulled back accentuating her tiny doll face devoured by large black eyes.

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Clara Benador possesses a je-ne-sais-quoi in the expression, the look, the defiance of the gesture which marks the singular creature dedicated to an extraordinary existence.

But this great-granddaughter of the Chief Rabbi of Thessaloniki is above all the young "sensation" of the literary season with a wonderful initiation novel...

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