It is moreover, as Pierre Bachelet would say. She was thought to be exiled under the Los Angeles sun, taking photos and writing books. Anne Brochet returned as discreetly as she left. At the start of spring, we meet her under Albin Michel's glass roof for her sixth novel,
L'Armoire de vies
(1). The soft-touch cover with a drawing of a three-sided bathroom cabinet that a woman opens like a theater is melancholic and nostalgic. Like her.
“I had finished raising my children. I came back to do theater again and I rediscovered a childlike joy and creativity. I share my life with my husband, an American cutler, between our bucolic house decorated like an electric train with its river, its small road, with its frogs, tits, squirrels in Val-d'Oise, and another in a village of seaside towards Perpignan. I grew up in Amiens, made a career in Paris, lived in West Hollywood. Now that I know what...
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