The increasingly rare writers who are elected to the French Academy present strange symptoms. Some begin to foment coups in distant countries (Jean-Christophe Rufin), others give up criticizing others (Rinaldi), or publish too much (Fernandez). There are those who try to frame globalization (Orsenna), those who dance the “moonwalk” towards their origins (Lambron, Laferrière, Makine, Sallenave, Thomas, Vitoux), those who escape into the lives of others (Bona , Grainville, Rouart) and then there is the one who only thinks about
“running away there, running away”.
His name is François Sureau. We knew he was a little disturbed since we heard him sing, during his reception speech:
“But he had to, he had to go / but he wanted, he wanted to go. »
Now he wants to run away, but it's impossible: when you're immortal, it's for life.
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Sureau's motionless journey is as beautiful as a Bayeux tapestry. It is at once a comic strip, a storyboard, and the parade of an existence, full of aborted departures and wandering nostalgia.
Going away
is the title of his new essay, a stroll…
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