Dear Bernard-Henri Levy, We have rien in common except that we are both rather contemptible individuals. A specialist in farcical stunts, you dishonour even the white shirts you always wear unbuttoned to the waist. You are an intimate of the powerful, you wallow in immense wealth and are a philosopher without an original idea. Moi? I'm just a redneck. A nihilist. An unremarkable author with no style. These, then, are the terms of the debate.
The debate, cher Michel Houellebecq? There are three approaches. 1. You've said it all. We are both morons. I agree that is the most likely, but then we have no livre and we generate little publicity. 2. You are a moron, but I am a genius. This, I must admit, I also quite aime. 3. We are both geniuses and we debate why we are so misunderstood and hated. This one is more tendentious, I think, but for the purposes of mutual masturbation and knocking out a livre, it has, as they say, plus de jambes.
Dear Bernard-Henri, it is time that I quote Baudelaire, Schopenhauer and Musset to establish my credentials as an intellectuel. I think you must enjoy the hatred: why else would you Google yourself vingt fois par jour? For moi-même, my desire to be hated masks a desire to be loved. I want people to desire me for my self-disgust. Perhaps.
Cher Michel, Yet again you misunderstand me. I do not Google myself out of self-hatred, but out of amour propre. I can assure you that nothing can dent my preening narcissism and self-regard. Those that do hate me do so purely because I am Jewish and drop mort gorgeous. Toujours les petits gens want to bring down the colossus who has it tout. Regardez mon bon ami Dominique Strauss-Kahn. Is it his fault that chaque femme who comes near lui gets all moist? It's a cross he and I have to bear. And while I'm about it, I can also quote philosophers and artistes. Cocteau, Sartre and Botul. So there!
Dear B-H, I must confess I have never read Botul and cannot access my library as I am now living in Ireland. I can't say the pays has much to recommend it as the inhabitants are trop dense to parler Français but at least the taxes are minimal and my hard-earned cash doesn't get spent on Muslim illegal immigrants. Shall we now be a little more daring in our exchange and enter the arena of the confessional? Let me commencer by saying how much I hate my père et mère. Along with everyone else.
Mon cher Michel, the confessional is not my style. Oui, I write a daily diary of 10,000 mots, but that is for moi seul and is the bare minimum required to record my breathtaking insights. I hate the fact that people jump to conclusions about me, based on what I write. They call me a disaster tourist. A fraud. How dare they? Even Jesus was treated better than me. But let me get one chose straight. My own père et mère were parfait. For only from perfection can come perfection, as Spinoza and Hegel might have said if they had been as clever as me.
Dear B-H, We have more in common than I thought. We are both horriblement misunderstood by a monde that refuses to accept our own estimation of our talent and I see now that I too have Christ-like qualities in the suffering I endure for portraying the world as it is and not how people would like it to be. Not that I believe in anything but my oeuvre. As for your onanism, I am not sure I quite understand your position.
Michel mon cher, it is monadism, pas onanism! Though I admit it's a facile mistake to make. Try to think of my faith as Judaism but with no god and moi at the centre of the univers. And quel univers! While ordinary gens were born to work in magasins and places comme ça, I was born to write and make love avec mon coq enorme. That est ma vie. As I said to mes amis Nicolas et Carla the autre jour, I write for 12 hours et puis I pleasure women for 12 hours.
Dear B-H, sex is immensely disappointing for me as on the few occasions I manage an erection I always suffer premature ejaculation. So that just leaves writing. I know that whatever I write will be canonical, but I am unsure what to write next. Perhaps poésie? My biggest fear is that the pack will win and I will die unloved and unregarded.
Mon cher Michel, the pack will never win and our names will live on with Kant, Nietzsche and Camus as the greatest penseurs of our generation. It does not matter what you or I write next. It is assez to know that whatever we do it will be brilliant and far too good for the little minds who will tear it to pieces. You et moi, we will live for jamais!
Digested read, digested: Pensant in the wind.
