Here’s the truth, simply stated . . . bookstores are suffering from a serious crisis of falling sales. Don’t believe a single zero of all those editions claimed to be 100,000! 40,000! . . . even 400 copies! just for the suckers! Alack! . . . Alas! . . . only love and romance . . . and even then! . . . manage to keep selling . . . and a few murder mysteries . . . rather wanly . . . Matter of fact, nothing is selling . . . bad times! . . . Movies, TV, appliances, mopeds, big cars, little cars, middle-sized cars really hurt book sales . . . credit merchandise! imagine! and weekends! . . . and those good old two! three month! vacations . . . and posh cruises! . . . hi there, little budgets! . . . watch those debts! . . . not a red cent to spare! . . . so, you know, buying a book! . . . a camper? well! . . . but a book? . . . easiest thing to borrow there is! . . . a book gets read, for sure, by at least twenty . . twenty-five consumers! what a windfall! . . . the miracle of the shared loaves would set you dreaming, would set you dreaming, but the miracle of the shared books, and the writer working for free, is a well-established fact. This miracle takes place, no fuss, at the secondhand counters or, a bit more nicely, in reading rooms, and so forth and so on … In every case the author goes a-begging. That’s the main thing! The author is assumed, of course, to possess a bankroll of his own, an income from some eminent Person, or to have discovered the secret (greater than atomic fission), of living without the feedbag. Besides, any person of importance (privileged, stuffed with dividends) will affirm as a matter of faith, no malice intended, that only poverty can bring out the genius in a man . . . that it is fitting for the artist to suffer! . . . and no small bit! . . . a great deal! . . . since he gestates best when in pain! . . . when Pain is Master! (M. Socle) . . . and besides, everyone knows that prison does no harm to the artist . . . on the contrary! . . . that the true life of the true artist is a long or a short game of tag with prison, before he’s “it” . . . and that the scaffold, no matter how awesome it appears, will fix him up good . . . the scaffold, you might say, is awaiting every artist. The artist who escapes the scaffold (or gallows, if you prefer) may be, at least after age forty, considered trivial . . . Since he has charted his own course, become noticed, it is normal and natural that he be made an example of, punished exemplarily . . . all the windows are rented, already, at a stiff price, to attend his anguish, see him grimace at last, sincerely! Place de la Concorde, for instance . . . the crowd is already yanking out the trees, turning the Tuileire Gardens into an immense open space! to get a better look at his mug before they cut off his head, oh! ever so gently! with a tiny little blade . . . clown’s end, what they’re waiting for, not so much that he’s a cuckold, insipid pleasure! it’s having him bound to the trestle! or to the wheel! and making him howl there four . . . five hours . . . that’s what lies ahead of the artist! or clown! . . . b’God! . . . he only escapes their conniving brew by even greater cunning, brownnosing, hypocrisy, or by membership in an Academy . . . the big one or the little, or a Sacristy . . . or Political Party . . . just so many risky havens! . . . let’s not kid ourselves! how often they turn out for the worst, those so-called havens! . . . and those “commitments” . . . Great Grief! . . . even for those who have several “connections”! . . . They’re all pacts with the Devil! . . .

All in all, if you look around, you’ll see any number of writers end their days as ragpickers, but it’s a rare publisher who takes to sleeping under the bridges . . . a riot, isn’t it? . . . I was talking to Gaston about all that, just the other day, Gaston Gallimard . . . and he’s no slouch when it comes to publishing, and that can be said twice over! . . . he decided that in my case I should break out of the silence that had done me so much harm! break out! once and for all! let my genius out of the bag for others to see . . .

“Yeah!”

I tell him.

“You’re not playing the game!” . . . is how he ended up . . . no reproach . . . but just the same! . . . a patron of the arts, Gaston, of course . . . but a business man, too . . . I didn’t want to give him any trouble . . . set my mind to dreaming up, right off, no time to lose, a few way to ‘play the game’ . . . imagine, scientific as I am, how I did explore the routes to this ‘game-playing’! . . . I understood toot sweet, presto, two shakes! that playing the game meant getting on the radio . . . setting all else aside! . . . stammering out something or other, but spelling out your name loud and clear at least a hundred times! a thousand times! . . . whether you’re pushing the new Big Bubbly soap product . . . or the Nickless no-blade razor . . . or the eager genius! . . . the same broth! same cloth! and no sooner you set the mike down you turn to films! in detail! every aspect of your early childhood, your teens, your mature years, your every misfortune . . . and then the phone! . . . call in the press! . . . explain why you spread your whole life out on the screen . . . have them print all that, nicely, then have them take more photos! batches! . . . for printing in a hundred papers! . . . and more! . . . and even more! . . . myself, you know, as far as I could see I was off on a blather of words! . . . justify here! . . . glorify there! . . . besides, some friends, publicists, quickly cooled me off, totally.

“You ever had a good look at yourself, Ferdinand? you off our rocker? why not go on TV? with that mug of yours? that voice? you ever listened to yourself speak? . . . you’ve never seen yourself in the mirror? that puss of yours?”

I don’t look at myself in the mirror very often, it’s true, and as little as I have looked at myself through the years, I seemed to be getting more and more ugly . . . that was what my father thought too . . . he thought I was hideous . . . he advised me to grow a beard . . .

“But it requires care, a beard does! and you’re a slob! a stinking slob! . . .”

My father’s conclusion . . . but I do know what kind of a voice I have . . . for yelling “Fire!” it carries fine! . . . yet I’m not expecting any miracles of charm . . . so here I am: better unseen, unheard! . . . I didn’t say all that to Gaston . . . I poured it out on Paulhan . . . busybody Paulhan . . .

“Paulhan, suppose we interviewed each other? . . . or rather, you interview me! that wouldn’t be bad, an interview? that’d suit Gaston maybe? he wants to ‘play the game!’. . . that’s not the ‘real game’ an interview, is it? you could insert it into your Cahiers antiques antiques, might poke them up a bit . . . wouldn’t do any harm!”