Virginie Despentes

I look through his inboxes. He has three addresses: one for activity as an author, almost entirely devoted to his publicist, whom he bombards with slightly flirtatious and falsely jocular messages: “I wonder why I haven’t been invited to the radio program From the Bookshop, since I understand it’s about literature, and I happen to write books . .

So I am writing from here, as one of the left-overs, one of those weirdos, the ones who shave their heads, those who don’t know how to dress, those who worry that they stink, those who have rotten teeth, those who don’t know how to go about things…