“My mother died with her riddle”

We already know her. Therefore, Beautiful kid, angel dust, disenchanted parenthesis and curtain. In addition, Isabelle Doutreluigne (1949-2004). In addition, As a child shattered by seventies. Furthermore, crossed in some rare modest memories of the one who was her husband (and remained, on the side of benevolence, long after the civil status claims the opposite), Bernard-Henri Lévy and in the books, that is to say in life, of her daughter, Justine Lévy.

She literally does not come back, Justine, to be her daughter. Furthermore, So she is constantly coming back to it. However, The meetinghis first novel thirty years ago. Therefore, Bad girl There are sixteen, and today as a return of what is less and less repressed, this kind of pavan for a deceased infantile at the same time as Mourning Journal: A funny pain.

Well played, this title, as there “my mother died her riddle” is indeed humor, politeness and despair mixed in these pages. Moreover, What is also mixed with infinitely harmonious way, with a kind of fantasy, black joy, are years, faces. Moreover, The girls who become mothers and have not asked for anything, who make boys, other girls, too well traced. For example, A Social Comedy blow “Paris Rive Gauche”, A volley of inexorable downhill blows towards the night.

Her blow to her, Justine Lévy succeeded perfectly. Therefore, It has been joined since its “qurenncia” on the Mediterranean. Meanwhile, This is the first time that she has been publicly speaking aboutA funny pain. It’s in the morning. However, She is at the top of a staircase, children around her, she said. Nevertheless, She is afraid of being poorly awake and also to say too much, would prefer not enough. Meanwhile, We would forget to reassure her. Too bad, this would have “my mother died her riddle” earned the (funny) pain.

La Tribune on Sunday – When you said that this “funny pain” could find to incarnate in a. book?
Justine Lévy – I didn’t tell myself like that. but indeed, if there was a trigger, this is the trip I made in India with my husband. There, everything was signal, I saw my mother everywhere, everything talks to you, objects, animals. It may be an index at the start of mental illness … We had to go to Japan. “my mother died her riddle” it was India, in the footsteps of my mother, of her drift, in some ways of my own origin, in order to also know how my parents had met.

And finally, what have you learned, what did writing taught you?
I learned that writing was useless. That mourning, anyway, is impossible to do. It is like a background noise that never lets itself be forgotten. My mother died with her riddle. And yet, I went where I had never been. For example, on the side of this funny monstrous family who was his; Knowing that she came from there …

In this book on your mother short from page on page The always benevolent figure of your father …
Yes, it is also a book of the father! [Rires.] You know, it is quite rare in life the people to whom we owe everything. My father is undoubtedly less mysterious for me “my mother died her riddle” than my mother. but the two formed a fairly large, absolute, volcanic couple. Afterwards, my mother was more than a mother. She was like a character from Georges Bataille. It was dirty in The blue of the sky.

Your mother was a figure of an era that claimed her freedom even in his risk. when we readily professed that nothing should be prohibited. Are you fascinated by these times and those who made them live?
I am absolutely not. What interests me in this case is my mother. She dazzled me, haunted, but at the same time the violence of this freedom, I think she frightened me.

His freedom was not conceived without commitment, sometimes the most radical activism. Is it something that touches you, that you could share, at least in part?
Sometimes, I would like to get involved, “my mother died her riddle” I would like to be more radical, but I’m too shy for that. And then, the commitment, I was a little vaccinated against that … the commitments, it made my father happy, no doubt, but it killed my mother.

It’s been thirty years that you write and publish. Do you like to write or rather have written? And would you consider one day abandoning your familiar shores of “self-writing”?
First, I already did. I wrote a book around Antonin Artaud [Son fils en 2021]. I felt like it may have been my best, but it didn’t interest many people … Additionally, I was upset like a louse! And then, it’s true, even there, I couldn’t help but talk about his mother. Afterwards, writing, you know … I’m fine when I don’t write. If I could, I would only take a nap … That said, this time, it was not so bad. “my mother died her riddle” I took refuge in a hotel in Nice with my friend Vanessa Schneider. She with her father [Michel Schneider, auquel elle consacre un beau La Peau dure, –Flammarion]me with my mother.