The Incorrigible Optimists Club

I hated wasting my time. The only thing that seemed worthwhile to me was reading. At home, nobody really read. My mother took all year to read the ‘Book of the Year’, which enabled her to talk about it and to pass for a great reader. My father did not read at all and was proud of the fact.

Unable to contain himself, he countered with: ‘You’re a petit-bourgeois moralist and you always will be. Like Camus.’
Cécile seethed. Quite calmly, she retorted: ‘As for you, you’re a pretentious little bugger and you always will be. Like Sartre.’

The problem was that Franck swore by Sartre, and Cécile didn’t in the least. She adored Camus. Franck loathed him. I hadn’t yet realized that it was like being for Reims or the Racing Club de Paris, Renault or Peugeot, Bordeaux wine or Beaujolais, the Russians or the Americans, you had to choose which side you were on and stick to it. There must have been one hell of a disagreement between the two men for their voices to rise so sharply. Certain nuances of the exchange

The problem was that Franck swore by Sartre, and Cécile didn’t in the least. She adored Camus. Franck loathed him. I hadn’t yet realized that it was like being for Reims or the Racing Club de Paris, Renault or Peugeot, Bordeaux wine or Beaujolais, the Russians or the Americans, you had to choose which side you were on and stick to it. There must have been one hell of a disagreement between the two men for their voices to rise so sharply.

In due course, I came to classify writers into two categories: those who enabled you to arrive on time and those who caused you to be late.