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Lewis family. - Who Killed My Father

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Lewis family. Who Killed My Father

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La jaquette indique : This bracing new nonfiction book by the young superstar douard Louis is both a searing jaccuse of the viciously entrenched French class system and a wrenchingly tender love letter to his father. Highly acclaimed for The End of Eddy, douard Louis in Who Killed My Father rips into Frances long neglect of the working class and its overt contempt for the poor, accusing the complacent French--at the minimum--of negligent homicide. Racism, he quotes Ruth Gilmore, is the exposure of certain groups to premature death. And he goes to visit the ugly gray town of his childhood to see his dying father--barely fifty years old, he can hardly walk or breathe: You belong to the category of humans whom politics consigns to an early death. Its as simple as that. But hand in hand with searing, specific denunciations are tender passages of a love story between father and son badly damaged by shame, poverty and homophobia, but still so alive. Tenderness reconciles them just as the state kills off his father. Louis goes after the French system with bare knuckles but then turns to his long-alienated father with open arms: this passionate combination makes Who Killed My Father a heartbreaking book

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Who Killed My Father Copyright 2018 by douard Louis Translation copyright 2019 - photo 1
Who Killed My Father

Copyright 2018 by douard Louis

Translation copyright 2019 by Lorin Stein

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

Originally published as Qui a tu mon pre by ditions Le Seuil

First published as a New Directions Book in 2019

Manufactured in the United States of America

Design by Erik Rieselbach

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Louis, douard, author. | Stein, Lorin, translator.

Title: Who killed my father? / douard Louis ; translated by Lorin Stein.

Other titles: Qui a tu mon pere. English

Description: New York : New Directions, 2019.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018046580 | ISBN 9780811228503 (alk. paper)

Subjects: LCSH : Louis, douardFamily. | Authors, French20th centuryBiography. | Authors, French21st centuryBiography. | Fathers of authorsFranceBiography. | Louis family.

Classification: LCC PQ 2712.O895 Z 4613 2019 | DDC 843/.92 [ B ] dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018046580

eISBN: 9780811228510

New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

by New Directions Publishing Corporation

80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

for Xavier Dolan

Acknowledgments This book in its current form would have been impossible - photo 2
Acknowledgments

This book in its current form would have been impossible without the writings of Claudia Rankine, Ocean Vuong, Tash Aw, and Peter Handke, especially Handkes A Sorrow Beyond Dreams and Aws The Face. It would also have been impossible without the films of Terrence Malick: I dont know how often I rewatched To the Wonder and The Tree of Life while the book was being revised (several dozen times at least). Nor would this text have come into being without Litteraturhuset in Oslo, Yale University, the New School, and MIT, where I presented early versions of certain chapters, not to mention the periodicals Morgenbladet in Norway, Dagens Nyheter in Sweden, FAS in Germany, and Freemans in the United States, where those versions were published. I must also thank Stanislas Nordey, who was present at the origin of this text, who supported it with his solar energy, and who was its first reader. And, of course, this book could never have existed without Didier or Geoffroy.

Who Killed My Father
x

If this werea text for the theater, here is how it would begin: A father and son stand a few feet apart in a vast empty space. That space could be a wheat field, an abandoned factory, the laminated floor of a school gym. Maybe its snowing. Maybe the snow slowly buries them, until they disappear. The father and son almost never look at each other. The son is the only one to speak. At first he reads aloud, from a sheet of paper or a screen. He addresses his father, but his father doesnt seem to hear, we dont know why not. Although they stand close together, neither can reach the other. Sometimes they touch, they come into physical contact, but even in these moments they are apart. The son speaks, and only the son, and this does violence to them both: the father is never allowed to tell his own story, while the son longs for a response that he will never receive.

I.

When asked whatthe word racism means to her, the American scholar Ruth Gilmore has said that racism is the exposure of certain populations to premature death.

The same definition holds with regard to male privilege, to hatred of homosexuality or trans people, to domination by class to social and political oppression of all kinds. If we look at politics as the government of some living people by other living people, as well as the existence of individuals within communities not of their choosing, then politics is what separates some populations, whose lives are supported, nurtured, protected, from other populations, who are exposed to death, to persecution, to murder.

Last month I came to see you in the small northern town where youve been living. Its a gray, ugly town. The sea is just a few miles away, but you never go. I hadnt seen you for months it had been a long time. At first when you opened the door, I didnt recognize you.

I looked at you. In your face I read the signs of the years Id been away.

Later, the woman you live with explained that by now you can hardly walk. She also told me that when you sleep you need a breathing machine or else your heart will stop. It cant beat without assistance, without the help of a machine. It doesnt want to. When you got up to go to the bathroom, just walking the thirty feet there and back left you winded. I saw for myself, you had to sit and catch your breath. You apologized. These apologies are a new thing with you, I have to get used to them. You told me that you suffer from an acute form of diabetes and from high cholesterol, that you could have a heart attack at any moment. As you were telling me all this, you ran out of breath. Your chest emptied of air as though it had sprung a leak. Even talking required too intense, too great an effort. I saw you struggling with your body, but I pretended not to. The week before, youd had an operation for what the doctors call a ventral hernia Id never heard of it. Your body has grown too heavy for itself. Your belly stretches toward the floor. It is overstretched, so badly overstretched that it has ruptured your abdominal lining. Your belly has been torn apart by its own weight, its own mass.

You cant drive anymore. Youre not allowed to drink. You cant take a shower or go to work, except at great risk. Youre barely fifty years old. You belong to the category of humans whom politics has doomed to an early death.

I spent my childhood longing for your absence. I would return from school late in the afternoon, around five oclock. I knew that if I reached our house and your car wasnt parked out front, it meant that you were at the caf or at your brothers and that youd come home late, maybe after dark. If I didnt see your car out front I knew wed eat without you. Sooner or later my mother would shrug and give us our dinner, and I wouldnt see you till morning. Every day, when I reached our street, I thought of your car and prayed: let it not be there, let it not be there, let it not be there.

Its only by accident that Ive come to know you. Or through other people. Not long ago I asked my mother how you met, and why she fell in love with you. The cologne, she said. He wore cologne and you know in those days it wasnt like now. Men didnt wear cologne. But your father did. He was different. He smelled so good.

He was the one who pursued me, she went on. Id just split up with my first husband, Id finally got him out of my life, and I was happier that way, without a man. Women always are. But your father kept at it. He was always showing up with chocolate or flowers. So in the end I gave in. I just gave in.

2002 That day my mother caught me dancing, all by myself, in my room. Id been trying to move as quietly as possible. Id tried not to make any noise, not to breathe too hard. The music wasnt turned up, either, but she heard something through the wall and came in to see what was going on. I was startled and out of breath, my heart in my throat, my lungs in my throat. I turned to face her and waited

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