/lit/ - Literature

>>12373333
Yes

>>12373333
I WOULD, do it OP

>>12373333
Witnessing the quads

>>12373368
Faggot

A small white tablet, oval, scored.

Around five in the morning or perhaps six I arose, the craving was at its apex, and it was the most painful moment of my day. My first movement was to start up my electric coffee pot; awakening, I filled the reservoir with water and the filter with coffee grounds (usually Malongo, I am somewhat demanding when it comes to coffee). I didn't light a cigarette until I took my first sip; it was a constraint I had placed upon myself, an everyday accomplishment that was my principal source of pride (though I must admit that coffee makers work quickly). The relief from the first drag was immediate, with an astonishing violence. Nicotine is a perfect drug, a simple and hard drug that brings no joy, that defines itself by the withdrawal and the satisfaction of the craving.

A few minutes later, after two or three cigarettes, I took a tablet of Captorix, with a quarter glass of mineral water, usually I have Volvic.


I am forty-six years old, my name is Florent-Claude Labrouste and I hate my first name. I believe it has its origin in two members of my family that my father and my mother, each from their own corner, wished to honor; it is accordingly even more regrettable that I otherwise have no reason to reproach my parents, as they were in all ways excellent parents; they did their part to fit me out as necessary in the struggle for life, and if I ultimately failed, if my life ended with sadness and suffering, I would not incriminate them, but instead an even more regrettable chain of circumstances which I have the occasion to recount and which constitute, truthfully, the purpose of this book—I do not in any event have a reason to reproach my parents other than for the miniscule detail of my name, not only because I find the combination Florent-Claude ridiculous, but even the elements themselves displease me. In total, I consider my name a complete failure. Florent is too soft, too close to the feminine Florence, and in a way androgynous. It does not correspond at all to my face with its acute features, its brutal angles, which are frequently (by some women in any case) considered virile, but which do not match at all, not at all, the face of some Botticellian queer. As for Claude, do not speak of it, it reminds me instantly of Claudettes, and the terrifying image of a vintage video of Claude François playing on a loop at a soirée of old faggots returns to me immediately when I hear the name spoken aloud.

Changing names is not difficult, though I do not speak from an administrative point of view. Almost everything is impossible from an administrative point of view, as the administration has for its object to reduce your possibilities in life to the greatest extent possible, that is, when it is unable to destroy them. From an administrative point of view, a good subject is a dead one. No, I speak more simply from the point of view of common usage: it suffices to present oneself under a new name and at the end of a few months, or even some weeks, the entire world will do it, it will not even occur to men that they were, in the past, referring to you otherwise. This method would be even easier in my case because my middle name, Pierre, is a perfect match for the image of firmness and virility that I hoped to communicate to the world. But I didn't do it, I continued to allow myself to be called by the disgusting name Florent-Claude, all I ever got was a few women (Camille and Kate to be precise, but I'll get back to that, I'll get back to that), a few women to keep themselves to Florent, from society I got nothing, in this matter as with almost all others I allowed myself to be tossed about by circumstance, a testament to my inability to take life into my own hands. The virility that seemed to emit from my square face and its frank stops, those chiseled features nothing but a snare, a swindle plain and simple—for which, it is true, I was not responsible, God had laid the plan—I was not, in reality I was nothing but a spineless pussy, and I was already forty-six, I was not even capable of managing my own life, and briefly it seemed very likely that the second part of my existence would be cast in the image of the first, nothing but a flaccid and painful breakdown.

Surely there are French works with no translation in sight worth translating?

Of course, if you want to do it for the publicity, go ahead.

I'm always wondering why aren't there more fan translations for literary works rather than the usual Japanese or Chinese pulp.

Go translate it.

>>12373669
The official English translation isn't going to be released until October. I'm not interested in attention or money, I just want to do a favor for my fellow /lit/izens.

>>12373677
I just posted the first few paragraphs.

>>12373677
Literature is a smaller community than nerd/weeb hobbies.