French literature offers the luxury of being both ironic and cruel, and with a little bit of luck. The Twenty-
seventh Delivers
by Marc-Edouard Nabe (Le Dilettante edition) is the last of the series. Read at once and understand why and how Michel Houellebecq's former neighbor, of the good old days of hard times, decides to stop
writing. Definitively. In order to believe the
author, for those who know Marc-Edouard Nabe, will break open a bottle of champagne to celebrate such a happy event. Personally, I didn't know Marc-Edouard before The Twenty-seventh Delivers. Not at all. I had never read anything written by him. Nothing at all. And yet, I regret that he has decided to stop writing. Is it because the dead are always the brave ones? Not only that... Out of pity? Certainly not.It is simply because The Twenty-Seventh Delivers (and the last) is good. Personally, I'd be ready to spend twenty hard years of my life, like him, rowing against the currant, to succeed. Driven by curiosity, I decided to read his preceding twenty-six books in order to try to understand a little better how an author could come to an end after twenty years of extremely good and loyal literary service. Perhaps I'm kicking myself... Who knows? It isn't everyday that one witnesses literary suicide. The Houellebecq effect? It's more than that. Much more. Even if the author addresses his friend Michel to justify his decision to stop writing, the reader is not easily deceived. It is the charm of this work that gives Houellebecq a transcendental force... Everyone can form his/her own opinion the reasons for this personal decision even after twenty years' effort. Provided that not all writers decide to suddenly follow his example to stop writing. Can you imagine a world without books?