Who I Am

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Today, Charlotte, you seem worried and you say with a laugh, ‘I don’t know what this book is anymore… What did we say, that it would be my childhood or a sort of portrait, I’ve lost track. One thing it definitely can’t be is a biography. I’ve tried telling my life story, it doesn’t work.

And it would be good if I actually liked the book we make together. Is that possible? To genuinely accept it, like it? I recoil from definitions, narrations, you know that, Christophe. I don’t open up.’

Who I Am: not a biography, or a song, or a betrayal, barely a novel – let’s say a ballad, one of those ones you hum, like The Ballad of the Ladies of Times Past. You are one of those ladies whatever era you come from: I see you in photographs, haughty, often naked in your twenties, in a short skirt, black stockings, playful, in your own world. With that effortlessly elusive smile.

You make your gaze clear-eyed. Dive into me: you’ll never see what I see.

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