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Philippe Djian's tribute to Richard Brautigan
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One Reason to Love Life

by Philippe Djian

I was in Athens when I heard the news of Richard Brautigan's death. My first real holiday in ten years. The first treat my book writing had ever earned me. Why did this dreadful news have to hit me just then? I'd been roaming around for the last three days between museums and cafes. Nothing on my mind... My son was playing around a fountain. I had one eye on the paper, the other on my wife. She was tanned, magnificent. And that's without even starting on the light, the unbelievable warmth in the air and the miracle of still being alive in those last few days of October 1984. Only one thing was bothering me. I'd packed fifty pouches of tobacco in my suitcase, and no cigarette paper. Of course, tragedy always strikes when you least expect it.

When I came across the article, my wife was buying pistachios. The vendor had left a few on the table and was coming back with more. He was smiling at her. My wife is blonde, tall and well stacked. Athens is a city I adore. I had a smile on my face too 'til I found out that he'd died. In Bolinas, California. I haven't been the same since. I wake up at night. And you haven't been the same either, whether you know it or not.

"What's with you? What's wrong?" she asked me.

I stared at her and handed her the paper without a word. We've been living together for fourteen years. My son turned up as she disappeared behind the paper. He was lining up some unopened pistachios in front of me. The newspaper snapped shut with a frightening flap of wings. Most men whinge about the women in their lives, I didn't have that problem, thank God.

"Alright, she said, I'm going to buy the same sandals as John Lennon. Don't be too late, I'll be waiting for you."

I found myself alone. Me and Ouzo, the national drink. I hadn't had a drunken binge since last winter, so I had nothing to feel ashamed of. And for once, I had enough money in my pocket to bring all the bottles in the bar to their knees. But fate was, you have to admit, utterly ironic. Had anyone ever before had such a dry throat? Was there anything more tragic than this loss?

I would give ten thousand lives for the life of Richard Brautigan. And I don't mind telling you that while looking you right in the eye. Twenty thousand. Deep down, I'm not even disgusted with myself. Hundreds of thousands die everyday. Have we thought about his readers, about the tanks of life blood that were So The Wind Won't Blow It All Away or Revenge of The Lawn? Would anyone dare take The Tokyo-Montana Express out of my hands? Around one o'clock, I went back to the Akropolis Hotel. I'd spent the whole evening, just as anyone would have, trying to fathom what we had lost. I went up to Reception. The guy gave me a conspiratory wink. I turned on my heel, into the lounge and ordered a bottle. Never in my life had I felt so drunk and so lucid. I believe I could have stood on one leg, but I went for the armchair instead. The dazzling ceiling lamp seemed overcharged. It was just like that short story of his where he'd lit up his barn with 200 watt globes... Times Square, Montana.

I invited the bloke to join. No, he'd never heard of Richard Brautigan but he took a small tin out of his pocket and put it in front of me, smiling. I was explaining that Brautigan was one good reason to love life, I was within an inch of releasing a torrent of tears across the room when he gave me a broad toothy grin, urging me to open his little gift. It was cigarette paper. Five new packets. He'd bartered for them in a bar in Pireus, had made the trip there especially for me.

I rolled the first one with a trembling hand. A long, fragile and tender writer's hand. I did not know how to thank him. I did not know where to start.

"Richard Brautigan... I mumbled. His name was Richard Brautigan."


(Philippe Djian: One Reason to Love Life, translated by Ramona Koval and Mireille Vignol)
Online Source: http://www.abc.net.au/arts/headspace/rn/booksw/djian/hero.htm(external link)

The original French version?


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