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I don’t know at the time that the writer Hervé Guibert will become an important writer for me. Six months later, I will discover *The Remarkable Adventures* and the passage about the desire to merge with his lover will annihilate me. I will discover that these books speak to me, and speak *for* me (and will become aware of the power of literary minimalism, the neutral voice that’s closer to reality). Six months later, Guibert will announce he’s dying of AIDS. I’ll wonder then if *The Wounded Man* was a premonition or if, on the contrary, it showed the last glimmer of free love—a love shown without constraint or morality or fear—before the great massacre. I also don’t know then that I will meet Patrice Chéreau one day and work with him. He will adapt one of my novels, a story about brothers and illness and the body as it approaches death. It will be like a circle closing twenty years later.
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