especially attractive about his features (although,
compared to Henric, he looks not only more handsome but also more intelligent).
The line of his jaw is symmetrical and his lips are full, the lower lip slightly
thicker than the upper. He’s wearing a turtleneck sweater and a dark leather
jacket.
Beside J.-J. is Ph. Sollers, Philippe Sollers, born in 1936, the
editor of
Tel Quel
, author of
Drame
,
Nombres
, and
Paradis
, a public figure familiar to everyone. Sollers has his arms
crossed, the left arm resting on the surface of the table, the right arm resting
on the left (and his right hand indolently cupping the elbow of his left arm).
His face is round. It would be a gross exaggeration to say that it’s the face of
a fat man, but it probably will be in a few years’ time: it’s the face of a man
who enjoys a good meal. An ironic, intelligent smile is hovering about his lips.
His eyes, which are much livelier than those of Henric or J.-J., and smaller
too, remain fixed on the camera, and the bags underneath them help to give his
round face a look that is at once preoccupied, perky and playful. Like J.-J.,
he’s wearing a turtleneck sweater, though the sweater that Sollers is wearing is
white, dazzlingly white, while J.-J.’s is probably yellow or light green. Over
the sweater Sollers is wearing a garment that appears at first glance to be a
dark-colored leather jacket, though it could be made of a lighter material,
possibly suede. He’s the only one who’s smoking.
Beside Sollers is J. Kristeva, Julia Kristeva, the Bulgarian
semiologist, his wife. She is the author of
La traversée des signes
,
Pouvoirs de l’horreur
, and
Le langage, cet inconnu
. She’s
slim, with prominent cheekbones, black hair parted in the middle and gathered
into a bun at the back. Her eyes are dark and lively, as lively as those of
Sollers, although there are differences: as well as being larger, they transmit
a certain hospitable warmth (that is, a certain serenity) which is absent from
her husband’s eyes. She’s wearing just a turtleneck sweater, which is very
close-fitting but the neck is loose, and a long V-shaped necklace that
accentuates the form of her torso. At first glance she could almost be
Vietnamese. Except that her breasts, it seems, are larger than those of the
average Vietnamese woman. Hers is the only smile that allows us a glimpse of
teeth.
Beside la Kristeva is M.-Th. Réveillé. About her too I know
nothing. She’s probably called Marie-Thérèse. Let’s suppose that she is.
Marie-Thérèse, then, is the first person so far not to be wearing a turtleneck
sweater. Henric isn’t either, actually, but his neck is short (he barely has a
neck at all) while Marie-Thérèse Réveillé, by contrast, has a neck that is long
and entirely revealed by the dark garment she is wearing. Her hair is straight
and long, with a center part, light brown in color, or perhaps honey blonde.
Thanks to the slight leftward turn of her face, a pearl can be seen suspended
from her ear, like a stray satellite.
Next to Marie-Thérèse Réveillé is P. Guyotat, that is, Pierre Guyotat,
born in 1940, the author of
Tombeau pour cinq cent mille soldats
,
Eden, Eden, Eden
, and
Prostitution
. Guyotat is bald.
That’s his most striking characteristic. He’s also the most handsome man in the
group. His bald head is radiant, his skull capacious and the black hair on his
temples resembles nothing so much as the bay leaves that used to wreathe the
heads of victorious Roman generals. Neither shrinking away nor striking a pose,
he has the expression of a man who travels by night. He’s wearing a leather
jacket, a shirt and a T-shirt. The T-shirt (but here there must be some mistake)
is white with black horizontal stripes and a thicker black stripe around the
neck, like something a child might wear, or a Soviet parachutist. His eyebrows
are narrow and definite. They mark the border between his immense forehead and a
face that is wavering between
compared to Henric, he looks not only more handsome but also more intelligent).
The line of his jaw is symmetrical and his lips are full, the lower lip slightly
thicker than the upper. He’s wearing a turtleneck sweater and a dark leather
jacket.
Beside J.-J. is Ph. Sollers, Philippe Sollers, born in 1936, the
editor of
Tel Quel
, author of
Drame
,
Nombres
, and
Paradis
, a public figure familiar to everyone. Sollers has his arms
crossed, the left arm resting on the surface of the table, the right arm resting
on the left (and his right hand indolently cupping the elbow of his left arm).
His face is round. It would be a gross exaggeration to say that it’s the face of
a fat man, but it probably will be in a few years’ time: it’s the face of a man
who enjoys a good meal. An ironic, intelligent smile is hovering about his lips.
His eyes, which are much livelier than those of Henric or J.-J., and smaller
too, remain fixed on the camera, and the bags underneath them help to give his
round face a look that is at once preoccupied, perky and playful. Like J.-J.,
he’s wearing a turtleneck sweater, though the sweater that Sollers is wearing is
white, dazzlingly white, while J.-J.’s is probably yellow or light green. Over
the sweater Sollers is wearing a garment that appears at first glance to be a
dark-colored leather jacket, though it could be made of a lighter material,
possibly suede. He’s the only one who’s smoking.
Beside Sollers is J. Kristeva, Julia Kristeva, the Bulgarian
semiologist, his wife. She is the author of
La traversée des signes
,
Pouvoirs de l’horreur
, and
Le langage, cet inconnu
. She’s
slim, with prominent cheekbones, black hair parted in the middle and gathered
into a bun at the back. Her eyes are dark and lively, as lively as those of
Sollers, although there are differences: as well as being larger, they transmit
a certain hospitable warmth (that is, a certain serenity) which is absent from
her husband’s eyes. She’s wearing just a turtleneck sweater, which is very
close-fitting but the neck is loose, and a long V-shaped necklace that
accentuates the form of her torso. At first glance she could almost be
Vietnamese. Except that her breasts, it seems, are larger than those of the
average Vietnamese woman. Hers is the only smile that allows us a glimpse of
teeth.
Beside la Kristeva is M.-Th. Réveillé. About her too I know
nothing. She’s probably called Marie-Thérèse. Let’s suppose that she is.
Marie-Thérèse, then, is the first person so far not to be wearing a turtleneck
sweater. Henric isn’t either, actually, but his neck is short (he barely has a
neck at all) while Marie-Thérèse Réveillé, by contrast, has a neck that is long
and entirely revealed by the dark garment she is wearing. Her hair is straight
and long, with a center part, light brown in color, or perhaps honey blonde.
Thanks to the slight leftward turn of her face, a pearl can be seen suspended
from her ear, like a stray satellite.
Next to Marie-Thérèse Réveillé is P. Guyotat, that is, Pierre Guyotat,
born in 1940, the author of
Tombeau pour cinq cent mille soldats
,
Eden, Eden, Eden
, and
Prostitution
. Guyotat is bald.
That’s his most striking characteristic. He’s also the most handsome man in the
group. His bald head is radiant, his skull capacious and the black hair on his
temples resembles nothing so much as the bay leaves that used to wreathe the
heads of victorious Roman generals. Neither shrinking away nor striking a pose,
he has the expression of a man who travels by night. He’s wearing a leather
jacket, a shirt and a T-shirt. The T-shirt (but here there must be some mistake)
is white with black horizontal stripes and a thicker black stripe around the
neck, like something a child might wear, or a Soviet parachutist. His eyebrows
are narrow and definite. They mark the border between his immense forehead and a
face that is wavering between
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