Chekhov’s First Play

Actor Cillian Murphy guest edits issue 25’s Commentary, drawing inspiration from luminous creatives in his native Ireland. Here, he selects an extract from the electric theatre company Dead Centre 

Dead Centre are one of Ireland’s most exciting theatre companies. I first saw their production Lippy at the Young Vic, in London, in 2015 – a truly haunting and original piece of work. Since then artistic directors Bush Moukarzel and Ben Kidd have continued to write and direct shows that fearlessly investigate and deconstruct their medium, while always delivering unpredictable and memorable nights in the theatre. Here’s a taste of some of their work: two extracts from a new piece… But for the real deal get yourself to one of their shows.

– Cillian Murphy 

*

As they enter, the audience are each given a set of headphones.

A red curtain.

The Director enters, holding a gun, stands in front of the curtain. He is dressed as himself. He goes to the microphone.

The Director. (whispers) Hello. I’m the director. Thanks for coming to – (out loud, off mic) Oh, you need to put your headphones on in order to hear me. (Back to microphone, whispers) Hello. I’m the director. Are all your headphones working? Let’s do a quick sound check: you should be hearing this in your left ear (they should) and you should be hearing this in your right ear (they should). Our production manager will swap them out if anyone has a faulty set.

Thanks for coming to tonight’s performance of Chekhov’s First Play.

You’re probably wondering why you’re all in headphones. Well, I did a version of this show last year and it went ok, but, talking to people afterwards, it became clear that a lot of people didn’t really get it, they didn’t really understand what I was trying to do. And that’s understandable because Chekhov’s first play is really complicated and messy… so I thought I’d set up a director’s commentary to explain what’s going on, what it’s about, and why you should like it. Personally, I always need things explained to me, especially art. I’m the kind of guy who goes to an art gallery and spends all the time reading the writing on the wall next to the paintings. I hardly ever look at the paintings.

And a lot of theatre, too, can feel complicated and inaccessible, especially these old plays, the classics. But they’re worth doing. They tell us so much about the world we live in now, they ask the big questions: who am I? What kind of a society do I want to live in? What do I want?

Chekhov was 19 when he wrote this and, as you’ll see, it’s not a very good play, but it’s hugely ambitious. It’s like all his other plays were in there, waiting to get out, all his ideas. This gun, for example. I don’t know if you’ve heard of the idea ‘Chekhov’s gun’ – it’s the idea that if you have a gun in a play… if you… if there’s a gun then you fire it… erm… actually I’ll explain that later… erm…

So, hopefully this commentary will make things clearer.

Ok, I’ll be offstage so I won’t distract you, I’ll just be a voice in your head. If you’re anything like me you already have a voice in your head anyway, so tonight you’ll have two. Hope it’s not too strange. It can feel a little intimate. Like even though everyone can hear this, it feels like I’m just talking… to you.

Looks at single audience member.

How are you? Comfortable? Make yourself at home. A theatre seat actually is sort of a home. It’s legally your private property for the duration of the performance. I found this out the other day.

Pointing gun at audience member.

That, even if you hadn’t come tonight, I couldn’t re-sell your ticket, as that seat is your private property.

Taking gun away.

And property, of course, is one of Chekhov’s main themes… See, that’s the sort of thing I’ll be doing throughout the commentary, unpacking key themes, making connections… And I know this microphone is very sensitive, so I’m sorry if you can hear me breathing, it’s a bad habit of mine.

Let’s get started.

Goes to leave but then stops

And I recommend keeping the headphones on, but if there are any members of the audience who are comfortable with the classics, feel free to take them off at any point and enjoy the play, as Chekhov intended.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Chekhov’s First Play.

CHEKHOV’S FIRST PLAY

A spotlight appears on a single audience member. The audience member slowly rises from their seat and moves forward on to the stage. They are hearing a different track from everyone else. They are receiving private instructions. They are Platonov.

The sound of the city. Traffic and electricity.

Platonov moves to the table and sits down. 

Everyone looks at him.

Everyone moves over to the table and sits.

Platonov pours shots of vodka for everyone.

They pick up the shot glasses.

One, two, three: everyone drinks.

Music starts.

All dialogue is now pre-recorded. The performers lip-sync their lines. They are losing their voices as they are losing themselves. At once liberated and truncated.

ANNA. How could you make us wait so long? It feels like we’ve been waiting a hundred years. It’s good to see you. Now we can have the fireworks

The demolition ball bursts into flames.

They all dance. It is a choreographed number. Platonov stands front and centre, and is obviously lost.

SASHA stops dancing and looks at her husband. She looks closely, and perhaps suspects he isn’t who he says he is. The others dance, synchronised.

SASHA. Are you ok? You’re acting funny. Come and sit down. Where have you been? You’re always late. You’ll be late to your own funeral. The late Platonov! Do you have a light? Do you even… smoke? I can’t remember. You’re like a stranger to me. Anyway, we can stay for a bit but then can we go? I don’t feel great. You don’t look so good either. Have you changed your hair? No, that’s not it. Have you changed your… face?

The others gradually finish dancing and the evening continues. They have been liberated by Platonov’s arrival and swirl around the stage. We only hear them when they are close to Platonov.

ANNA. Let me get you a drink, Platonov. Or something stronger? Now you’re here we should get a little high, don’t you think. Let our hair down. Be ourselves.

ANNA shivers.

ANNA. Someone googled me.

TRILETSKY. Here, man. Do us a favour? Would you play us that song? You know, the one we used to sing together in college? Christy Moore. The one about the airport.

He puts the guitar in Platonov’s hands.

I love that song. Go!

GLAGOLYEV. (Takes away guitar.) I hate your singing.

TRILETSKY. Irish music is the best in the world! Ireland’s the best country in the world.

GLAGOLYEV. It is and it isn’t.

TRILETSKY. I’ve been to London, and New York, whatever, and Berlin. Barcelona. Paris.

GLAGOLYEV. Great cities.

TRILETSKY. No they’re shite.

GLAGOLYEV. What do you mean?

TRILETSKY gets up on the table. The others throw food at him.

TRILETSKY. Because in one of those cities you can be at a party having the time of your life but you just know that somewhere else on the top floor of some building someone is having a better time, in a better life… you just KNOW that Kanye and Kim

or David Bowie

or Björk

or Marina Abramović

or somebody rich

or Prince

or an actual royal prince

or the fresh prince, Will Smith

or Zadie Smith

or Miranda July

or Anton Chekhov

or Kate Bush

or Kim Noble

or Miley Cyrus

or Billy Ray Cyrus

or P Diddy

or Brangelina

or Kate Moss

or Simon Cowell

or Angela Merkel

or Lena Dunham

or Eric Cantona

or Michelle Obama

or Chris Eubank

or Jay Z

or Dennis Hopper

or Marlon Brando

or Elvis Costello

or Snoop Dogg

or Tyler, the Creator

or Jim Jarmusch

or Jackie Chan

or Salman Rushdie

or Yanis Varoufakis

or Harmony Korine

or Castellucci

or Vladimir Putin

or Will Oldham

or Miet Warlop

or Nicki Minaj

or Thomas Ostermeier

or Michael Myers

or Matthew Barney

or Christopher Brett Bailey

or Tino Sehgal

or Steven Seagal

or Andy Lee

or Simon McBurney

or Justin Bieber

or Kenneth Goldsmith

or Macaulay Culkin

or Anna Wintour

or the fella out of the fuckin’ Arctic Monkeys are out there somewhere, having a better time than you. But here, in Dublin, there’s no such thing as famous people. There’s just us, Platonov. Think about it. What else is there? This might just be the coolest party in the whole country.

This article is taken from issue 25. To buy the issue or subscribe, click here

Town

Editing issue 25’s Commentary, actor Cillian Murphy selects a photo story on Dublin by Rich Gilligan

“I don’t relish having my photograph taken. Strangely I know a lot of actors who feel the same way… I have worked with Rich Gilligan several times over the last decade, and for him I make an exception. He is a proper artist, one who understands how powerful, emotional and elusive an image can be.”

– Cillian Murphy

Cillian Murphy: Can you tell me how the project was born?

Rich Gilligan: This body of work came about as part of a collaborative book project, published by The Salvage Press in Dublin in 2018. Jamie Murphy (who designed, typeset and letterpress printed the entire book) approached myself and the poet Anne-marie Ní Churreáin to create fresh bodies of work somehow connected to Dublin. The brief was open to our interpretations and we worked independently until Jamie made sense of our individual narratives and combined the work through the lay- out of the book.

CM: It seems that you were seeking to represent Dublin in detail and texture rather than scale. Would that be accurate?

RG: Yeah, that’s true in a sense. I guess the fact that I grew up in Dublin and that it’s a place I know in great detail means that the work inevitably becomes personal, and, although I no longer call Dublin my home, I still feel a strong connection and familiarity to the city. The challenge with this work was to try to represent the distinct atmosphere and rhythm of the city relative to my own personal experience without the work feeling overly representational or sentimental.

CM: Can you tell me about being an Irish artist living and working in the states, and what that brings to your work?

RG: Living and working in New York, I do find myself tuned into a different frequency. There exists a heightened sense of my Irishness, but also a strange feeling that the place is constantly changing and evolving in your absence.

CM: Ireland seems to be experiencing a very fertile period across the arts: music, literature, visual art… Do you have any insight into what alchemy might be at play in creating this moment?

RG: It’s rare that while a movement is actually happening, people have a chance to pause and acknowledge it. After moving to NYC I found myself almost exclusively listening to Irish music and reading new Irish writers. For a long time I attributed this to some form of nostalgia, but, on reflection, I’ve realised it’s simply because there is so much incredible work consistently coming out of Ireland that it’s almost impossible to keep up. There is something uniquely visceral and confident about these new voices, and that is what stands out most to me. When that fresh confidence is mixed in with raw talent, things get really exciting. I’m not entirely sure what has driven this creative surge, but I like to think it may be one of the few positive forces that often come out of a downturn in the economy; like somehow now we’re witnessing the fruits of the creativity that was happening at such a challenging time.

This article is taken from issue 25. To buy the issue or subscribe, click here

Ireland(s) 2.0.

Actor Cillian Murphy guest edits issue 25’s Commentary, drawing inspiration from luminous creatives in his native Ireland. Here, he selects an essay on Irish political identity from the novelist Lisa McInerney

I mentioned in my introduction to this section a new creative energy at play in Ireland today. Politically things are different. There are many forces at work internally and externally. For all of the country’s recent transformation into a socially liberal state, I am also aware that there are many issues that are not ideal, that are in fact shameful and need addressing. I’m a huge fan of Lisa McInerney’s work – do read her novel The Glorious Heresies, it’s a wonderful book. She has very kindly contributed this essay on the state of our nation, in which she talks a fierce amount of sense.

– Cillian Murphy

*

It’s not going out on a limb to say that we Irish are partial to upheaval. Plantation, partition, famine, migration: We’ve been through so much upheaval that we define ourselves by O’Casey’s “states o’ chassis”. We can cope with chaos. We feel formidable for coping with chaos. Like Father Ted’s housekeeper Mrs Doyle, we like the misery. So on August 6th, when, at the Féile an Phobail leaders’ debate in Belfast, Taoiseach Leo Varadkar warned that a united Ireland would mean a “different state” and a “new constitution”, he might have been labouring – or buckling – under the misapprehension that everyone would think this overhaul a woeful prospect altogether.

Reunification will happen only by consensus in the North and in the Republic, but it doesn’t have to be a condition of our forging a new Ireland. As a thundering nationalist, it’s my duty to realise that Ireland is far from perfect, that she might benefit from a spit and a polish, if not a gutting and refitting.

It bothers me that ‘nationalist’ is an ugly word now. As I understood it, growing up bouncing between Galway and Cork in the ’90s, it was the softer form of ‘republican’, meaning that you were passionate about all 32 counties of your country, but not to the point that you’d get lairy over it. It meant self-determination, being smug about our collective soundness, knowing the words to A Nation Once Again, and never giving Le Royaume-Uni douze points in the Eurovision. It didn’t mean building walls or breaking unions or obsessing over flags. It was positive, community driven, rather left-wing.

Recent political trends recommend lexical redefinition. Frowns skitter across pals’ faces if we talk about notorious amadáin Trump, Farage, Orbán, Salvini or Le Pen. What use have we for the word ‘nationalist’ in the age of Brexit and climate change and refugee caravans? There seems to be a fundamental breakdown in terms if the left-wing, inclusive, comforting nationalism we espoused could have anything to do with this far-right screeching. To be united by fear or hate is to not be united at all, and unity is the cornerstone of nationalism, is it not?

This definition is colloquial, of course. When your country is divided, the nationalist goal tends to be the romantic one, and that nationalism can also be used to promote the divide et impera tactic doesn’t make a lick of sense at all.

It’s easy to be romantic about Ireland. Likely this is the case with any underdog country. Ireland has not invaded or enslaved and till very recently had no wealth to speak of, and is, therefore, not grabby about resources. When recent history is characterised by casting off shackles and facing fearlessly the mistakes of the past, it’s even easier. In particular, there were the marriage equality and abortion referendums in 2015 and 2018, each won by a landslide. Of the abortion referendum result, Varadkar said, “I believe today will be remembered as […] the day Ireland stepped out from under the last of our shadows, into the light.”

Leo Varadkar should be the perfect Taoiseach for today’s Ireland. Young – our youngest ever, taking office at the age of 38 – openly gay, the son of an immigrant, educated and accomplished, he is also quite right-wing, quite cold, slow to show his hand… a bit of a cute hoor, we’d say. “You all must love him,” I’ve been told, abroad, and it’s sad that I’m compelled to let our admirers down by retorting, “He’s an awful bollocks.” (Now, the Irish will call anyone in a position of authority or influence ‘an awful bollocks’: The parish priest, the bank manager, Bono, Maura from Love Island… I’ve even heard one heathen say it of our patron saint, Michael D Higgins.) It’s a tough task to be fair, for Ireland’s problems are many and no one Taoiseach can be expected to triumph over them all. Any one of those problems could have been the breaking of Leo, if Brexit hadn’t trundled in and driven us to distraction.

Possibly our friends in the UK are sure that it’s only their social problems that are ignored thanks to the rabid elephant in the room, but it’s the same this end. Brexit has profound implications for Ireland’s economy and our fragile peace, and so rightly it takes up our public servants’ attention. Varadkar could be otherwise engaged; his counterparts in the north should be otherwise engaged. Ireland is suffering the same greed-driven housing crisis as many of our European neighbours. As a result of this, and of our underfunded mental health services, homelessness is on the rise. The Republic’s health executive is a bloated, bureaucratic nightmare. The citizens of the six counties of Northern Ireland don’t have access to abortion services, nor do they have the right to marry someone of the same sex. Power-sharing in the North has collapsed. Prejudice is grand so long as the target is a member of the Travelling community. Asylum seekers in the Republic are stifled by the system of direct provision, where the state provides for basic requirements while curtailing access to work and third-level education. “The whole system is designed to remove one of the core human needs – imagination, the ability to dream,” says asylum seeker and LGBTQ+ activist Evgeny Shtorn, who fled persecution in Russia.

Despite, or perhaps because of all of this, political disengagement is common. When nationalism either means ‘frothing bigotry’ or ‘solidly performs Come Out Ye Black and Tans at parties’, it’s easy to disregard the concept of public duty, to absolve yourself of your obligation to act on what’s going wrong. We Irish are susceptible to inaction, not so much because of frothing bigotry, but a little because of Come Out Ye Black and Tans.

Romanticised nationalism, the kind you hear in song, is the kind that comes from enduring life in the shadows. The Irish inferiority complex is the reason for our collective pessimism, suspicion of authority, begrudgery, love of a good lie, capacity for schadenfreude, tolerance for shifty politicians and intolerance for those who develop ideas above their station. These characteristics are symptoms of an illness contracted from occupation, the tyranny of doctrine, generational poverty and inequality, emigration-as-culture, the loss of a language. The Irish – in the North and in the Republic – have a propensity to form an unhealthy relationship with their own state, enabling and enduring in cycles, because the Irish haven’t yet shaken off the suspicion that whinging is all we’re good for. The Irish employ black humour because the Irish are scarred. The Irish laugh because otherwise we’d never stop keening.

So we’re frustrating en masse, but in smaller numbers we’re astounding. So much progress is driven by individuals, community groups and grassroots activism. All over the island, campaigners throw their energies into beautifying their cities, fundraising for mental health services, supporting people living in direct provision, providing for the homeless. And if there’s anything that’ll make you weep into your cup of Barry’s tea, it’s the spontaneous #HomeToVote movement, where Irish citizens living abroad came back to vote in those historic referendums, because they knew their own power, and recognised their duty. Perhaps it’s a case of divide et impera strangely being the right tactic to deal with our inferiority complex. In Ireland nothing ever works how you think it will.

By rights, our politicians should be motivated to perform with that individual energy. If the grassroots movements are indicative of national reimagining, Leo’s feared gutting and refitting has already begun. Let’s see Ireland 2.0., Ireland stepping into the light as a nation of doers rather than bitter worriers, of nationalists in good deed as well as romantic thought. Our politicians, north and south, should get on board before the ship leaves the harbour.

This article is taken from issue 25. To buy the issue or subscribe, click here

The Collection

Nina Leger discusses her recent award-winning novel and the need to create a female gaze unconcerned with male fantasy

“She slides it into her mouth.

She lets it grow heavy, take on warmth, breadth and shape, push against her palate, weigh upon her tongue.

Immobile lips, minute internal contradictions: her movements have grown less frenzied.

She thinks of paper flowers that unfold when placed on water.

She moves away, and contemplates the erect penis.”

‘She’ is Jeanne. She refuses to be labelled, lusted after, categorised, rationalised or pitied. In Nina Leger’s extraordinary Prix Anaïs Nin award-winning novel, The Collection (Mise en pièces), Jeanne is the amorphous antidote to the reductive male gaze that has plagued literature by trivialising and objectifying female sexuality. Moving restlessly to and from anonymous Parisian hotel rooms, the reader follows her world of conquest as she collects disembodied penis after penis for her fantastical “memory palace”. Leger takes great delight in resisting the traditional literary conventions that readers are usually spoilt with, the ‘whys’ and ‘becauses’ of a character and their actions. In the writer’s own words: “Saying nothing about her was the only way to let her be everything.” This depersonalised framework – together with language that is meticulous, detached, almost forensic in its penetration of desire, personas and puritanism – makes for writing that is constantly disarming.

Although the author was born in the Côte d’Azur resort town of Antibes, Paris is where she has spent most of her life. The city itself is arguably the second character in the book, acting as the concrete anchor to Jeanne’s ephemerality. Through The Collection, she has created a rich, new psycho-geography for the capital via the Metro line and red-neon lights of Pigalle, one which has been “ignored by the common Parisian imagination. It is almost as if, just like Jeanne, these places escape clichés.”

We recently spoke to Leger in-depth about the novel, in addition to female sexuality and male fantasy in literature, the proliferation of pornography, and what’s next.

Was there a germ of an idea or an exercise that led to the novel? What was the impetus to write this story? 

I was appalled by many narrow and clichéd depictions of active female sexuality. I was wondering what would happen if a woman was given the freedom to act with the independence and certainty that has been reserved for men for so long; what would happen if her body was no longer placed under watch, but turned watcher; if her body was never described to the reader and that only the nudity of men, were made visible? What would happen if we supplanted the male gaze with a female gaze? This was the impetus of The Collection.

Why did you actively resist the literary conventions of ‘whys’ and ‘becauses’? Is Jeanne indifferent to our gaze or reading? 

I carefully excluded any element which could have been read as an explanation for Jeanne’s attitude to sex. When it comes to women’s sexuality, explanation is often the first step towards disempowerment: to explain a woman’s sexuality is to say that what she does is not her choice, that it is only an effect resulting from causes which can be found elsewhere (in these things I playfully dubbed the “whys” and the “becauses”). Besides, explanation is often a tool of judgement and condemnation. I conceived of Jeanne showing the falsity of this demon of explanation which seizes us when we talk of female sexuality. Freed from the “whys” and “becauses”, Jeanne can act without having to justify anything, not even to the reader, not even to me.

Why did you use a depersonalised perspective on a traditionally intimate and personal subject matter?  

This has to do with my refusal to say anything about Jeanne that could be used as an explanation of her attitude to sex. We (the reader and me) ignore her age, how she looks like, her profession, her social background and so on. Saying nothing about her was the only way to let her be everything.

A novel often wants to know and say everything about its character. Paradoxically, considering the theme of the novel, Jeanne resists the voyeuristic imperative. Except her sexuality, we know nothing about her. She escapes our “will to know”.

At one point Jeanne is severely disappointed with existing ‘female heroines’ in books – why do you think we still have a deficit of sexually liberated female protagonists? What can be done to correct this imbalance of representation?  

I don’t think the problem is with characters but with authors who create and manipulate them. Literature is filled with women whose sexuality is (at least apparently) liberated. But these characters are rarely the beneficiaries of their own freedom. Most of the time, they fulfil a male fantasy, either because the author is a man, or because in writing a woman has sought to match a male fantasy. Let’s take a famous French pornographic novel, Histoires d’O by Pauline Réage (aka Dominique Aury). It depicts the wild masochist sexuality of a woman who entirely submits to male desires. Jean Paulhan — who was Aury’s lover — wrote the preface of the novel and he says: “At last a woman who admits it! Who admits what? Something that women have always refused till now to admit (…) that everything in them, even their minds, is sex.” Such an intrusive, violent, essentialist approach is unbearable. It is easy to reinforce the patriarchal order with sexually liberated women. This is why the depiction of sexually liberated female protagonists is not enough. The real question is: what do you do when you represent this liberation in a novel/a film/a play? Do you want to indulge in this order or to debunk it? Liberation is one thing but independence is another.

Things have changed a lot since Histoire d’O and they change faster and faster since #metoo happened, but the reason why it is taking so long is that we have to question all our representations, all our (mis)conceptions. We have to question, deconstruct and reconstruct our discourses from scratch to create the conditions of a truly liberated, autonomous, independent female gaze on sexuality.

You write about pornography with a wonderfully detached surrealism. What impact do you think this proliferation of images is having on us?

For a long time, people craved these images because they were so rare and hard to get. Now they are everywhere, this proliferation is usually considered an overwhelming aggression. Maybe we could see things differently and consider this excessive presence as an opportunity to change our relationship to these images, to stop giving them so much credit, to stop looking at them in awe and start playing with them. This is what I did when I wrote about porn in The Collection. I used these images, not as sulfurous readymade objects of desire, but as a material that literature could dispose of, distort and reinvent in its own way.

Paris seems to be a central character in the book – why did you choose it as your setting?

Paris did not come as a choice: it was intertwined in the very idea of Jeanne. Of course the reason is that I have lived in Paris most my life so it’s the geography I know best. Jeanne walks through places located in my own neighborhood, in the 13th arrondissement, she even walks up my own street twice! I chose these places because I know them intimately and because they have been ignored by the common Parisian imagination. It is almost as if, just like Jeanne, these places escape clichés. Besides, a lot of things are close to abstraction or fantasy in this novel, so I needed a very concrete, very material setting to anchor them. The geographic realism of the novel is a condition of its fantasies.

In the introduction to Concrete Island Ballard notes: “Marooned…on a traffic island, we can tyrannise ourselves, test our strengths and weaknesses, perhaps come to terms with aspects of our characters to which we have always closed our eyes.” It seems that there are similarities to Jeanne and Maitland (both arguably marooned, testing strengths and weakness) – but why did you choose to reference it?

The presence of science-fiction and references to Ballard and Gibson in The Collection is a result of Jeanne growing tired of the treatment of female sexuality in the novels she reads. Instead, she decides to read “stories of reinforced concrete, of petrified forests, of chrome cockpits speeding along the rollercoaster of autoroute interchanges”. To get rid of the psychological analysis that fill novels dealing with female sexuality, she sinks in sci-fi novels where “interior motives are reduced to silence, annihilated in the collapse of ancient worlds that crushes all futures with it”. The reference to Gibson and Ballard in the book is a kind of follow-up to the reflection about the “whys” and “becauses”: it’s a way to get rid of the invasive rhetoric of explanation. What attracted me to Concrete Island is the island itself, the fascinating spatial configuration Ballard invents and describes rather than the hero he abandons in between the highways.

Were there any other artistic or literary influences that informed or shaped the novel? 

In a very unusual way (unusual to me I mean), I wrote The Collection against novels/artworks/discourses I disagreed with rather than with novels/artworks/discourses I admired. Still I can think of two authors I enjoyed reading when writing: Guillaume Dustan’s auto-bio-pornographic trilogy and Marguerite Duras’ micro-novel The Man Sitting in the Corridor. Dustan’s straightforward description of his own sexuality and Duras’ way of being at the same time dreamlike and crude stunned me.

What do you have planned for your next project?

With Mise en pièces, I wanted to find a way of talking of female sexuality. What I had to say was very specific and now that it’s done, I will move on, especially because with sex, people suspect the author to play the lurid card only to get attention. The further I go, the better it will be for the sake of The Collection. So I decided to follow the geographical impulse that is already perceptible in this novel and to write about a place, a weird place located in the South of France and called Sophia Antipolis. It is a very Ballardian place of futuristic buildings lost in the forest. I intend to write a topographical novel. This will be another way to escape the tyranny of the biographical.

The Collection is published by Granta Books