by Louis-Ferdinand Céline, translation by Fabrice Arfi
I bet the Dardanelles that this fucker from the "Investias" [sic] never
read one line from my books! What does all his babble mean? What do I
have in common with Sade, Sartre, Millner [sic] or the Pope? Does that
dumb-ass even know anything about them? Can he even read? I don't think
so. Can he write? Certainly not. He mumbles things with neither head nor
tail, writes God knows what!... He gets paid! He mixes everything up,
misunderstands everything, craps it all out, barks, and there we are.
Just thinking that great empires employ such cretins makes one sick. Telling
such bullshit about such a sad state of affairs! What would it be with
more important ones? I'd like to talk about all these sad things to Dr.
Braun or Mr. Sokoline, who I knew well... They'd be quite embarrassed...
What crass morons those "Investians" are! And there we are for existentialism!
Bang! Homosexuality! Weez! Voltaire! Boom! The moon! What a mess! What
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