Paris, Encre, 278 pages.

“I am an assassin. More than an assassin: a demon, a ferocious animal, a being who draws its life only from the blood of others, like vampires… I’ve killed twenty-seven people, most of them women; always in the dark, at dusk.” These are the words of the doomed hero of one of the most incredible crime stories in the annals of crime.

Françoise d’Eaubonne endeavored to paint the intimate tragedy of this schizophrenic character, the evolution between genius and madness of the dark forces of mental disorder. He will end up exhausting his own violence and become, bitterly, the spectator of his delirium.

(4th cover)

COUEDIC Didier, Gabriel CHAHINE and Françoise d’EAUBONNE

Note: Awaiting annotation.

Under the pseudonym Nadine de Longueval.

This novel is really very close thematically and psychologically to The Yellow Wallpaper in several aspects. The book’s protagonist, Judith, who writes the notebook found by her daughter in the opening chapters, is used by men to suit them, and loses all agency when she marries a man who has absolutely no interest in her except for his million-dollar fortune: no emotional contact, no hobbies, no bon mots, just a protagonist with in-laws who get on her nerves, her husband who talks only about himself and his novel that we guess will never be published, who interrupts her all the time, never lets her speak and discredits her at absolutely every opportunity, humiliating her at times and getting served by her all the time.

Throughout the book, we see her gradually sink into depression and madness, with all her hopes crumbling one by one. It’s hardly surprising then that society (and her daughter, before she met her) should regard her as crazy, given that she can’t express herself, can’t be happy, and is constantly attacked by everything around her, with only a small dog as a refuge.

In the novel, d’Eaubonne takes pains to explain what lies behind the “madness” of a woman seen through the eyes of others, who can finally tell her story without an outside eye or a husband trying to explain her behavior. It’s an extremely fine psychological exploration, taking us into the daily life of a woman deprived of everything, but above all of the recognition of her existence, forced to live for others and even as a bargaining chip. Even if it ends up as a bit of a hetero love story (the collection’s genre obliges) just before the last chapter, everything is credible, finely described and justified.

The last paragraph of the book is quite magnificent, in my opinion, since it marks the resumption of the story by her daughter, as both a way of inscribing the story into her own, as a legacy, but also as a memory, with the aim of rehabilitating, bringing out, making the story of a woman out of the gaze and, ultimately, with justice for all the wrongs committed against her.

Nicolas Lontel

Paris, Buchet-Chastel, 278 pages.

“A writer (for want of a better word) with particular tastes in love, Nathan chooses to transpose himself into a female character to talk about his obsessions.

………

This is a novel with a double bottom, a game of mirrors in which a person moves relentlessly from life to dream, and literature to reality. The author of Je voulais être une femme has undoubtedly surpassed herself here in audacity and even brutality, but above all in pathos. “(4th cover)

Paris, Albin Michel, 377 pages.

In this edgy novel, the illusions of love intertwine with the horrors of the century that left their mark on Françoise: the concentration camps, the Rosenbergs (she’ll give me Julius as a middle name in their memory), the political struggles in the Paris of those years.

It’s also the story of the emancipation of a woman who has left, never to return, her little personal and portable concentration camp called love, to devote herself to painting or writing, the choice being left to her.

Here again, there’s a lot of Françoise’s story. This book, like so many others, is a piece of her life’s work.

Éditions Seghers, Paris, 220 pages.

In 1946, published by Éditions du Scorpion, a book by Vernon Sullivan bearing this title. Deemed scandalous, it was then the subject of a lawsuit brought by a Cartel for social and moral action, which revealed that its real author was Boris Vian. He will be sentenced to 15 days in prison, quickly pardoned, for insulting morality. A few days before his death, he gave Françoise permission to write a new version of his novel under this title, whose scandalous scent and the taste for American thrillers at the time made it a literary success. (Vincent)