Le discours sur la tombe de l'idiot - Fiction

I spent ten years writing a novel that pokes fun at eloquence and debaters. So it seems fitting that today, I have to face my own happy paradox.

I would first like to thank the members of the jury for deciding that my work deserved this award. No one in their right mind would dedicate their life to the non-job of author: to shut yourself up in a room and take the insane gamble to earn your living without ever leaving—by stirring imaginations. Somehow, being recognized by my peers tells me that I made the right choice.
 
I am not one of those people who asks, “why write?” Rather, I ask myself, “who do I write for?” Although I fear I will never have a clear idea of who that is, I would like to take this opportunity to thank my first three readers: that is, Yvon Rivard, my teacher, who first read and loved my idiot, as well as Fabienne Raphoz and Bertrand Fillaudeau, my editors, who are amazing literary supporters in a world that often makes light of literature.