I leave the meeting space and decide to buy another copy of Crazy for Vincent. I threw mine out last year, along with all my other books. Because I was moving and you don't have space for books when your apartment is 100ft2. But even before I threw everything out, I started to get rid of certain books: Guibert, Duvert, Belloc, Bataille, Dennis Cooper, Sade, Genet, I threw them all out because of Laurent's accusations, because of the court case. The judge said they were books, of course, they were just books. And yet here I am, going to a meeting space, talking to my son in front of people who take notes about us. I didn't do it the very same day, that would've been too emphatic, but on the following days, discreetly, casually, as if I were just gathering my things, I threw all those books out, I couldn't look at their covers, their titles. I wasn't guilty of anything, but what about them? I saw them in a different light, literature was a good scapegoat, the books had really fucked me over, even if it wasn't on purpose, even if it wasn't their fault, I was still mad at them. One morning, I took the lot of them, shoved them in a bag, went down the five flights of stairs and threw them in the trash.

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