Hygiene and the Assassin by Amélie Nothomb Page B

part of their charm: while I was reading you, I was aware of a continuous alternation between passages that were deep with meaning and interludes that were absolute bluff—I say absolute because they were bluffing the author just as much as the reader. I can imagine the jubilation you must have felt while filling these brilliantly hollow, outrageously solemn interludes with an appearance of depth and cogency. For someone who is such a virtuoso, it must have been exquisite recreation.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you going on about?”
    â€œI found it exquisite. To discover so much bad faith in the words of a writer who claims to be at war with bad faith is utterly charming. It would have been irritating if your perfidy had been homogeneous. But to go back and forth between good and bad faith the way you did was a brilliant display of dishonesty.”
    â€œAnd do you think you’re capable of differentiating between the two, pretentious little female?”
    â€œWhat could be simpler? Every time a passage made me burst out laughing, I could tell that you were bluffing. And I thought it was very clever: an excellent strategy, using bad faith and intellectual terrorism to fight against bad faith, being even more underhand than your adversary. Maybe too excellent, in fact, because it’s too refined for such a vulgar enemy. It will come as no news to you, but Machiavellianism rarely hits the bull’s eye: sledgehammers do a better job at crushing than subtle mechanisms do.”
    â€œYou say that I am bluffing: well, I make a paltry bluffer compared to you, claiming you’ve read all my novels the way you do.”
    â€œEverything that was available, yes. Question me, if you want to make sure.”
    â€œUh-huh, just like Tintin addicts: ‘What is the license plate number of the red Volvo in
The Calculus Affair
?’ It’s grotesque. Don’t expect me to dishonor my works in such a fashion.”
    â€œWell, how can I convince you, then?”
    â€œYou can’t. You will not convince me.”
    â€œIn that case, I have nothing to lose.”
    â€œWith me, you never have
had
anything to lose. You’ve been doomed from the start because of your sex.”
    â€œIncidentally, I indulged in a little survey of your female characters.”
    â€œHere we go. God knows.”
    â€œEarlier on, you said that according to your belief system, women do not exist. I find it astonishing that a man who professes such a creed has created so many women on paper. I won’t go over all of them, but I counted roughly forty-six female characters in your work.”
    â€œAnd what is that supposed to prove?”
    â€œIt proves that women do exist in your ideology: a first contradiction. And you will see, there are others.”
    â€œOh! Mademoiselle is on the hunt for contradictions! I would have you know, Mademoiselle Schoolmarm, that Prétextat Tach has raised contradiction to the level of a fine art. Can you imagine anything more elegant, more subtle, more disconcerting, or more acute than my system of self-contradiction? And now along comes a silly little goose—all that’s missing is a pair of glasses on her nose—triumphantly announcing to me that she has uncovered a few unfortunate contradictions in my work! Isn’t it marvelous having such discerning readers?”
    â€œI never said that the contradiction was unfortunate.”
    â€œNo, but it’s obvious that’s what you were thinking.”
    â€œI’m in a better position than you to know what I am thinking.”
    â€œThat remains to be seen.”
    â€œAnd, as it happens, I thought the contradiction was interesting.”
    â€œGood Lord.”
    â€œForty-six female characters, as I was saying.”
    â€œFor your calculations to be of any interest whatsoever, you should have counted how many male characters there are, too, my child.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œSuch