About Hervé Joubert-Laurencin
Every one kills the one he loves
Letter of Intent
(This letter introducing the book is the text I sent to Hervé Joubert-Laurencin to let him know about the writing of this book. It is dated February 11, 2019).
Dear Mr. Joubert-Laurencin
I send you this letter to let you know that I'm writing a book about you.
Indeed, you present a particularly interesting case of perversity, although you have always look down on me or, on the contrary, treated me as a social or psychiatric case.
You think you are a psychoanalyst even though you are not and you are transferring your fantasies of leucoderm as I was your scapegoat.
I believe, and rightly so, in the inanity of the psychoanalytical method.
It does not allow dialogue, something you have always refused me, subordinating me to stupide girls who had neither the slightest aesthetic sense nor the slightest ounce of analytical judgment.
Communication, contradiction, that's what can untie the knots.
This book is made up of letters addressed to you and glosses, which complete or clarify them. They are preceded by an introduction.
You will probably wonder if I am crazy, if I am mad at you.
I will confess that I don't care much about you as a person, that I have learned with the time to think only about myself, and that I will waste much more time putting you to death - even if in my eyes this is the symbolic punishment that you deserve - than observing the slow degeneration of senility that threatens you.
I am tenaciously resentful.
Do you find my words extreme?
You see, only the fear of punishment prevents a man from killing his neighbor, otherwise it would be a very common thing, and one that I would easily commit because I am curious rather or by sadistic pleasure, because crime is, along with homosexuality, one of the rare means of counterbalance the natural order.
Now, just as homosexuality has been decriminalized, there will come a day when crime will be decriminalized as well.
It will be a progress of the human spirit, for what reason can justify a superior being has to be submited to the mediocrity of this century'?
You will object the question of Human Rights.
I would answer that it is only a variable data that must be adjusted according to time and era.
Moreover, the death penalty is still practiced in the United States or in China, countries that are among the greatest.
So, I believe that we must put an end to political correctness or good feelings and consider man for what he really is: a harmful being.
But finally, since it is necessary to express oneself with clarity, since things are easy to understand and to express oneself with ease, I neither love you nor hate you: I am indifferent to you and I know that I have nothing to expect from you, except your bad faith.
During our interviews, I made two requests: that you indicate a publisher and that you provide me with a letter of recommendation.
Both of them were refused.
I was mistaken in believing that you were above the peccum mobile; your refusal to agree with request reinforced my belief that you are not better.
This book is the story of a disillusionment.
Hervé Joubert-Laurencin was at the head of the Film Workshops and my thesis director during my Master's year at Paris VII.
He was more of a strategist than a professor. As an academic, he vampirized individuals: taciturn and discreet, he fed on their knowledge and then spat it out, like a viper, as if it were his own.
Physically, he was not very handsome, although I must admit he had an imposing stature and a singular way of looking.
His intellect could not be described as surprising, but he certainly had an analytical mind.
A Parisian bourgeois, he only gave importance to people who could bring him something, otherwise he handled hypocrisy and insincerity with unparalleled arrogance and felony.
No doubt he thought I was jealous of him, he even thought I was a thief.
We never understood each other.
He lacked both the pedagogical and psychological fibre that would have allowed us to become friends or colleagues.
Hervé was only attracted to what is golden and never questioned himself. He felt a sickly need to surround himself with a court of thurifers and sycophants, who in reality felt nothing but contempt for him.
But this is how men are made, only admiration and flesh subjugate them, and in this little game, women are queens. They know how to flatter the male ego and take what suits them.