I met Rochelle Fack when I was still at the University.
First, I thought that she was interesting because she was a writer.
I bought one of her books and I have to say that I was quite puzzled when I had finished it. It was not literature, just another one of these shitty books written by a kleinbürgerlich woman, who had nothing else to say but I am looking to know what is writing.
Moreover, Rochelle was surrounded by sycophants, a psycho called Jean-Louis and an ambitious, but bitchy girl called Rania.
All of them were jealous at me, when I was in a desperate state that I tried to hide. They were scornful and despising people who looked down on me because I had said that I was an artist.
They did ignore that a true artist is a man who suffers so much that he tries to express his pain in a glorious manner.
An artist does not try to flatter the rich and famous, he will not cry, he will not shout, he will create.
And Rochelle was just a wealthy caucasian woman who talked of Cairo when she would better have talked of her inner vaccuum, of the nothingness of her existence.
Yet, I thought that she could have been a good influence for me but I was wrong. She was haughty and her sole interest was her own person.
The reader of those lines would easily understand her stupidity. I should not talk of these people but I have been so hurt that I feel like a damaged module.
Brahim Megherbi, December 2021