Litro #111 France Teaser

Steven Appleby Marcel Aymé Susanna Crossman Agnès Desarthe Faïza Guène Layla Hendow Michel Houellebecq Dany Laferrière Pierre Michon

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FROM THE EDITOR

WELCOME TO ISSUE 111 OF LITRO

The relationship of the English with the French – our onetime conquerors, trade rivals, enemies, allies, and nearest neighbours in Europe – has always been complicated.

Since 1066 France and the French have been a powerful influence on England, and many aristocratic families still carry the noble Norman “de” before their surnames.

French is classy; French is posh; French, above all, is chic.

The Brits have always envied the French for their fantastic food, effortless style (Chanel, Hermès, Balmain, Cardin, Givenchy ...), clever, sexy films, and what we see as their laissez-faire, not to say louche attitude towards sex and life in general. Our own language borrows heavily from French to express what English has no word for – as I’ve just demonstrated.

The clichéd (another French loan-word) image of the Frenchman may be a beretwearing Breton sporting a string of onions, but in reality we’re far more likely to picture the elegance of Catherine Deneuve, Toulouse-Lautrec’s fin-desiècle can-can paintings, or a smouldering Alain Delon.

French literature has always had plenty to offer, from the swashbuckling sagas of Dumas to the sciencefiction adventures of Jules Verne; from Francoise Sagan’s teen cri-de-coueur Bonjour Tristesse to, more recently, the mischievous metamorphoses of Marie Dariussecq. In the following pages you’ll see another side of novelist Michel Houellebecq, one of the bestknown contemporary French authors, who contributes two poems; we’re also proud

to present a new nonfiction translation of Francophone Haitian writer Dany Laferrière, who was in Portau-Prince when last year’s earthquake struck, and writes about his experience sharply and profoundly in Everything around me is shaking.

Other emerging and established French writers featured in this issue include hip French-Algerian enfant terrible Faïza Guène, radically different short story writers Marcel Aymé and Pierre Michon, and Agnès Desarthe, with a moving extract from her prizewinning novel The Foundling.

Susanna Crossman, a writer living in North-West France, contributes a meditation on family and loneliness in The Pull of the Moon, and we’re also delighted to publish La Maison de Dieu, a story of faith and redemption from

this year’s winner of the Litro and IGGY International Short Story Award, Layla Hendow.

There’s plenty more great writing to explore on our website at www.litro. co.uk, where you’ll discover tourists, madmen, artists and even a new take on Joan of Arc in our online-exclusive Ones To Watch and audio stories, updated weekly.

C’est tout! Au revoir – until next issue,

Katy Darby

Editor November 2011

CONTENTS

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EXTRACT FROM

THE FOUNDLING Agnès Desarthe tr. Adriana Hunter

16

POEM

IN THE SERVICE OF BLOOD Michel Houellebecq tr. Delphine Grass & Timothy Mathews

34

I FEEL LIKE GIVING UP Michel Houellebecq tr. Delphine Grass & Timothy Mathews

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CARTOON: HOW TO SPEAK FRENCH

18

THE LIGHTNESS OF SUIBHNE

Steven Appleby

Pierre Michon tr. Gregory Norminton

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EXTRACT FROM

tr. Sarah Ardizzone

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24

EVERYTHING

AROUND ME IS SHAKING Dany Laferrière tr. Sophie Lewis

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LA MAISON DE DIEU Layla Hendow

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THE PULL OF THE MOON Susanna Crossman

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BAR BALTO

Faïza Guène

EXTRACT FROM

WHILE WAITING Marcel Aymé tr. Sophie Lewis

EVENTS LISTINGS Alex James

EXTRACT FROM

THE FOUNDLING AGNÈS DESARTHE TRANSLATED BY ADRIANA HUNTER

‘A fireball cartwheeling right across the road, then, suddenly, after the bend, blat! Into a tree. This fireball smashes into the trunk and burns the lot, leaves, branches, even the roots. I thought it was like some paranormal phenomenon. But actually it was the boy. The boy on his bike. Apparently that don’t never happen, bikes catching fire like that, for no reason, but it happened then. I was there. I watched it from above, from the bridge over the main road. That’s where I saw it. A fireball.’

Jerome is rereading the eye-witness account in the local paper. His hands are shaking. His stomach too. He reads it yet again, wonders why the journalist didn’t ‘massage’ the words of this Yvette Réhurdon, farm labourer. For a moment he manages to take his mind off it by imagining the editors’ meeting during which they agreed to transcribe, verbatim, the words recorded onto a pocket tape-recorder by the primary school teacher who writes their news-in-brief column in her spare time.

Almost immediately the trembling, which had subsided, starts up again. Jerome wants to cry, he thinks it would be a release, but his tears won’t come. The boy wasn’t his son, he was his daughter’s sweetheart.

Is that what you say, sweetheart? He doesn’t know. How did Marina put it? My boyfriend? No. She said Armand.

Jerome is sitting in the living room and, through his daughter’s closed bedroom door, he can hear sobs, moans, occasionally a cry. He has no idea what he is supposed to do.

Before leaving for work this morning he went to see her. He turned the handle very softly, so as not to wake her, just in case. But she was not asleep. She was lying on her front, crying. He went over to her.

He thought he might stroke her shoulder. But when Marina heard him, she looked up. Jerome saw her face and fled.

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IN THE SERVICE OF BLOOD MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ TRANSLATED BY DELPHINE GRASS & TIMOTHY MATHEWS

I no longer go on trips, really, Because I know the place And I know my rights, And I’ve lived through rage.

And all that for what?

The idea of a vision The end of a song Men losing hope

In the service of humanity, In the middle of the estate, I know my bedroom well And feel the night descend.

Waiting for rage For exploding bodies, Squatting, wounded, Hoping for carnage.

Angels take flight In the glory of heaven They will find God; And the women have fun.

I bring the ingredient Of the final hatred, My teeth are grinding, Evil seeps in.

Tied to the table, Sat in the estate, The slow intensity Of the relentless night.

I know the tricks Of a crushed flesh I overdo it, I’m told But I feel exonerated

At night in the estate The slow immensity, The cruel vision Torn off from the sky Of a shape that moves Pulsating and red.

By human suffering, By hopes dissatisfied By the dense crushing Of superfluous days.

In the service of blood The sleepy disgust, The cruel ends of love The blown-up bits of the real;

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I am not serene But I am at home, Angels are holding my hand I can feel the night falling.

(BIO PAGE 34)

Steven Appleby’s work has appeared in newspapers, on television, on Radio 4, on stage at the ICA and in over 20 books. His Coffee Table Book of Doom was published in September, and his website is www.stevenappleby.com 17 | LITRO

THE LIGHTNESS OF SUIBHNE PIERRE MICHON TRANSLATED BY GREGORY NORMINTON

In the Annals of the Four Masters we are told how Suibhne, king of Kildare, has a taste for the things of this world. He is a simple man. His joys and pleasures are simple. He is heavy and coarse, with ugly blonde hair on his head like moss on a stone; and he lacks refinement of mind or spirit. He wages war, eats, laughs, and in every other particular resembles the brown bull of Cooley, which mounts fifty heifers a day.

The abbot Fin Barr follows this brute closely and attempts to remind him that Heaven reckons even the weight of a hair. The weight of the soul is far greater. Fin Barr has lived for nine years on the edge of a promontory and for another nine amid the gulls and crows by the lake at Gougane Barra: he is nothing but spirit, with hands as brittle as glass. Curiously, he loves Suibhne, because Suibhne is like a bull or a rock which might have a soul. And Suibhne loves Fin Barr, who makes him feel, on top of the pleasures of this world, the pleasure of having a soul.

Fin Barr’s brother is the king of Lismore. In the month of May, Suibhne takes up arms against this neighbouring king. The pretext matters little: Suibhne wants the king’s drinking cup, his fat cattle and his women.

He wants also to stretch his legs and ride out in the springtime. He has sought the counsel of Fin Barr, who told him: Kings fight amongst themselves – that is how it must be. Wage war on the king of Lismore, since he is a king. But if you are victorious, spare my brother – who is also yours, for are we not like brothers, you and me? Suibhne is in a good mood and has given his promise.

The weather is fine as they set out with their embossed shields and polished scabbards. The army in the sun is a glinting stream. The dogs of war chase butterflies and Suibhne sings at the top of his voice. His horse is mighty like him: together they resemble a hill with moss on its summit. Fin Barr, too, is happy. Blood pulses in his hands of glass.

He tells himself that, in its jubilation and contentment, the coarse soul of the king is almost fine, clear in any case; and at that very instant the king turns around, seeks him out by sight, finds him, and makes a LITRO | 18

EXTRACT FROM

BAR BALTO FAÏZA GUÈNE TRANSLATED BY SARAH ARDIZZONE

Joël, the unpopular proprietor of local hangout Bar Balto, has been found brutally murdered in the suburban nowhere town of MakingEnds-Meet. Yeznig is a thirteen-year-old mentally-handicapped boy with no sense of past or future – but what, if anything, does he know about Joel’s death?

Yeznig, aka Baby, Fatty or the Spaz This year, he started getting hair everywhere. Growing in every direction. In this place here, and there, most of all. Next week I was thirteen. I was a big boy now. Even if Mummy says ‘sweetheart’, and she says ‘my baby’ too. On telly, they never show babies with hair, and in the street, in their prams, they wouldn’t have hair either. I wasn’t a baby any more. She doesn’t want to stop with the baby. She’ll say ‘baby’ to me and to Daddy she says ‘bastard’. That’s it.

One day, I’d like to make her fall downstairs or tidy her away in the fridge, where she’d hide my ice-cream cones. One day, maybe. She won’t let me eat sweet things because the doctor says I was too fat but why is he so fat? If he’s allowed to say I’m fat then he can’t be fat.

And he’ll say to Mummy, ‘Stop smoking, it’s bad for you,’ but one day I saw him doing it. A fat doctor who smokes isn’t a proper doctor, or else he has to let everybody eat sweet things and smoke lots of cigarettes.

If he says something like that again, I’m giving his eyes to the birds to eat. That’s it.

I volunteer at HUW in the morning and I come home at night. HUW means: Helping Us Work. It’s Arnaud, the director, who’ll tell me that.

He says he helps me but I’m the one who helps them: I’ll stick labels on boxes all day long. The same thing again, again, again. Labels, boxes, labels, boxes. I’ll be President of France, because he can be on telly and in the newspaper at the same time and he does what he wants, he goes to every country and he’s got lots of money and sunglasses.

But Joël, the pinball boss, he told me I’m never President in my life, he says: ‘We’ve never had a mongol President in France,’ and he laughs at me. Joël’s more mongol than me. He’s always touching his hair behind LITRO | 22

EXTRACT FROM

EVERYTHING AROUND ME IS SHAKING DANY LAFERRIÈRE TRANSLATED BY SOPHIE LEWIS

On 12th January 2010, Dany Laferrière is in Haiti for the literary festival Etonnants Voyageurs. Like so many others, he is caught in the earthquake. Unlike many, he escapes the catastrophe unscathed.

A year later, in Tout bouge autour de moi (Everything around me is shaking), he writes of what he saw that day and then some weeks later, when he returned to Haiti: sights that speak of horror but also of the Haitians’ remarkable sang-froid. Laferrière retells the story of the quake through his own impressions and view of the events. He counters the sensationalism and melodrama of Occidental television coverage with a sober, powerful account of this crisis whose repercussions continue to be felt worldwide. Tout bouge autour de moi is not merely a piece of testimony; it is a work of true literature.

THE MINUTE There I am in the restaurant of Hotel Karibe with my friend Rodney Saint-Eloi, publisher of Mémoire d’encrier (Memory of an Inkpot), who has just come in from Montreal. Leaning against our table-legs were two fat suitcases filled with his latest books. I was waiting for my crayfish (on the menu it said lobster) and Saint-Eloi for a salt-baked sole. I had already started on the bread when I heard a terrible explosion. At first I thought it was a machine-gun (others will say a train), right behind me.

Seeing the cooks fly past us, I thought that a boiler had just exploded.

All this took less than a minute. We had eight to ten seconds in which to make a decision. Get out of the place or stay. Those who split swiftly were very few. Even the sharpest lost three or four precious seconds before they realised what was happening. I was in the hotel restaurant with friends, the publisher Rodney Saint-Eloi and the critic Thomas Spear. Spear lost three precious seconds because he wanted to finish his beer. We don’t all react alike. In any case, no-one can foresee when death will be waiting for them. All three of us found ourselves flat on the floor, in the middle of the courtyard. Under the trees. The ground LITRO | 24

LA MAISON DE DIEU LAYLA HENDOW

I There walked the priest: through the stone archway of a watchtower in Roquebrune-sur-Argens, underneath the blood-red cliffs scorched by an ancient sun. He was close enough to the Argens River to have felt its cooling wind, had there been one that day. He was alone. The rain had started early that morning and bounced upon the cobbled pavement like it was landing on a frozen lake. The old streets that ran between buildings themselves even older became narrow as he walked. They guided him to the entrance of l’eglise de Roquebrunesur-Argens.

The old man sighed. He looked up at the sky, a gunmetal grey, and then at the godless world around him. He thought it bleaker than he ever thought possible. The building he was trying to open was more similar to a ruin than a church and he imagined the rain could dissolve the very foundations of the stone.

II The priest shook off his cape when he entered the church; the sleeves of his fading cassock stained with rain. On the table, there was a handwritten notice on thick brown paper. It read: Bienvenue!

Eglise de Roquebrune-sur-Argens Diocese de Fréjus-Toulon “La maison de Dieu” Horaire des Messes: Le dimanche: 10h30 (avec orgue) The note lying beside it asked him to nail the sign to the door. He put LITRO | 30

I FEEL LIKE GIVING UP MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ TRANSLATED BY DELPHINE GRASS & TIMOTHY MATHEWS

I feel like giving up, and collapse on the back seat. But the wheels of need start turning again. The evening’s ruined, maybe the week, maybe even the rest of my life, but I’ll still need to go out again and get booze.

In Tesco a few yummy mummies are wandering in the aisles, refined and sexed up like peahens. There are probably a few men there too, but who cares? You can give up on small talk as much as you like, a vagina is still an opening.

I went up the stairs, clutching my litre of rum in its plastic bag. I’m killing myself, I can see that, my teeth have started to crumble. And when I look at women, why do they run away? Do they think I plead too much, or I’m desperate, have too much anger, or look like a perv? I’ve no idea.

Probably never will. And that’s the tragedy.

Taken from The Art of Struggle by Michel Houellebecq, translated by Delphine Grass and Timothy Mathews, published by Alma Books at £10.99 (www.almabooks.com)

AUTHOR: Michel Houellebecq lives in County Cork, Ireland.

He is the bestselling author of Atomised, Platform, Whatever and The Possibility of an Island. He is also a poet, essayist and rap artist.

TRANSLATORS: Delphine Grass has written a doctoral thesis entitled The Poetics of Humanity in the Novels of Michel Houellebecq at University College London. Her poetry has been published in various French and English-language journals. She is a member of the A Verse poetry group based in La Sorbonne, Paris. Timothy Mathews is Professor of French and Comparative Criticism at University College London. He is author of Reading Apollinaire. Theories of Poetic Language (Manchester University Press 1987 and 1990), and Literature, Art and the Pursuit of Decay in Twentieth-Century France (Cambridge University Press 2000 and 2006).

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THE PULL OF THE MOON SUSANNA CROSSMAN In the morning, Madeleine awakes from a dream that smells of boiled eggs. She lies under the covers, tired for a moment and then remembers that today is Friday. Today is Friday. She smiles, feels a pain in her lower back and slowly eases her sturdy legs from under linen sheets and woollen blankets. Her gnarled toes touch the cold white tiled floor. ‘You should get a duvet,’ her daughter Florence has told her a hundred times before ringing off, ‘Au revoir maman, bisous.’ Kisses land on the lines of her soft plump cheeks. ‘And Camille?’ Madeleine asks, but Florence has gone again, she is always saying goodbye, ‘I have to go maman, je t’embrasse.’ Madeleine edges feet into worn slippers. She has sewn the edges back to the heavy brown felt soles. ‘Make do,’ her mother told her, ‘Waste not, want not.’ Madeleine grew up in the war; she can paint walls, darn, stitch, cook from scratch, milk a cow, knit a jumper, repair shoes, drive a tractor, pluck a chicken and plant and harvest a field of potatoes. From her small seaside flat she now watches the tides rise and fall.

Florence and her husband Pierre chose the flat, moved her house and packed her boxes. ‘You’ll be so, so happy maman,’ her daughter smiles.

‘Move while you’re young, you can make new friends, you can’t live alone in the middle of nowhere. Papa has been gone such a long time now.’ Madeline tries, joins clubs for broderie, stretching, crossword puzzles, local heritage. She tries not to miss the soft chestnut parquet floor that she polished every week on a Tuesday afternoon, the warm smell of a nesting chicken, the empty space on Patrick’s chair. She tries to smile, to nod and is quickly put off by the banter and the lack of air.

‘Réspire,’ her father would say to her as a child, ‘Breathe in and then breathe out, but slowly, then they cannot see your fear.’

Madeleine slips her dressing gown from the back of the door. It hangs on a coat-hanger, blue and worn, subdued. She ties a knot by her hip and takes a look out of the window. ‘Look at the view,’ Florence says when they first visit the flat. ‘Grandma!’ her granddaughter Camille cries out ‘The sea, the sea, la mer!’ The sea stretches out to a blurred blue and grey horizon. The sea is like a mouse today, gently waiting.

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EXTRACT FROM

WHILE WAITING MARCEL AYMÉ TRANSLATED BY SOPHIE LEWIS

‘I’m sick of it,’ said a girl of low reputation. ‘You know what I am, but I wouldn’t recommend joining me. Lots of people, they think that the profession is a good way to get fat. Of course, you’ll find some women who make all their cash during the day, but that kind of punter isn’t my bag. My set are the standard clients, the average clients who fiddle their monthly salary for a bit of fun. Before, I used to make my hundred francs in the end, perhaps a little over, scarcely though.

We lived sparingly, my gentleman and I, and we managed to make ends meet and even put a little away in the savings bank. Fernando, his idea was that one day we would buy a little café beside the river Marne. Remember, before the war, these things were by no means impossible. And then, the war could have been good for us, if only the country had been ready for it. But at every level there’s been too much complacency, we French are too devoted to pleasure. Mistakes were made rounding people up. Top to bottom, it’s a total black-out.

Still, we didn’t suffer too much during the Phoney Fight, on the contrary. There were people about, men weren’t scarce, they still wanted a bit of skirt. Even after, when the Germans came charging into Paris, we had a good time. They sent all their military men to visit Paris. Now, the military has wised up. Quite finished, it is, that tourism stage. On top of that, you’ve hardly the time to get any work in. In this season it’s already dark at six. You have to work in the cafés. The drinks are dear and we do add up to a lot of single women and, for the client, atmosphere-wise, it’s really not the same as the streets. And it doesn’t do me any favours either. You know some women have that wicked eye or come-on cleavage. My best feature, don’t know if you saw already, is from my feet up to my waist, but I can hardly sit on the table. And some of the women can speak German, that helps quite a bit with the military. Fernando, he wanted me to learn it, he used to send me to a school for it every morning. But I didn’t understand a thing, I dropped out.

See my problem is, even our slang, I’ve never managed to get the hang of it. My education’s a problem too. We never spoke slang at home.

My old folks, they’d never put up with it. For them it came down to 41 | LITRO

LISTINGS NOVEMBER POET LAUREATE TED HUGHES CALLED NOVEMBER “MONTH OF THE DEAD DOG”, BUT AS WE’VE DISCOVERED, THERE’S A LOT MORE TO IT THAN THAT. FROM A BURLESQUE CIRCUS TO KILLINGLY FUNNY THEATRE, VIA HIGH TEA AND LONDON’S 19TH FRENCH FILM FESTIVAL, THERE’S PLENTY OF EXCITING STUFF TO DO, AND THIS MONTH WE’VE GIVEN IT A FRENCH TWIST: SO MAKE THE MOST OF AUTUMN IN LONDON WITH OUR GUIDE TO NOVEMBER’S EVENTS, COMPILED BY ALEX JAMES.

Until 31st December, 10pm Wed/Thu only: Recipe for a Perfect Wife @ Charing Cross Theatre, Villiers Street, £15 50s-themed comedy stage show in which five ladies compete to become Britain’s best housewife on live TV. Hosted by husband and wife duo Betty and Bertie and singing trio ‘Kitty and Her Cats’, no stone is left unturned as the contestants fight it out to be the most beautiful, obedient cake-baking spouses the world has ever seen … Includes post-show 50s-themed party in the theatre bar, with free cake and dancing until late.

See: http://newplayers.whatsonstage.com/

1st November, 7pm: Tales of Terror: Granta Horror issue launch @ The Last Tuesday Society, 11 Mare Street, London E8 4RP. £10 Join Granta for an evening of chilling tales and a chance to explore the macabre curiosities at Viktor Wynd’s little shop of horrors. Enjoy dramatic readings of a never-before-heard story by Stephen King and other pieces from Granta 117: Horror. In association with the Hendrick’s Lecture Series and Liars’ League. Each ticket includes a copy of the magazine. See: www.thelasttuesdaysociety.org

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1st November, 7.30pm: YARN presents The Special Relationship @ Concrete, Lower Ground Floor, 56 Shoreditch High Street London, E1 6JJ. £4/5 Short fiction event Liars’ League celebrates its 51st event with a night of stories to chill and thrill you in the run-up to Hallowe’en, including a brand new story by horrormeister Stephen King, courtesy of Granta.

See: www.liarsleague.com

3rd & 5th November, 7pm: ELO Impro/Get Fingered @ Lumiere, 88 Chatsworth Road, E5 0LS. Prices vary London’s quirkiest cocktail bar presents lip-smacking cocktails and events this month, including, on Thursday 3rd November, LIVE music hosted by ELO (French musiciansperforming incredible free improvisation), Sat 5- Get Fingered - arts performance + installation event (French arts based performance and installation) and a secret gig from the rather encroyable world tour completing band, Orchestra Elastique Contact: lumierelondon@hotmail.co.uk

4th November, 7pm & 10pm: Circus Burlesque @ Volupté, 9 Norwich Street, EC4A 1EJ, £15/£20 The House of Burlesque brings Volupte a rare treat this month: a chance to view up close and personal a taster of their soldout, 5 star, award winning Circus Burlesque, guest starring Betsy Rose. Combining the air and grace of Marlene Dietrich with the elegance and technique of Cyd Charrise, Betsy is sure to wow any eye that gazes upon her. Classically trained and performing “en pointe”, this is one vintage darling sure to deliver pure glamour and sex appeal.

See: www.volupte-lounge.com

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8th November, 7.30pm: Liars’ League: Might & Right @ The Phoenix, 37 Cavendish Square, W1G 0PP. £5 Liars’ League’s company of professional actors reads five stories of strength and justice – or injustice. Elephants, despots, squaddies, rioters and high-end cookware feature: to find out how, come along!

See: www.liarsleague.com

9th November to 5th December: 19th French Film Festival @ Cine Lumiere, 17 Queensberry Place, SW7 2DT. Times & prices vary This cultural festival presents an unparalleled selection of cinéma français, with a wealth of genres to suit all tastes and impressive performances from an array of household names and emerging talents. Highlights includes writer-director Xavier Durringer’s political farce The Conquest, which chronicles President Nicolas Sarkozy’s rise to power, and Jacques Perrin’s breathtaking documentary Oceans.

See: www.frenchfilmfestival.org.uk

10th November, 7pm: Necropolis: London & its Dead, at Paradise by Way of Kensal Green, 19 Kilburn Lane, Kensal Green, London, W10 4AE. £5-7 From Roman burial rites to the horrors of the plague, from the founding of the great Victorian cemeteries to the development of cremation and the current approach of metropolitan society towards death and bereavement (including more recent trends to displays of collective grief and the cult of mourning, such as that surrounding the death of Diana, Princess of Wales) Catherine Arnold offers a vivid historical narrative of this great city’s attitude to going the way of all flesh.

See: www.thehendrickslectureseries.co.uk

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13th November, 11am: Special screening of Romantics Anonymous, Electric Cinema, 191 Portobello Road, W11 2ED. Prices vary France’s latest big film asks what happens when a man and a woman share a common passion? They fall in love. And this is what happens to Jean-René, the boss of a small chocolate factory, and Angélique, a gifted chocolate maker he has just hired. Will they manage to get together, join their solitudes and live happily ever after?

See: www.electriccinema.co.uk

17th November, 7.00pm: French Passions: Felicity Lott on Hugo @ Institut Francais, 17 Queensberry Place, SW7 2DT. £10-15 Not only does Felicity Lott read Victor Hugo ... she also sings his poems! Born in Cheltenham, Felicity Lott is an English soprano who has appeared at all the great opera houses of the world and worked with the greatest conductors (Andrew Davis, Bernard Haitink, Vladimir Jurowski, Carlos Kleiber, Antonio Pappano and Simon Rattle) and received many honorary doctorates, including from the University of Oxford. Boyd Tonkin, Literary Editor of The Independent, will chair the talk.

See: www.institut-francais.org.uk

18th November, 8.30pm: Spirit of Play @ The Comedy Pub, 7 Oxendon Street, W1. £5/6 Want to know what a band composed of members of the editorial staff at the Times Literary Supplement sounds like?

Well, wonder no more – just head down to Spirit of Play’s latest gig, where they will be spanking the plank and tinkling the ivories until late. Expect old songs, new songs, and a dubstep cover of Another Day in Paradise (well, maybe not ...)

No website or online booking, just turn up!

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26th November onwards, Mon-Sat 7.45pm: The Ladykillers, Gielgud Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue, W1D 6BA. Prices vary The 1955 classic Ealing comedy is brought back to life this autumn on the stage in London’s West End. The show tells the story of the eccentric old lady Mrs Wilberforce who lives alone with her parrots in a strange house in King’s Cross, before the days of Eurostar. Her life is turned upside down by the arrival of Professor Marcus and his four friends, who between them make up the most unlikely group of criminals. Featuring some of the finest comedy actors including Peter Capaldi, James Fleet, Ben Miller and Marcia Warren.

See: www.theladykillers.co.uk

27th November: 3pm: Storytails @ The Drop, 175 Stoke Newington High Street, N16 0LH. FREE The Sunday afternoon literary event returns in November with readings of short stories and novel extracts from up and coming London authors you’ll wonder why you haven’t heard of. The vibe is relaxed and entry is free, so just turn up and enjoy. See: www.storytails.org

29th November, 3.30pm: Cordon Bleu High Tea @ The Mandeville Hotel, Mandeville Place, London, W1U 2BE £15 Students from Le Cordon Bleu’s Patisserie Diploma will showcase their incredible skills and creativity at a stunning high tea held at The Mandeville Hotel. For only £15 a person, guests can relax in the grandeur of the Mandeville Hotel in central London and sample the impressive array of traditional pastries such as Paris Brest, Tarte aux Fruits and Strawberry and Champagne Mousse, all hand-crafted to perfection.

See: www.mandeville.co.uk

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Supported by the Friends of the Royal Academy Nigel Hall RA, Death Valley (detail). February 1969. Oil pastel, 22.3 x 28.5. Image courtesy of the Artist.

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“I went up the stairs, clutching my litre of rum in its plastic bag. I’m killing myself, I can see that, my teeth have started to crumble. And when I look at women, why do they run away?”

- I feel like giving up by Michel Houellebecq Page 34

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