French Literature Reviews - 2026
B. Pingaud, C'est à dire
Writers: Biography, Letters and Memoirs
Bernard Pingaud
C'est à dire
Le Temps qu'il fait, 2021.
104 p. — SBN 978.2.86853.673.0 — 15.00 €
"This latest book, I still only have a hazy idea of it. I see it as a sort of novel where the characters are replaced by questions, the plot by reasoning, written somewhat haphazardly (barely 'scrawled') and rich in digressions or detours."
It is thus that Bernard Pingaud envisioned the text he would work on until the very last day of his long life, questioning less the approaching death (of which nothing is known) than the journey that led him from the somewhat contemptible status of a mere 'scribbler' to that of a true writer. Always doubting whether he had ever hit the mark—being the author of a single 'exact' sentence—yet still suffering from having devoted so much time to this 'endless task' from which he could nonetheless not escape: writing.
"This testamentary book, open to all the winds, will no longer truly have the form of a book. It will be, at most, I hope, a pleasant mess. But this mess, just imagining it, seems to me much truer and more interesting than anything I have published so far."
Bernard Pingaud, born in Paris in 1923, died in the Gard department on February 25, 2020. He served as secretary of debates at the National Assembly until 1974. During the Algerian War, he signed the Manifesto of the 121 (1960). He participated in the founding of the Writers' Union (1968) and the Socialist Writers' Section (1973). He coordinated the working group of the Socialist Party's Secretariat for Cultural Action (1973–1979). After 1981, he chaired the commission tasked with proposing a new book and reading policy and drafted the final report. He also served as cultural counselor at the French Embassy in Cairo (1983–1987) and president of the Maison des Écrivains in Paris. He is the author of some twenty novels and essays published by Gallimard (La voix de son maître, 1973; Adieu Kafka, 1989), Seuil (Bartoldi le comédien, 1996; Au nom du frère, 2002 and Vous, 2015), and Le Temps qu’il fait (Piété filiale, 2018).
Excerpt
1. I am old, very old, there is no one older than me. Most of my friends or former colleagues have passed away. A few must still be around; but, as I have no news of them, I have no idea where they are. I imagine they have retired to the provinces, spending their days, like me, dozing in the garden when the weather is nice or by the fire when it freezes. Remembering them, the good or bad times we shared, is a precious pastime for someone who doesn't have many. I try to recall their clothing, the sound of their voice, their favorite expressions, and what we talked about when we met. When I succeed, alas, the memory does not bring them closer to me; on the contrary, it distances them, as if I had never known them. I suppose it must be the same for everyone. Life would be easier if we didn't remember.
2. Still, I have no serious reason to complain. Some balance issues have forced me to take up a cane. I could do without it, but I'm afraid of falling and not being able to get back up. The cane helps me fight off apprehension and also commands respect. Aside from that, I'm doing rather well. Just the minor troubles that come with age: my hearing is poor, even with my hearing aids, my heart is under surveillance, and my prostate plays sometimes humiliating tricks on me. Nothing alarming. The doctor (we have an excellent doctor here, who is fond of me) makes light of my worries. According to him, I still have a good ten years ahead of me. I wish I could be sure of that. But, if it's true, I wonder what I will use my time for. I recounted my life in a thick memoir and published some twenty-five volumes—books, novels, or essays—in which I believe I have said everything I could possibly say. Every time a sentence comes to mind, I feel as though I've already written it; and the relative lack of success of my work hardly encourages me to embark on a new adventure. It is therefore with the utmost reluctance that I open this notebook.
View the book on the publisher's website…
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Bernard Pingaud occupies a distinctive place in modern French letters as both an accomplished novelist and essayist and a dedicated participant in cultural and political life. Associated with prominent publishing houses such as Gallimard, Seuil, and Le Temps qu'il fait, his extensive output bridges creative fiction and critical reflection. The tradition of autobiographical and reflective writing in twentieth-century French literature often involves a profound self-interrogation regarding the validity of a literary vocation, a theme central to the author's broader intellectual trajectory alongside his involvement with significant historical movements and institutions.
This final text engages directly with the retrospective assessment of a life dedicated to literature, touching upon aging, memory, and the lingering doubts that accompany a long career of authorship. Readers interested in contemporary French memoirs and reflective prose concerning the writerly vocation may find this work relevant to their pursuits.
You can read an article about this work on Diacritik.com…
As well as on nonfiction.fr…