Ravignant - a slap across the face for French literature, 31 July 1961

The latest literary enfant terrible on reviews, religion and the ‘absolutely ghastly’ writers of the nouvelle vague

On May 3, 1942, a son was born in Paris to M. and Mme. André Widhoff of the Rue du Docteur Blanche. They already had two daughters, Florence and Bridget, but this was their first and (as it turned out) their only son. He was christened Patrick. Only the rich, the elegant, the fashionable live in the Rue du Docteur Blanche. Patrick grew into a well-mannered, upper-class little boy. He went to Mass every Sunday and spent his summers with his two sisters in the charge of a foreign nanny at Dinard. As he grew older, he was encouraged to take a gentlemanly interest in the arts, in literature, in sport. When he was 13, he had his first lessons in golf. But Patrick began to look upon his elders with a hostile eye. When he was 16, his father was astounded to learn that Gallimard wanted to publish a collection of his son’s satirical poems. The father turned the proposition down flat. A year later, Julliard wanted to publish the boy’s first novel. Again, M. Widhoff said no. Patrick had a problem. His own signature on a contract was worthless: he was a minor.

To solve the problem did not take him long. The novel appeared on the bookstalls in France a few months ago. It was published not by Julliard, but by La Table Ronde, who knew nothing of Patrick or of M. Widhoff. They thought they were publishing a novel by a woman who, for reasons of her own, used the pen name Ravignant. It was a name that Patrick had found by opening a telephone directory, shutting his eyes, and using a pin. The woman of straw was a friend of his who was in the happy position of being over 21 and who, at his request, obligingly signed the contract and passed the book off as her own. It is called “Les Cités Chauves.” It has been widely reviewed, both in France and Italy. Comparisons have been made with Rimbaud, Radiguet, Bernanos, Ionesco. Cocteau loved it. He likened its style to the sound of a slap across the face. A diamond, one critic wrote, had been found among so many stones.

Continue reading...