Laurence Anyways

Need a hand?

You look lost with that old dinosaur.

You were forty minutes late!

What's one more?

Where was I?

What are you looking for, Laurence Alia?

I'm looking for a person...

who understands my language

and speaks it.

A person who,

without being a pariah,

will question not only the rights

and the value of the marginalised,

but also those of the people

who claim to be normal.

F*ck me!

Who are these proles?

Shall we add them now

to the list of things

that minimize our pleasure?

Laurence?

What are you wearing tonight?

Nothing.

What will you say

at the Michel Berthiaume Award ceremony?

Something minimalist, like...

Literature!

Torrent of beauty!

Cascade of sperm!

Glistening stream!

Infinitesimal dust!

So... What is your full name?

Laurence Emmanuel James Alia.

- Age ?

- Thirty-seven.

Should I call your publisher?

I have a meeting in two hours and--

Forty-five!

Gender?

What's next?

'Blood type' and 'Favourite colour'?

Ten years ago,

these would have made puke.

Proust describes too much.

Three hundred pages to tell us

that Tutur fucks Tatave...

is too much.

In fact,...

were it not for his talent,...

L.-F. Cline would not have been spared.

Collaborating authors

did not come off unscathed

after World War II.

Writers like Bernard Grasset

or Jacques Chardonne

were tried by the Writers' Council

and suspended for cooperating

with the occupying forces.

Whereas others,

like Cline,

opted for the fresh air of Denmark,

just to kick back in kinder climes.

Today, his talent...

has precedence over his true self.

Such is life.

Can one's writings, therefore,

be great enough

to exempt one from

the rejection and ostracism

that affect people who are different?

One who, in another time-space,

could be you or me?

That's the topic of your next essay.

Laurence!

Hi, everyone!

Congratulations!

A friend of mine

won the Berthiaume Prize!

Years ago. My father...

used to hang out with Berthiaume

before his arrest in '71.

Then we lost touch.

Anyway, congratulations!

You amaze me!

Well done!

That newspaper likes me

and spilled some ink.

It's a small award.

False modesty!

Small award, big winner!

Have a drink on us when you get it.

In vino veritas!

Back to 'Pink'.

Liking pink...

and baby blue...

Write!

Indicates...

a latent...

Write it down!

'Latent'...

Childhood...

... trauma!

Authors' Note:

'Parents...

who paint their kids' rooms in pastels

go on the list of things

that subtly minimize our pleasure!'

Time for 'Yellow', sir?

Yellow? Massive ego.

F*ck! I swear, Laurence, I swear to you!

I was thinking 'big ego'.

And potentially problematic!

Now, a yellow car...

That's a fucking statement!

Get out of my lane!

Brown...

the anti-sexual colour.

You just hate my brown Bermudas.

Absolutely not!

I love 'em!

By charter, our lists must be impartial!

I hate brown? I'm wearing brown socks!

Red.

The colour of rage!

And blood!

And seduction!

And passion!

Bugsy Brown!

Red!

Gimme some red!

I'm starving!

Dark chocolate?!

What have I done to deserve this?

I fucked up, I was high,

I took the wrong bar.

My bad!

Dark chocolate minimizes our pleasure,

as you well know!

A mere sign of man's

self-destructive nature.

It can't happen again!

That's on the list of things

that cannot happen again!

Let's tear up the dance floor!

Berthiaume winners don't dance!

Back off!

I love it, I want it by the bed!

One month later

Please stop scrapbooking.

It's fucking torture,

no one wants that.

For your 35th birthday.

To you, to me, to us.

To our past, to our present...

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