Gaspard Koenig’s latest book, Humus (Editions de l’Observatoire), would it be the first novel of the Uprisings of the Earth? It is tempting to believe it since it is about a rescue of the planet by earthworms, more chicly called earthworms. But the title signals a misconception. The object of the book is not to awaken consciences, today sufficiently alerted to the danger represented by the disappearance of these virtuous ploughmen from the basements.
Admittedly, there is in the author’s bibliography an essay on The discreet virtues of corruption (Grasset, 2009) who was able, at the time, to announce the pamphleteer going against the current of economic doxa. It was a bit of an antidote to the conformist poison instilled by the years he had spent writing speeches for Christine Lagarde at the Ministry of Finance. The essay was misunderstood and little read.
As for the works that followed, the author relied a little too much on the unconscious and the subliminal to engrave in the minds, and a little in the hearts, the relevance of the things left unsaid. We can no longer blame him for that, because this time, things are said, assumed, simply told. He crossed the humus of his talents (humor and erudition) to reach the philosopher’s stone: a story, characters, the art of the novel.
The two sides of the same Gaspard Koenig
I was there the evening when, to celebrate the failure of his bid for the presidency of the French Republic, he announced to some of those who had supported him in this quixotic adventure that he would henceforth devote himself exclusively in writing. And all of them applauded this wise decision, thus showing that they had supported it as one bets on a horse at 100 against 1: by taste of the sensational more than by lure of gain. That evening, in front of those who had come to cushion the cruelty of the landing, it appeared that he did not need anyone to open his parachute.
His novel is therefore the story of two boys. Those who hold out their hands in the photo of Raymond Depardon chosen for the cover of the book: a tree in the foreground, in the distance the valley that the inhabitants have made infertile. As if suspended between the wild nature and the savagery of the industrial era, Kevin and Arthur, the two heroes of the book, clinging to the slope, reach out to each other to pass an object impossible to identify, to seal a secret pact.
Koenig devotes the first pages of his book to differentiating his heroes: the insolent and charming beauty of Kevin who lives up to his name, in the face of the ungainly shyness of Arthur. The one who has nothing but his charm and comes from the countryside, facing the one who has everything and can’t take advantage of anything. Two destinies that would be complementary if love worked like that.
“- All bodies are made for pleasure,” Kevin concludes.
– So you’re bi?
– I don’t know, I’ll have to find out. I did not think that they would bathe me with that, in Paris.”
The girl who intervenes, vamp and scammer, will not provide them with the information expected.
There are only two ways to save the planet with earthworms. Both ways are bad. She’s screwed, the planet, don’t insist, and just read novels that coldly watch her disappear.
Soon, as expected, Kevin and Arthur are arguing. The graceful hillbilly dreaming of bringing earthworms into the CAC40, when the Parisian still believes that the earth does not lie. But if they can’t get along as we would like so much, it’s because they represent the two sides of the same Gaspard Koenig. Difficult in these conditions to make two good friends. By this staircase with double autobiographical revolution, one reaches the novel of a funny writer.
Humus by Gaspard Koenig.
© / Editions of the Observatory
* Christophe Donner is a writer