Taoufik Ben Brik ou Taoufik Ben Brick, de son nom complet Taoufik Zoghlami Ben Brik1, n茅 le 9 novembre 1960 脿 J茅rissa, est un journaliste et 茅crivain tunisien.
Il a collabor茅 脿 de nombreux journaux francophones et 脿 des agences de presse ind茅pendantes de France (La Croix), de Suisse et de Belgique. Ses articles parus dans l'茅dition du Nouvel Observateur du 24 f茅vrier 2007 ont provoqu茅 la saisie du titre en Tunisie.
Durant la r茅volution qui renverse le r茅gime de Zine el-Abidine Ben Ali, il annonce sa candidature 脿 la future 茅lection pr茅sidentielle qui doit se tenir au premier semestre 20112.
If this book requires praise, it would be for this one sentence: "兀賳丕 賲孬賱 鬲賱賰 丕賱賳噩賵賲 丕賱丌賮賱丞 丕賱鬲賷 丿賮毓鬲 丕賱噩賲賷毓 賱賷鬲丨丿賾孬 毓賳賴丕 亘爻亘亘 卮毓賱丞 亘丕卅爻丞 噩賱亘鬲 兀胤賳丕賳丕 賲賳 丕賱噩賵丕卅夭 丕賱乇賲夭賷賾丞: 112"..."I am like those vanishing stars with a miserable flame that brought tons of symbolic rewards and pushed everyone to speak about them". In an arrogant bout of self-deriding honesty, Ben Brik acquiesces to thank the half-wit dictator -Ben Ali- for setting his miserable name aflame. Since the Arab spring of 2011, who, among the new "literary" voices that sprouted from nowhere, has acknowledged the parasitical nature of their fame? As we witness how the miserable flames of the post January 2011 writers blare up before their creative oil is gone, we are reminded that this lush little book of Ben Brik stated as early as 2004 his indebtedness to a highly-mediatized coup de chance, a stroke of luck that propels idiots to God-like acclaim. Ben Brik has no illusions about his literary worth, and his confessional drivel which he still persistently calls a novel is awfully entertaining. His inspiration is markedly fickle; he whines and blubbers and curses and derides himself and the country that at once embraces and stifles him. You cannot not fall in love with the meta-narrative flair of this lightly structured text. As you pity the writer for his inability to create a thing out of nothing or to disentangle some narrative sense out of the mess of his everyday social fiascoes, you also realize you have been reading some brilliant stuff on the turmoils of keeping creativity aflame, on the guilt-ridden significance of parenting, and on the pleasure of constant self-deprecation when we have nothing else to do.
A part quelques passages perdus dans ces pages, ce livre ne devrait pas exister. Aucune histoire, aucun encha卯nement ou coh茅rence! Que des discours jet茅s 脿 tort et 脿 travers pour replir les lignes. Rien de chez rien.
Si tu t'attends 脿 des valeurs d茅riv茅es des paragraphes ou m锚me un contexte, une bonne surprise de d茅ception t'attendra.
Une perte de temps et papier, je me for莽ais 脿 tourner les pages mais finalement j'ai laiss茅 tomber..