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If I was sad and lonely, in my forties and mortified of life, impotent and angry, with sexual problems and unhappy, but most of all depressed because world and life are just dark and unfair (allow me my inspiration break so I can order new glass of wine and cognac while I write this in some basement pub) � then there would be a chance for which I would say that I found myself in Uncle’s words.

Current French existentialism is one sad sad place.

I don’t like books with no existent dialogue � words on words on words � but that are so deep that you want to drown yourself like they are at the end of the well and you need to dive for them, because there is obviously no way out.

And you have no light in your life and people are bastards, and you KNOW your family will leave you, and your lovers will leave you, and children will leave you, and you are penniless and work some shitty job, and your anger toward your parents the mammals is so frustrating (why did those creatures have you in the first place, because obviously lets blame everything on mammals) and you just want to have a decent fuck, and you even annoy your psychiatrist, and you had few unsuccessful marriages.

And you have only one faithful friend.

Your alcohol.

Misery come to me, I can’t stand life anymore � basic thought of this book. BUT I like it. Because I know that I will not always be young and happy and sunshine flowers all around me. Cynicism, irony, wrinkles, shitty bank statements and arse full of cellulite will come to me as well, and then I will embrace this book in my arms and say, at last, at last we meet face to face my dear friend.

Lets be serious. I just purely hope that in my forties I will not be as screwed up as this asshole is.

Let me pour you another drink, n'est-ce pas?