Thierry Crouzet

Automatic translation from French

Wednesday 1st, Balaruc

Gray, cold, humid weather. No courage to cycle my 20 km in this damn circle of 1 km authorized. I walk with Isa. Back pain from sitting too much, old pathologies usually wake up driven by intensive sport.

Amazing experience, I listen to 8D music , I turn my head to look for the sound. It’s like stepping into a new dimension or crossing a noisy street on a party day, while sitting on your chair.

I post my weather report of the pandemic. When the numbers go down, the fog lifts.

Thursday 2, Balaruc

Nightmare night. The confinement breaks me. My body no longer finds its marks. He orders me to resume his usual rhythm and does not understand why I disobey him. The impression of plunging back into the years before my digital burnout in 2011, of rediscovering forgotten suffering, all linked to an excessive sedentary lifestyle. I see myself on the Mole of Sète, crowded with a thick crowd, I run, or at least I try, I do not move forward as if I lacked strength. I approach a bus, huge, very high, it starts, I am too small to press the button to open the door. The driver gives me a contemptuous look and I wake up.

My responsibility is action, especially action through words.

What are we changing today in our lives so that tomorrow will be different? I feel like I changed everything fifteen years ago by giving up a cosmopolitan life to take root in my hometown. I don't see what I could change again. I cannot ask others to be more lucid than me, to still be able to make a quantum leap which I no longer have the strength to do. But if we don't change anything individually, we won't change anything collectively.

Tonight we may be approaching the peak of the pandemic at the same time as my simulation is approaching its horizon. A commentator who works in the prefecture tells me that my figures help him, two bonzes fall on him, he replies that my figures temper his brain, and it is indeed their only use, to fight against anxiety, by putting the crisis into perspective , by distancing it, by obscuring its macabre side while avoiding dramatization.

Living room

Friday 3, Balaruc

I laugh when I hear that 8% of the pupils do not give any more news to their teachers because they would not have internet access. Maybe they don't care, right? I have to fight with my sons.

I relapsed this morning, I wrote a new post on the coronavirus, with feverishness like every time. These are ejaculations, not writing.

I call friends, friends call me, we give each other almost more news than usual, because only you think of yourself and those you love. This introspection immerses us in a mental state conducive to dreams. Seb Musset talks to me about his life in Paris. Shops with more empty shelves than in the South. Absent cops who watch us here at the slightest roundabout, stalking us in the woods and scrubland. We are in the same country, but live in confinements of variable geometry.

Saturday 4, Balaruc

Clear morning beyond my windows. Flat calm, the church bells carry me. The pink oil pond. My fishing neighbor raises his net, the net set by my father, and even my grandfather, a net still there like the boat of Theseus in the port of Athens.


I am already addicted to Google stats analyzing containment country by country (and which by the way reveal once again that we are constantly tracked).

Literature is a struggle. How to remain silent in troubled times? I don't understand how most writers manage to keep quiet. We must not maintain the same relation to words. When I say that I cannot do anything other than write, I demonstrate it in broad daylight during the pandemic, I express my pathology. Those who do not imitate me are less sick than they claim in ordinary times. Or they are infinitely wiser than me, infinitely more discreet. For my part, I feel an urgency to say, not to show myself, but because saying helps me to live, to understand, to share.

I am not a manager, I have no literary economy, no calculation, I don't care about overproducing, being less good from time to time, even mediocre, I have no fear, no shame, I don't think about consequences of what I do for my author business. I live literature as I breathe, I live it as best I can, as best I can. I know authors who are tense about the slightest spelling mistake, I have been relieved of these concerns for a long time, perhaps because I have always made a lot of mistakes, and that, if they scared me, I wouldn't even have started writing. The mistakes are corrected, the small grammatical inaccuracies too, literature, for its part, is a race, a battle between oneself and the text, a fresco painted with revolver shots.

After confinement, publishers will receive mountains of manuscripts, manuscripts produced by idleness, unnecessary manuscripts, to be discarded without even opening them.

I'm testing Zwift, the exercise bike simulator. I had received the Saris M2 home trainer two weeks ago, but I had not been able to mount a bike due to a crossing axis ad hoc . I ended up putting a threaded rod of 12. It holds, but not great for the bike. I drove with a 29 / 2.0 slick tire. He was touching the ground. I had to reassemble everything with wooden wedges. Not made for mountain bikes this system, and I had no desire to stick my carbon gravel on it.

Then I started pedaling. To drive at 25 km / h, I had to expend an incredible amount of energy and on the screen I maxed out at 100 watts. The thing made an awful noise. For an hour, I rode an electric drill. Never again. I put everything back in the box and send it back. I don't ride a bike to hurt my head, and not just to hurt my legs. I prefer to abstain than to be reduced to this thing.

No desire to do my weather report tonight. Yet the numbers have never been better, it looks like we have crossed the pass.

Moteur rouge
Red engine
Port Sutel
Port Sutel
Port Sutel
Port Sutel

Sunday 5, Balaruc

Morning to wrap up a historical article on the coronavirus, with the idea that it will be useful for my book. I spend a lot of time reading comments, discussing, completing the article. A little tinkering, a regular hour of cycling, the days go by in a beautiful light.

We have, it seems, attacked the pandemic descent.

Monday 6, Balaruc

Interesting writing experience. Publish and keep revising, extending, resuming, sourcing ... Since yesterday, I’m adjusting my last article on coronavirus . In the past, in the heyday of blogging, I published, replied with new articles, the creative process unfolded using a more expansive mechanism. Today, I'm digging, maybe because this particular text risks giving off little in my book.

Text mechanics in the top of the most purchased books digitally from the Northern Ferret . I'm looking at my stats. Over the past three weeks, the Northern Ferret represents 41% of my sales with 62 copies. I think it's because this book is recommended in journalism schools. Very tiny figures.


Tuesday 7, Balaruc

I'm writing about the Chinese government’s possible lie. I touch two words with Didier. He is still in denial. Since February, he and all the other doctors have been thinking only of treatment. Historical truth is not their problem at the moment, it is up to us to find it.

Some of my Facebook responses sound like aphorisms. 1. Trying to understand why we are there will allow us to go further. This is what history is for. 2. We always lack hindsight with History, that's why we rewrite it constantly. 3. If you don't think about what you are living, you are not living. 4. You have the right to think what you want and to think wrong. 5. If we are not allowed to question the lived history and to challenge the official version, how can we free ourselves from the yoke of dictators? 6. I am told "There is a difference between challenging the dictatorship under which we live and challenging that of others. I reply, "Let the oppressed get mad." The next time you're sick, I'll tell your doctor to let you die. "7. If you don't write history while you're alive, when do you write it? Once dead?


Wednesday 8, Balaruc

In Paris, jogging is prohibited during the day. We will be forbidden to live so as not to die.

Trump accuses WHO of complacency with China. Always a little bad help when I think like him, because tomorrow or the day after tomorrow he will say a monstrosity.


Thursday 9, Balaruc

Aphorism of the day: “Supputations are not information. "I have rarely been so exasperated by stupidity, but I have only to blame myself, confine myself for good and dive into literature. Except that I write Adapt to adopt , that I have to confront the flow of information inseparable from that of bullshit.

With my GPS, I write the history of confinement on the geographical map, scribbling it in a circle of a kilometer radius during my daily one hour bike ride.

For two days, we have been descending from the morbid mountain.


Friday 10, Balaruc

Raoult announces the results of a new study on chloroquine: 91% healings. But why such enthusiasm for a disease with a mortality rate probably less than 1%. This result would be very interesting if Raoult only treated serious cases, or only people requiring hospitalization, but he treated all the positives. Nobody says it, even the President will see it. This guy is dishonest and dangerous. Will those who defend it today recognize it or shut themselves up in a conspiratorial posture? Media coverage makes you lose your mind.

Saturday 11, Balaruc

Why am I writing these articles on the coronavirus and our deplorable crisis management? I try to bring a little reason, calm, to judge the situation with objectivity. Many people tell me that I help them, many others insult me. I have to be a masochist to expose myself in this way, at the risk that the wounds last, that they cut me off from some of my friends. Silence would be wiser, but how can we remain silent in this context?

I finish Billions of hair carpets , beautiful SF book by German Andreas Eschbach (1995). Clear form, no hero, the reader must take charge of chapter by chapter, pointillist painting of a terrifying and mysterious universe. Denunciation of totalitarianism through praise of craftsmanship. A universal book, between Star Wars and Siddhartha .

Entrées maritimes
Maritime entrances
Un hélico passe
A helicopter passes

Monday 13, Balaruc

It’s raining, I’m working, I’m trying to ignore the coronavirus, waiting for the President’s speech tonight. Who knows what he has in store for us as the other European countries prepare for their deconfinement.

I walk in the rain to my mother's house, I bring her bread made this morning, we chat for a moment on her doorstep, then I go back. I'm still trying to work, but my heart isn't there. The gray pond under my windows cheers me up.

We continue the descent and Macron his descent. No need to add more, but I think I have to say it out loud. I am no better than him.

The gesture that saves English version is found on a buzzing montage … Slices of books that tell the story of the pandemic.

Clean Hands
Clean hands

Tuesday 14, Balaruc

Tourists settle in the neighbors' mobile home. A couple with two children. Where do they come from ? I am not going to transform myself into a whistleblower, denunciation having become a national sport, which says a lot about the mental health of our country.


Wednesday 15th, Balaruc

Trump cuts food to WHO. I'm afraid of a war with China. I think little more than the geopolitical consequences of the pandemic.

I listen to my interview with Didier from February 3 in the morning. He offers to attend an interdepartmental conference on patient safety to be held in Montreux on February 27 and 28. It was not yet conceivable for him to cancel it, which shows us that at the beginning of February one of the great specialists in infection prevention and control still did not realize the gravity of the situation. This congress will be canceled ten days later.

Saturday 18, Balaruc

The more the days pass, the more I find myself in a physical state near burnout. My body is suffering, not to mention my shoulder with its capsulitis which for lack of care is getting worse, not to mention my mouth, I lost a tooth, a false tooth certainly, a pivot, but as a summary of the situation. I am too sedentary, too carried away by words / evils. The weather itself is gray, out of season, dark English.

The light comes back in the afternoon, a certain lukewarmness, I take my mountain bike and file in the scrubland, by law, I don't care, because the law is absurd and that it destroys me. In this scrubland, there is never anyone. Social distancing is automatic.

Sunday 19, Balaruc

The greyness does not let us go literally and figuratively. I wake up early, determined to think of something other than our situation, I come into my notebook to write, and then the idea quickly becomes an article. I have breakfast. Put me back to bed to read and put me back to sleep. Wakes me up in a sticky state like the time that hides me up to the mountain of Sète.

Monday 20, Balaruc


Tuesday 21, Balaruc

Rain, rain, and more rain. I saw confinement in writing interposed. I doubt that I will have many things to remember, if not this time spent writing, without succeeding in calming myself, struck by the urgency, that of unreason which wins the world, struck by my own body which sees old pains come back.

Message sent to Mediapart: "I did not expect to say one day the good of Plenel, but I admit that he is very good in his direct on Brut . I found in it things that I have written and repeated since the beginning of the crisis, proof that many of us think the same thing and that it will end up having a political influence, hopefully. But I also revealed two mistakes that can have serious consequences. No, masks are not our first line of defense. It’s hand hygiene, hand hygiene, hand hygiene again. Wearing a mask does not really protect, even on public transport, if first hand hygiene is not impeccable. You have to repeat it over and over. The other error concerns the start of the crisis. You can't use the first victim to say that a pandemic is starting. You have to watch when the curve of the number of victims panics. This is the real signal. According to this criterion, Italy has come far ahead of us. They were careful not to answer me.

Call from the secretary general of the FFC following my open letter . Relaxed discussion.

Long talk with Narvic. We hadn't talked for two years and we picked up where we left off the last time. While speaking, a crazy idea comes to me. And if China had not lied about the death toll, or almost not. What if she had confined for some other reason? Because she already knew the virus that would have escaped her ... That’s the Trump hypothesis in the end.

Wednesday 22, Balaruc

On a forum, a guy says that I am "The Finkielkraut of the bicycle", that hurts. The argument of authority is a threat to democracy. We should be quiet because we are incompetent. In a way, only politicians could talk about politics. We would be well advanced. On the contrary, we have a duty to take an interest in what does not concern us, and the less it concerns us, the more we must be vigilant.

On February 3 Didier told me that the bottles of hydro-alcoholic gels were 8 francs. So prices had already started to go up, so the general public was starting to worry as governments showed some serenity.

Thursday 23, Balaruc

I discover that Chancellor Merkel is a quantum chemist while we are governed by jurists, literaries, civil servants, bankers and acrobats.


Friday 24, Balaruc

We had to leave this morning to tour the Hérault by mountain bike. It is mild, misty, with this mist that will soon rise and bathe us in a gentle spring heat. I want paths, camaraderie, sweat, light and great perspectives. I'm starting to suffocate, not that I'm running out of space, but intellectually, this nauseating crisis makes me doubt many of my former political friends. We are on the brink of the abyss and some people gleefully jump into it and accuse those who like me remain on the brink of looking at the deepening bottom.

My blog posts are inversely read in relation to the importance I attach to them.

The pond

Sunday 26, Balaruc

Bad night, a form of weariness sets in, probably the fatigue of having worked too much since the beginning of February and not taken enough air. My body screams, tells me to change my lifestyle, but confinement prevents me. The same evil must be installed in each of us, the evil of deprivation of freedom which very quickly deprives of energy.

Monday 27, Balaruc

Yesterday evening I went to bed early, washed out after an hour of cycling, shortly before midnight I was cold, trembling, stomach ache. Covid? This morning, I am rinsed, dented, my stomach still knotted, my right shoulder stiffened to my fingers, my ailments are cramped.

François reads Proust : "The sunrises are an accompaniment to long journeys by rail, such as hard boiled eggs, illustrated newspapers, card games, rivers where boats bark without moving forward. It's sublime, and François talks about his own travels, and I like when he escapes in his readings, and I realize that I have always associated Proust with the trip, maybe because I don't read him more than traveling, especially when I take the plane, during trips that are time lost anything but lost.

Tuesday 28, Balaruc

I'm almost at the end of it Adapt to adopt , at least what I can do without spending a few more days with Didier in Geneva or having him come and take the air at home.

I must not be sick, just tired, a stroke, no fever, cold, cough, I am flat, victim of confinement. Everything in the world should be changed and nothing will be. A tiredness of political powerlessness with the temptation to return to my gardens, literature and the bicycle.

Arc en ciel

Wednesday 29, Balaruc

Another day of work on Adapt to adopt , and I put it away, I forget it for a few weeks. This text is at the stage where it sickens me, where I no longer see him with the slightest interest, too many facts, not enough narration. I especially want something else, more privacy, more silence, to stop this farce around the covid. Feel like you missed the opportunity. But what occasion? Containment means nothing to me. It is my ordinary. I belong to the category of writers confined by nature, just the opposite of a Hemingway.

I finish The transparency of things , what a book, what a jubilation, we no longer allow ourselves these fantasies: to lose the reader, to drive him crazy, for the sole purpose of causing electroshock. I feel good with Nabokov, I will go a long way with him. Go back to Lolita , at the beginning.


Thursday 30, Balaruc

Stomach ache during the night, painful mini cyst at the perineum, my capsulitis on the right shoulder which throws me into the hand and impossible to have an appointment for arthrography until further notice ... Everything is fine. My energy drop makes me see the world in black. The results of my confinement are not radiant. I wasted too much time criticizing, pointing out inconsistencies, mistakes, forgetting that my very behavior was a mistake. By dint of shooting on sight, you burn your fingers and you don't make the world move any better. Is he insensitive to criticism? Does it serve any purpose? I have never received so many messages thanking me for writing, but I write only for breathing, and I forgot to do so. Faced with the disruption of the world, I suffered an intellectual cytokine storm that leaves me inflamed, trapped in physical and mental pain.

Why complain? History is on the move. I always wanted it and living it upset me, or at least upset my cozy comfort. Transition is not a happy experience, happy transition is a utopia. My capsulitis as a metaphor for the world. A small tear causes the joint to move less and the less it moves the less it wants to do it. So the slightest gesture becomes a painful ordeal. I'm just a bourgeois revolutionary. When the revolution begins to affect my life, I reject it.