2Mauritius, the forest of Macchabée—where the main character was a monkey who had agreat talent for mischief, and who always wriggled his way out of the most periloussituations. Later, I would travel to Africa and spend time there, and discover the realforest, one where there were almost no animals. But a District Officer in the village of Obudu, near the border with Cameroon, showed me how to listen for the drumming of the gorillas on a nearby hill, pounding their chests. And from that journey, and the timeI spent there (in Nigeria, where my father was a bush doctor), it was not subject matterfor future novels that I brought back, but a sort of second personality, a daydreamer whowas fascinated with reality at the same time, and this personality has stayed with me allmy life—and has constituted a contradictory dimension, a strangeness in myself that attimes has been a source of suffering. Given the slowness of life, it has taken me thebetter part of my existence to understand the significance of this contradiction.Books entered my life at a later period. When my father’s inheritance was divided, atthe time of his expulsion from the family home in Moka, in Mauritius, he managed toput together several libraries consisting of the books that remained. It was then that Iunderstood a truth not immediately apparent to children, that books are a treasure moreprecious than any real property or bank account. It was in those volumes—most of themancient, bound tomes—that I discovered the great works of world literature:
illustrated by Tony Johannot;
La vida de
Lazarillo de Tormes;
Ingoldsby Legends; Gulliver’s Travels;
Victor Hugo’s great, inspired novels
Quatre-vingt-treize, Les Travailleurs de la Mer,
L’Homme qui rit.
, aswell. But the books which had the greatest impact on me were the anthologies of travellers’ tales, most of them devoted to India, Africa, and the Mascarene islands, orthe great histories of exploration by Dumont d’Urville or the Abbé Rochon, as well asBougainville, Cook, and of course
The Travels of Marco Polo
. In the mediocre life of alittle provincial town dozing in the sun, after those years of freedom in Africa, thosebooks gave me a taste for adventure, gave me a sense of the vastness of the real world, ameans to explore it through instinct and the senses rather than through knowledge. In away, too, those books gave me, from very early on, an awareness of the contradictorynature of a child’s existence: a child will cling to a sanctuary, a place to forget violenceand competitiveness, and also take pleasure in looking through the windowpane towatch the outside world go by.Shortly before I received the—to me, astonishing—news that the Swedish Academywas awarding me this distinction, I was re-reading a little book by Stig Dagerman that Iam particularly fond of: a collection of political essays entitled
Essäer och texter.
It wasno mere chance that I was re-reading this bitter, abrasive book. I was preparing a trip to