When Franz Kafka died, his great friend and executor, Max Brod, chose not to respect the last wishes of the famous writer, namely to “burn, without restriction and without being read, all his notebooks, manuscripts and letters” . He thus published, posthumously, the majority of Kafka’s work – his novels, in particular -, now read and recognized worldwide.
Last year, Jean Teulé died of cardiac arrest, caused by food poisoning. The author of around forty novels and comics left, in his wake, an unfinished manuscript: The story of the king who didn’t want to die. At the request of some of his friends, the manuscript was published, exactly one year after his death.
What would Jean Teulé think of this decision? We do not know. One thing is certain, it is difficult, as a reader, to rejoice at the publication of this draft of a story, which takes Louis XI as its protagonist. After an astonishing opening describing the capture of giant turtles, we discover the bloodthirsty dispositions of the monarch in a series of sketches which, in an agile verve, certainly, resemble a curriculum which struggles to be embodied in a larger scheme. The distanced writing, the hints of irony which cut through an overload of barbarity arouse indifference or, at best, disgust.
But it would be cruel to persist on an unfinished manuscript that the author probably wanted to rework before releasing to the world. However, the book does not end there. His friends — seven in total — improvised texts, illustrations and works of art which follow the manuscript. These propositions therefore parade, preceded by tributes to the deceased which have all the appearance of public funeral orations. A bit paradoxical, when we consider that his funeral took place “in the strictest privacy”.
These creations do not arouse our interest either and we do not know who they might please, other than, perhaps, a group of close friends who would like to reflect on the memory of the writer. The first to speak, Philippe Jaenada, points out that this book is perhaps, ultimately, only a vain attempt: “I can’t believe it. To be doing what I’m doing. Align words after those of Jean, try to extend his last pages, so that the whole makes a book. »
Fortunately, this awkward carousel closes with the text of Benjamin Planchon, who brings about an unexpected rescue. Proposing a theatrical adaptation of the manuscript, Planchon links Teulé’s death to that of the monarch, playing with the codes of theatricality brilliantly and giving a tragic, and nevertheless expiatory, dimension to the project.
Jean Teulé was not Kafka, and is not Max Brod whoever wants. We will not judge his literary work by this book: so much the better. If this publication has any merit, it is perhaps that of reminding us that books, even if they are born from noble intentions, are not always published for the right reasons.