Résumé

Rachid Laïreche a été chargé pendant huit ans de suivre les partis de gauche pour Libération. Il raconte comment il a été happé dans la bulle jusqu’à s’y perdre. Au fil des pages, il nous entraîne dans les coulisses de ses rencontres avec Hollande, Mélenchon, Duflot, Dray, Taubira, Rousseau ou Jadot. Il décrypte les rites de la meute des journalistes politiques, les codes de l’entre-soi, la déréalisation collective de la bulle.

Avis

Dans Il n’y a que moi que ça choque ?, Rachid Laïreche nous raconte ses huit années de journaliste politique chez Libération.

L’envoi à sa première conférence de presse un peu à l’arrache, parce qu’on n’a qu’un seul Arabe et qu’on ne va quand même pas le garder au service des sports comme un cliché. La découverte d’un écosystème où des médias d’opinions complètement opposées bossent ensemble pour se partager un scoop ou une interview. Les ministres invités à déjeuner, les petits coups en traître et le off.

Et puis, après un moment, l’incertitude. Rachid Laïreche commence à ne plus trop parvenir à communiquer avec sa famille : il est journaliste, les médias nous mentent. Et puis au-delà de nous mentir, on ne comprend rien à ce qu’ils racontent, ces politiques. Et puis de toute façon, Rachid, il a trahi, il ne s’occupe plus de nous, il ne parle plus de foot.

Une réflexion super intéressante sur le journalisme politique, certes, mais aussi sur la politique française elle-même, sur le journalisme dans son ensemble, et sur comment on revient sur Terre discuter avec les gens qu’on aime quand on ne s’exprime plus comme eux et qu’on a appris à ne plus les entendre.

Résumé

Dans un monde où la civilisation s’est effondrée suite à une pandémie foudroyante, une troupe d’acteurs et de musiciens nomadise entre de petites communautés de survivants pour leur jouer du Shakespeare. Un répertoire qui en est venu à représenter l’espoir et l’humanité au milieu de la désolation.

Avis

Une pandémie (non, pas celle-là) détruit presque l’humanité. Un homme meurt sur scène. Le reste du monde meurt deux semaines plus tard.

Des petits groupes de survivants tiennent bon, du mieux possible. Cet homme qui est mort un soir lors d’une représentation de Shakespeare a laissé d’autres personnes dans son sillage. Des ex-femmes, un enfant, une petite fille qui jouait un rôle mineur dans sa pièce, un paparazzi. Certains sont encore vivants, d’autres non.

Ils ne se connaissent pas, et pourtant, ils se retrouvent : dans une troupe de théâtre itinérante, une secte meurtrière, un aéroport devenu musée.

Un ouvrage frappant, aux personnages tiraillés entre le monde que nous connaissons et celui qui les attend. Brillant.

publication croisée depuis : https://jlai.lu/post/5591141

In this very long essay (or very short nonfiction book, depending on what framing you prefer), Casey Plett says she’s going to try to define community, then immediately makes it clear that it can’t be defined.

Take the phrase “the [X] community.” When I read that phrase, I think: How does this person know this about the [X] community? What are the borders of the [X] community? How is the writer deciding who counts within them and who does not? Is the writer a member of the [X] community? Would others dispute their membership? Whatever claim is made about the community, how many sections within it must the claim apply to in order to justify the term? Perhaps most importantly, How can that writer possibly decide who gets to speak for the community? And who are those not speaking in their place?

And then, she tells us what it means to feel like you have a community, or none, or to be included or rejected of one community. She talks about « cancel culture », she talks about awkward trans picnics and of justice in the Mennonite community and of when you feel that you’re « from here » − a topic that I definitely relate to.

Communities welcome certain people and cast a suspicious eye on others. Communities lift up their valued members and ignore those they value a bit less. Sometimes those values are, shall we say, suspect. Communities can expel members when they choose, regardless of what that means for the member, and they stay communities no matter how heartless that expulsion might be.

tldr: communities are a vague concept with good and bad things in them.

…but I feel like it’s best to read the book, because that’s a pretty short tldr, huh?

In this very long essay (or very short nonfiction book, depending on what framing you prefer), Casey Plett says she’s going to try to define community, then immediately makes it clear that it can’t be defined.

Take the phrase “the [X] community.” When I read that phrase, I think: How does this person know this about the [X] community? What are the borders of the [X] community? How is the writer deciding who counts within them and who does not? Is the writer a member of the [X] community? Would others dispute their membership? Whatever claim is made about the community, how many sections within it must the claim apply to in order to justify the term? Perhaps most importantly, How can that writer possibly decide who gets to speak for the community? And who are those not speaking in their place?

And then, she tells us what it means to feel like you have a community, or none, or to be included or rejected of one community. She talks about « cancel culture », she talks about awkward trans picnics and of justice in the Mennonite community and of when you feel that you’re « from here » − a topic that I definitely relate to.

Communities welcome certain people and cast a suspicious eye on others. Communities lift up their valued members and ignore those they value a bit less. Sometimes those values are, shall we say, suspect. Communities can expel members when they choose, regardless of what that means for the member, and they stay communities no matter how heartless that expulsion might be.

tldr: communities are a vague concept with good and bad things in them.

…but I feel like it’s best to read the book, because that’s a pretty short tldr, huh?

publication croisée depuis : https://jlai.lu/post/5591085

Synopsis

When Nar’s non-Armenian boyfriend gets down on one knee and proposes to her in front of a room full of drunk San Francisco tech boys, she realizes it’s time to find someone who shares her idea of romance. Enter her mother: armed with plenty of mom-guilt and a spreadsheet of Facebook-stalked Armenian men, she convinces Nar to attend Explore Armenia, a month-long series of events in the city. But it’s not the mom-approved playboy doctor or wealthy engineer who catches her eye—it’s Erebuni, a woman as equally immersed in the witchy arts as she is in preserving Armenian identity. Suddenly, with Erebuni as her wingwoman, the events feel like far less of a chore, and much more of an adventure. Who knew cooking up kuftes together could be so . . . sexy? Erebuni helps Nar see the beauty of their shared culture and makes her feel understood in a way she never has before. But there’s one teeny problem: Nar’s not exactly out as bisexual. The clock is ticking on Nar’s double life—the closing event banquet is coming up, and her entire extended family will be there, along with Erebuni. Her worlds will inevitably collide, but Nar is determined to be brave, determined to claim her happiness: proudly Armenian, proudly bisexual, and proudly herself for the first time in her life.

My review

Bisexual romance!!

Bisexual romance is special. There’s your good old straight romance, also known as romance with no adjective in front of it. There’s your gay and lesbian romance, sometimes including a painful coming out, with recent examples including Rana Joon and the One and Only Now and The lesbiana’s guide to Catholic school. But bisexual romance? How do you make a character bisexual in the first place if they’re only going to have one romance, huh?

Easy − remind us that they’re bisexual. Remind us that they’re looking to date and don’t really care about the identity of who they’re dating. Make them break up with someone and make up with someone of another gender. Tell us. It’s fine, you know − showing bisexuality can be hard. Telling us « hey by the way, I’m dating you but I also like guys! » is great. And very well done in this novel, too − although there are painful outing and coming out stories because, well, it’s 2024 and queer novels still don’t allow their characters to just be happy.

And speaking of painful coming out stories: this one is based on identity. Like in the two books I quoted above, our narrator, Nar, is a second-generation American. Her Armenian identity is incredibly important in the novel: after breaking up with her very very white boyfriend, Nar allows her mother and auntie to rope her into Armenian-Armenian dating life and commits to trying to find the perfect boyfriend (or girlfriend, she adds silently) at one of the cultural events. Except, of course, 90% of the cultural events are about the genocide, which doesn’t make for great date material.

Nar’s first thought of « I’m so tired of everything being about the genocide » gets revisited several times throughout the novel, with our girl getting closer to her own culture and understanding that history doesn’t have to only be about grief. I love the way she reconciles with her heritage and starts feeling like a real part of « the community», and every single one of the sometimes complicated and painful steps that lead to that.

Also, the book is actually really good − I’m not just impressed with the theme, the romance was really nice and the characters were lovable or hateable or, in some cases, very much both.

Synopsis

When Nar’s non-Armenian boyfriend gets down on one knee and proposes to her in front of a room full of drunk San Francisco tech boys, she realizes it’s time to find someone who shares her idea of romance. Enter her mother: armed with plenty of mom-guilt and a spreadsheet of Facebook-stalked Armenian men, she convinces Nar to attend Explore Armenia, a month-long series of events in the city. But it’s not the mom-approved playboy doctor or wealthy engineer who catches her eye—it’s Erebuni, a woman as equally immersed in the witchy arts as she is in preserving Armenian identity. Suddenly, with Erebuni as her wingwoman, the events feel like far less of a chore, and much more of an adventure. Who knew cooking up kuftes together could be so . . . sexy? Erebuni helps Nar see the beauty of their shared culture and makes her feel understood in a way she never has before. But there’s one teeny problem: Nar’s not exactly out as bisexual. The clock is ticking on Nar’s double life—the closing event banquet is coming up, and her entire extended family will be there, along with Erebuni. Her worlds will inevitably collide, but Nar is determined to be brave, determined to claim her happiness: proudly Armenian, proudly bisexual, and proudly herself for the first time in her life.

My review

Bisexual romance!!

Bisexual romance is special. There’s your good old straight romance, also known as romance with no adjective in front of it. There’s your gay and lesbian romance, sometimes including a painful coming out, with recent examples including Rana Joon and the One and Only Now and The lesbiana’s guide to Catholic school. But bisexual romance? How do you make a character bisexual in the first place if they’re only going to have one romance, huh?

Easy − remind us that they’re bisexual. Remind us that they’re looking to date and don’t really care about the identity of who they’re dating. Make them break up with someone and make up with someone of another gender. Tell us. It’s fine, you know − showing bisexuality can be hard. Telling us « hey by the way, I’m dating you but I also like guys! » is great. And very well done in this novel, too − although there are painful outing and coming out stories because, well, it’s 2024 and queer novels still don’t allow their characters to just be happy.

And speaking of painful coming out stories: this one is based on identity. Like in the two books I quoted above, our narrator, Nar, is a second-generation American. Her Armenian identity is incredibly important in the novel: after breaking up with her very very white boyfriend, Nar allows her mother and auntie to rope her into Armenian-Armenian dating life and commits to trying to find the perfect boyfriend (or girlfriend, she adds silently) at one of the cultural events. Except, of course, 90% of the cultural events are about the genocide, which doesn’t make for great date material.

Nar’s first thought of « I’m so tired of everything being about the genocide » gets revisited several times throughout the novel, with our girl getting closer to her own culture and understanding that history doesn’t have to only be about grief. I love the way she reconciles with her heritage and starts feeling like a real part of « the community», and every single one of the sometimes complicated and painful steps that lead to that.

Also, the book is actually really good − I’m not just impressed with the theme, the romance was really nice and the characters were lovable or hateable or, in some cases, very much both.

Salut ! Je n’arrive pas à m’occuper d’Un genre à soi comme je le voudrais, donc j’aimerais donner le blog à quelqu’un qui voudra écrire dessus. Je couvrirai le coût de l’hébergement et du nom de domaine jusqu’au 1 avril 2025. Contactez-moi à [email protected] si ça vous intéresse. (Les critères d’éligibilité c’est d’être trans et que je trouve que vous avez une vibe intéressante.)

Si personne ne le reprend, je le bougerai dans un sous-domaine d’alexsirac.com pour qu’il ne soit pas perdu (les archives queer, aussi petites soient-elles, c’est important), je l’archiverai dans Internet Archive, et je rapatrierai mes propres articles sur mon blog perso.