Louis-Ferdinand Céline
NORD

And so you, ignorant and silent reader like a curse, what do you expect from this page? What do you expect from your shitty life, your shitty television, your shitty job, your shitty education, your shitty drugs? Do you want me to tell you? No, not me. I find it more enjoyable to see you with your sleeves rolled up, bent over, searching in this well of crap for the emerald they promised you. I'll leave you like that, I'm waiting for the popcorn to enjoy the show before it's my turn to roll up my sleeves. He takes care of dissipating doubts. He thinks of everything. Let him do it, avoid your mediocre moral judgments and let him roam free. He thinks of everything. The rejected, the hated and today incredibly fashionable Louis-Ferdinand Céline. He'll tell you that he despises you, that he despises your life, that he despises this life in which he was condemned not to be a filthy whore, to reject fees, to hate the same people he helps, to always have something intelligent to say.

The Sick Doctor: Louis-Ferdinand Céline.

Céline on the margins of life and his life. Crazy, stuffed with pills, wearing three pairs of pants one over the other held up by a string, surrounded by animals, locked in his crypt-house in Meudon, while the world outside calls for his execution, while they desecrate his mother's grave. Just one year before dying.

And so you, reader X, what do you want from Céline, but more importantly what are you willing to understand, to learn from Céline? What will you accept about this "North?"

Three people, plus Bebert, with the 75 bis at their backs gathering all the bitter fruits they have at their disposal. Away from France while the enraged and disgusted crowds piss on their carpet. To Germany, to Berlin with buildings being sprayed out of their balconies. An SS will take care of you, you're already compromised disgusting opponent of races, putrid collaborator. What's the harm!?! Refugees in a country where they greet you with the cry "Porco Francese," looking to the North illuminated by the nocturnal sky... pink from the bombs.

An unconscious wait, like life. Life spent waiting, waiting while passing life. A destroyed prose, desolate, painful, bombed for a man who felt like the ceiling of a bombed church. And so you, comfortable and presumptuous reader, with your hasty and stupid judgments, what will you do once you've finished "North?" Want some advice? Don't read it.