A small white tablet, oval, scored.
Around five in the morning or perhaps six I arose, the craving was at its apex, and it was the most painful moment of my day. My first movement was to start up my electric coffee pot; awakening, I filled the reservoir with water and the filter with coffee grounds (usually Malongo, I am somewhat demanding when it comes to coffee). I didn't light a cigarette until I took my first sip; it was a constraint I had placed upon myself, an everyday accomplishment that was my principal source of pride (though I must admit that coffee makers work quickly). The relief from the first drag was immediate, with an astonishing violence. Nicotine is a perfect drug, a simple and hard drug that brings no joy, that defines itself by the withdrawal and the satisfaction of the craving.
A few minutes later, after two or three cigarettes, I took a tablet of Captorix, with a quarter glass of mineral water, usually I have Volvic.
I am forty-six years old, my name is Florent-Claude Labrouste and I hate my first name. I believe it has its origin in two members of my family that my father and my mother, each from their own corner, wished to honor; it is accordingly even more regrettable that I otherwise have no reason to reproach my parents, as they were in all ways excellent parents; they did their part to fit me out as necessary in the struggle for life, and if I ultimately failed, if my life ended with sadness and suffering, I would not incriminate them, but instead an even more regrettable chain of circumstances which I have the occasion to recount and which constitute, truthfully, the purpose of this book—I do not in any event have a reason to reproach my parents other than for the miniscule detail of my name, not only because I find the combination Florent-Claude ridiculous, but even the elements themselves displease me. In total, I consider my name a complete failure. Florent is too soft, too close to the feminine Florence, and in a way androgynous. It does not correspond at all to my face with its acute features, its brutal angles, which are frequently (by some women in any case) considered virile, but which do not match at all, not at all, the face of some Botticellian queer. As for Claude, do not speak of it, it reminds me instantly of Claudettes, and the terrifying image of a vintage video of Claude François playing on a loop at a soirée of old faggots returns to me immediately when I hear the name spoken aloud.