Frédéric Dard, we love it or we hate it. its heroes, “ Sana » and Bérurier, are they worthy of Rabelais, Jarry and Céline or are they the most heartbreaking illustration of neo-Poujadist vulgarity? In short, is he a great French writer, as claimed by many critics – and not the least! –, or a trader in porn-scatology? The enormity of his style as of his prints – “ninety-one million copies, sold, collected and spent”, he asserts – does not provide the answer. No more than the enthusiasm of a certain number of academics who chose his work as the subject of theses – which, sincerely, amazes him. The San Antonio phenomenon exists in any case, very much alive, earthy, atrocious, arch-triumphant and super badly in its skin. Frédéric Dard observes him, both amazed and crafty, happy with the success of his latest child, ” Is there a Frenchman in the room? », but with that little hindsight which, in the worst case, discourages antipathy. But, before passing judgment, listen to him answer Louis-Bernard Robitaille’s questions and tell his story.
We are convinced, reading San Antonio, that you are a pure product of the Parisian pavement – even if you are now exiled in Switzerland. But you are in fact a provincial – almost a country man – who has succeeded in Paris. What is your starting point?
A town in Isère, near Switzerland by the way. In this country which is really the French province, which is a country of real terroir, with people
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