The pain of Lucile, my mother, was a part of our childhood and later our adult lives. This pain, undoubtedly, constitutes my sister and me, yet any attempt at explanation is doomed to failure. Writing cannot resolve it; at most, it allows me to pose questions and interrogate memory.

The family of Lucile, ours consequently, has throughout its history sparked numerous hypotheses and comments. People I encountered during my research speak of fascination; I often heard this in my childhood. My family embodies what joy has of the most noisy, the most spectacular, the tireless echo of the dead, and the resounding disaster. Today I also know it illustrates, like so many other families, the power of destruction of the Word, and that of silence.

The book, perhaps, would be nothing other than that: the narrative of this quest, containing within itself its own genesis, its narrative wanderings, its unfinished attempts. But it would be this momentum, from me towards her, hesitant and unfulfilled.

In this dazzling investigation at the heart of family memory, where the most luminous memories meet the most buried secrets, Delphine de Vigan unfolds all our lives, our flaws, and our own wounds with strength.