The Paris Review - Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Winter-Spring 1964
- INTERVIEWER
- When in your life were you happy?
- CÉLINE
- Bloody well never, I think. Because what you need, getting old . . . I think if I were given a lot of dough to be free from want—I'd love that—it'd give me the chance to retire and go off somewhere, so I'd not have to work, and be able to watch others. Happiness would be to be alone at the seaside, and then be left in peace. And to eat very little; yes. Almost nothing. A candle. I wouldn't live with electricity and things. A candle! A candle, and then I'd read the newspaper. Others, I see them agitated, above all excited by ambitions; their life's a show, the rich swapping invitations to keep up with the performance. I've seen it, I lived among society people once—“I say, Gontran, hear what he said to you; oh, Gaston, you really were on form yesterday, eh! Told him what was what, eh! He told me about it again last night! His wife was saying, oh, Gaston surprised us!” It's a comedy. They spend their time at it. Chasing each other round, meeting at the same golf clubs, the same restaurants.













