“She wanted to be a Jew but at the same time couldn’t stop admiring Louis Ferdinand Celine. This attraction for his writing, for his “little music” was making her sick. How could she forget his most anti-semitic pamphlets? How could she forget this man’s most disgusting tendencies just because he was a genius? Just because her teachers, backed up by the french self -righteous intelligentsia were arguying  that he never developped any racist theories in his novels. Was it possible for her to love the writer and deeply despise the man?  

As she was spending her time criticizing all those men and women who, for a few euros and scraps of power, make pacts with more than questionable regimes and people; she, a little French girl with a lack of role models, was finding herself in the evening, turning the pages of a novel written by a man who, in some second hand newspaper articles, praised Hitler. She, the sanctimonious one who often thought of herself as a humanist, was falling asleep, rocked and moved by the sentences of a collaborator and was justifying it by saying that genius excuses it all, and that art transcends everything.

She was the worst of all. The most dangerous kind of collaborator.
The kind that hides behind works of art forgetting, oh too often, that they are the vector of the worst atrocities and that beauty –this powder thrown at gullible ignorant’s’ eyes- is nothing but the projection of the fantasies of those who have never done anything else but watch trains passing by without even bothering to wonder what their destination was.”