Roland Jaccard

Each month, we feature a column by one of the personalities who give us the pleasure of taking up the pen in turn. Writer Roland Jaccard recounts his favorite film, as implausible as it is politically correct: the movie of his life.

Paris is the city with the strongest sensuality: encounters are easy and deals are quickly closed. Without this erotic climate, Paris would lose much of its appeal, and we wouldn't shy away from death. The hope of a love affair, whose outcome is unknown, is a divine elixir. In Paris, we breathe the air of freedom. If I were honest, I'd write: we breathed the air of freedom. With the hygienic dictatorship that has been established, and which everyone senses is only the prelude to general enslavement, Paris looks like an old woman's house. Desire has vanished.

Lire la chronique (abonnÃ

Each month, we feature a column by one of the personalities who give us the pleasure of taking up the pen in turn. Writer Roland Jaccard recounts his favorite film, as implausible as it is politically correct: the movie of his life.

Quand j’avais demandé à Cioran pourquoi il ne s’était pas suicidé (question toujours délicate à poser, surtout à un homme sur le déclin), il m’avait répondu: «J’ai laissé passer l’heure et maintenant il est trop tard….je n’ai plus le courage, ni la force de mettre un terme à ma vie… quelle erreur que d’avoir attendu!» Sans doute eût-il jugé cette erreur plus terrible encore s’il avait su le cauchemar qu’il allait endurer pendant des années. Le prix à payer pour avoir reculé devant la mort volontaire, s’il l’avait connu, l’aurait sans doute incité à prendre congé d’un monde qu’il vomissait mais qui, étrange paradoxe, ne cessait de lâ€