He seemed to be divided between a need to be happy and a feeling that he would be deserting his duty if he let himself be. What prevented him from feeling happy was the book in which he was trying to say something he felt deeply [. . .] From time to time I used to open the door to bring him some cookies: Aren’t you getting hungry? Would you like to have coffee with me? I haven’t seen you in hours. He would look at me as if he hardly recognized me, then smiled graciously: I’ll be out a little later! Hunched over his papers, he looked like an old man, his face looked old, everything about him looked old. It made me wonder; Is that Louis?

[…] He’d go in his study and come out an entirely different person, staring with a desperate look on his face that would make you want to cry. He’d look at me as if to say: ‘Well, you don’t understand anything, you just don’t understand how tragic life is!’

Sometimes he’d come out all excited: ‘I’m going to read this to you, this is good! I’m going to read it in French.’ I’d catch a few words here and there, but most of it escaped me. He’d translate the words, interpret the idiomatic expressions and explain the slang. He’d read it again in French, warned me that it won’t be as good in English, translate it once more, then ask me:

– What do you think?

– I don’t know enough about the characters you’re developing, who they are, what caused them to feel and act that way. They seem to me rather brutal.

– Well, they are brutal.

– Not everybody is brutal.

– Oh yes they are! Inside they all are!

Elizabeth Craig, remembering Louis-Ferdinand Céline (cited.)