When  I was sixteen, my brother Henri died, at which point my father gave out a great howl of ‘He’s dead! He’s dead!’

I was aware of my own bifurcated response to this scene.

My first Me was in tears, but my second Me was thinking: ‘What a terrific cry! It would really be good in the theatre!’.

From that moment on, I was homo duplex, homo duplex.

I’ve often thought about this dreadful duality. This terrible second Me is always there, sitting in a chair, watching, while the first Me stands up, lives, performs actions, suffers, struggles away.

This second Me that I’ve never been able to get drunk, or make cry, or put to sleep. And how much he sees into things! And how he mocks!

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   different translation]

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    show muct go on…...definitely feel on...thing, and I’m sorry...

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