Upon his death in 2001, Lindon’s sister Irène became the director.īorn into a literary household (“Sam” and Alain Robbe-Grillet were regular guests), Lindon wanted to write from a young age, and it followed, or so it seemed to him, that his father would publish his fiction. Lindon’s father Jérôme was its longtime director, responsible for seeing into print an astonishing number of venerated French-language writers, among them Samuel Beckett, the Nouveau Roman authors, Marguerite Duras, and Marie NDiaye. The author’s own surname, in literary circles, was for decades synonymous with Les Éditions de Minuit, the celebrated independent publishing house founded in Paris in 1941. Of course, the names we have-and sometimes those we claim-are given to us. He adored it, as he makes clear in an entry from The Mausoleum of Lovers, his posthumously published journals: “I melt when a friend (Bernard, yesterday, for the first time, and as though incidentally) calls me Hervelino.” Hervelino, a diminutive that evokes Italy, was Guibert’s nickname. “Our names matter, those we have and those we claim,” remarks Mathieu Lindon at the beginning of Hervelino, a slim memoir of his friend Hervé Guibert, the French writer and photographer.
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