Born, Landes, October 2, 1943, Pierre Veilletet died on January 8, 2013. “This is a beautiful and paradoxical that away without warning journalist,” writes Yves Harte in South West Veilletet newspaper had shown the highest level, short of Montauban, in the direction of the weekly (South West Sunday) Jean-Fran? ois Lemoine had entrusted to him in 1977. Jean-Claude Guillebaud and Yves Harte who succeeded him, all three Prix Albert-Londres, Veilletet gave West a look inimit??e Sunday: precise, innovative, scrupulously “written” in all categories, orchestral classy signatures, photographers and designers. A look worthy of his image as a very erudite dandy, as infinitely remote close.
Before any paradoxical fate, very intelligent fairies know the solution. A very clever tale of Peter Veilletet, Joseph Kessel, had commanded him: “Stop the paper, Peter, stop reporting, and really write.” Everything is in “really”. Besides that Veilletet professed a pretty crazy love of literature to be wary for personal use, he wrote essays, novels – if that is what it is – to not return a lot of success in the wind, pathetic chochotteries. And so many texts, stories, praise wine, divine ramblings, where there is more literature than this “written literature” waddling around, not unlike the “filmed theater” that mocked Serge Daney.
PRICE ALBERT LONDON
His precious books, books to discover Pension nuns (1986), Marie-Barbola (1988), Querencia (1991), Plain-Chant (1992, with Jacques Bertin), Heart of the Father (1993), The Blood Money (2002), all published by Arl??a have neither more nor less alcohol content writing, his report on the death of Franco, who got him in 1976, the Albert Londres price. Neither more nor less than the elegy Fran? Ois Cevert dead runner in the race in 1977, we still recite like a poem or Cingria Verhaeren. Not to mention one second that “it is only an article,” a paper. In the same vein, the text in the right place, in the monumental People of toro that he and Veronica Flanet, co-directed, could serve as a model to laughter meditation undecidable.
Instead of actually writing, Veilletet chose to write at any time. It has preferred the orchestra collaborations, the newspaper fraternity at satisfying the interests of his own statue primping taking the air we would if we had the opportunity to attend his own funeral. His class, the speed of his intelligence, his taste of tweed and ability to talk about wine as a theologian of grace, does not have stifled laughter, nor the sense of disaster, nor his ability to disappear be. It will be known as love, friendship, the distress or loneliness: assembling talent he obviously inherited from his inspired passion for great Bordeaux.
The notice announcing his death in the book pages of the World (13-14 January 2013) mentions this text editions Arl??a, he had founded with Jean-Claude Guillebaud and Catherine, found him “blind and presumptuous whoever believes born of a city or claims the force. Blessed is he whom one day na? t a city. So fired from exile, he can find compassion, the need deprives man of peace, and does provide a whim, that the elected cities, some women, and gods. ” Enough said. His distrust of origin when it was anchored in Bordeaux and the south-west for ever. Everything is called its capacity. His conscience to know struggling with grief without wanting to ignore it, without denying the appeal.
Editor-in-Chief of South West since 1989, he is brutally dismissed after publishing initiatives and brightest in 2000. President of Reporters Without Borders (2007-2009), it comes fa? We masterful in the journal Media that feeds portraits. writer, he wanted journalist. Vaguely Lille, he chose Landes. Honorary Seville, he sits in Bordeaux. Shortly mappable yet recognizable from the third line to the second button, the first narrative, the cap british, class, the incredible activism under hedonistic tunes concerned as much as nonchalant.