I flew to Paris to find a dead writer. On the airplane, in the bag on my lap, I carried a lilac-colored copy of La Batard. It was tattered and underlined, with red paper wrappings from chopsticks marking the pages. Many years ago, I has found this used copy in an old bookstore on Broadway in New York. The writer, Violette Leduc, wrote on an edge that reminded me of<--> myself. I bought it for a dollar and devoured it forever.