Jean-Baptiste’s death was the major event of my life: it condemned my mother to her chains and gave me my freedom.
That there’s no such thing as a good father is the rule. There’s little point in blaming men for it when it’s paternal ties in general, frayed and worn as they are, which are at fault. There’s nothing better than making children, but having them – now that’s a crime! Had he lived, my father would have borne down on me with all his weight, eventually crushing me. Luckily, he died young; amongst the Aeneases carrying their Anchiseses on their backs, I move from one shore to the other alone, hating these invisible paters astride their children for all their lives; I left behind me a dead young man who didn’t have the time to be my father and who, today, could be my son. Was it for the better or for the worse? I don’t know, but I happily subscribe to the verdict of an eminent psychoanalyst: I don’t have a superego on my back.
Dying isn’t everything: you’ve got to die at the right time. Later I made myself feel guilty; an orphan with any degree of awareness blames itself: offended by its sight, its parents have retreated to their apartments in the sky. For my part, I was delighted: my sad lot commanded respect, established my importance; I numbered my bereavement amongst my virtues. My father had had the good grace to die culpably; my grandmother said over and over that he was stripped of his duties; my grandfather, rightly proud of Schweitzer longevity, could not bring himself to acknowledge that a person could die at thirty; faced with this suspect death, he came to doubt that his son-in-law had ever existed and ultimately forgot him entirely. I didn’t even have to forget him: by absconding, Jean-Baptiste had denied me the pleasure of making his acquaintance. Even today I am amazed by how little I know about him. He loved, however. He wanted to live. He died with his wits about him. That's enough to constitute a whole man.