Writers—when it comes to Haiti, I should say poets—like to gather among themselves despite the mixed feelings they harbor toward one another. They know they form a particular tribe. Adored one day, reviled the next, and often for no specific reason. They escape ordinary life, as if they were on a merry-go-round that kept spinning and making them dizzy until they reached a certain lyrical intoxication. It is this magical atmosphere that, by enveloping them, ultimately inspires toward them a passion that can, over time, turn into aversion. Destruction follows admiration.

They also like to keep to themselves at social gatherings, but never miss a tray of petits fours that passes within a meter of them. A young novelist is always hungry, while the young female poet constantly suffers from migraines, an old journalist, full of clichés and doing nothing but drinking himself, once whispered to me. Among this crowd, people speak ill of those who are absent, even though the collective spirit quickly returns when the attacker comes from another profession.