The Oxymoron

To say what this thriller is, we must start by saying what it is not; that is to say a thriller. Would Oxymoron in this case be an anti-thriller? Hardly. Not a drop of blood flows in these pages, not a gram of drugs circulates; not even a little rape on the go. The investigator, the commissioner, the police officer, the dealer, the sultry or abused women, all the world has disappeared. And the purpose of this book is certainly not to find them. Can you write a thriller without an investigation? Or rather – since in literature everything is possible if one lacks sufficient reverence for the rules – How? To what extent and by what tricks can we designate a polar as a book that denies us not only elucidation, but even intrigue herself? Such a direction certainly moves away from the horizons comforting to which the said genre destines us. In fact, refusing the intrigue police returns to mourning a return to the harmony before the fall. It is finally to undo the square reason, that of the meticulous investigator, to consent to the beauty of the void on which one moves, and to yawn before the provisional resolution of puzzles by which our need for knowledge is yet so easily titillated. The Oxymoron is thus a bizarre novel, a perpetual motion, a seemingly sealed loop, another vain journey of from the shadow that blinds to the light that dazzles, passing through all the hues from the gray area.