The Incorrigible Optimists Club Read Online Free PDF Page B

I had come home at six o’clock as I said I had. Juliette had not the slightest qualm in betraying me with a shake of the head.
    She was an unbelievable chatterbox too, capable of rambling on for hours without anyone remembering what it was she was talking about. She monopolized the conversation. It was impossible to have any sort of discussion with her. She never let you get a word in. You just gave up and let yourself be carried along by the flow of words that streamed from her lips without anyone being able to interrupt her. Everybody made fun of her. Grandfather Philippe, who praised her to the skies, called her ‘my pretty little windbag’ and didn’t hesitate to forbid her to speak in his presence. She wearied him. Enzo used to say that she had a little old lady inside her belly.
    â€˜You’re a chiacchierona like my cousin Lea, who still lives in Parma.’
    This nickname stuck with her. She loathed it. When anyone wanted to annoy her, they called her a chiacchierona . That made her shut up. Sometimes, she would start talking at the beginning of the meal and continue her monologue throughout, unstoppable. Our father would thump the table.
    â€˜Stop, Juliette, you’re making us feel giddy! The girl’s such a chatterbox!’
    She protested vociferously: ‘I’m not a chatterbox! No one listens to me.’

4
    I hated wasting my time. The only thing that seemed worthwhile to me was reading. At home, nobody really read. My mother took all year to read the ‘Book of the Year’, which enabled her to talk about it and to pass for a great reader. My father did not read at all and was proud of the fact.
    Franck had some political books in his bedroom. The only writer Grandfather Philippe respected was Paul Bourget, whose novels he had adored when he was young.
    â€˜They can say what they want, but literature was a damn sight better before the war.’
    Grandfather bought sets of books from the shops in rue de l’Odéon. He had a bookcase built for them, but he did not read them. But I made up for the rest of the family. I was a compulsive reader. In the morning, when I switched on the light, I picked up my latest and never put it down. It annoyed my mother to see me with my nose in a book.
    â€˜Have you nothing else to do?’
    She could not bear me not to be listening to her when she was speaking. On several occasions she snatched the book out of my hands to force me to reply. She had given up calling me for dinner and she had discovered an effective solution. From the kitchen, she switched off the electricity in my bedroom. I was then obliged to join them. I read at the table, which exasperated my father. I read when I cleaned my teeth, and in the lavatory. They hammered on the door for me to let them have their turn. I read while I walked. It took me fifteen minutes to reach the lycée, but reading stretched it out to half an hour or more. I took account of this additional time and left home earlier. But I would often arrive late, especially when some thrilling passage brought me to a standstill on the pavement for an unspecified period of time, and I picked up masses of detentions for being unpunctual three times without a valid excuse. I had given up trying to explain to the idiots who were supposed to beeducating us that this lack of punctuality was justified and unavoidable. My guardian angel protected me and guided me. I never bumped into a lamppost, nor did I get run over by a car when I crossed the road with my nose stuck in my book. On several occasions, I missed my turn at a pedestrian crossing and the hoot of a car’s horn brought me back to reality. I avoided the piles of dog shit that spattered the Paris pavements. I heard nothing. I saw nothing. I walked on automatic pilot and reached school safe and sound. Throughout most of the lessons, I continued my reading with the book propped open on my lap. I was never caught by a teacher.
    In due