The weak, sensual, pleasure-loving French. You know, not going to war because they’re all still in bed at two in the afternoon, with the sheets coiled about their knees, lying there scratching themselves. Smoking a Gauloise inside a Gitane, sweating nice sancerre, before one of them sloughs off the sheets to pad around the kitchen naked. No, not naked; naked from the waist down, to emphasise their nakedness. Picking up yesterday’s croissant crumbs with their sweaty feet, slashing yesterday’s paintings. Chocolate bread! That’s how they start the day. It’s only going to escalate from there. By lunchtime you’re fucking everybody you know. I was in Paris recently—they are very good at pleasure. I was walking by a bakery, a boulangerie (which is fun to go into and to say, even) and I went in— a childish desire to get a cake. “Give me one of those chocolate guys,” I said. Then I was talking to someone on the street, took a bite… I had to tell them to go away! This thing! I wanted to book a room with it! Proper, serious pleasure. Because they know they’re gonna die. Nobody goes to church. You think, we’re gonna die, make a fucking nice cake.