quickly in the United States, that it is somehmes built upon therntrampling of the past, but the young man that I was in 1949 rememberedrndeep in his heart that all of these Western lands—rnfrom New Orleans to the source of the Missouri and the RockyrnMountains, where some of the Indian nations of Montana stillrnbear French names—were once French.rnIf the emperor Napoleon, who did great harm to France andrnto Europe and who was in reality a man of the past who understoodrnnothing of America, had not sold in April 1803 these fabulousrnterritories to your second President, Thomas Jefferson, forrn$15 million —quite a bargain for you, by the way—well, itrnwould perhaps be in French that I would be speaking to you today,rnand it would perhaps be in French that you would be listeningrnto me. English would have stayed in New England, andrnthe world would not be at the mercy of a single hegemonic languagernwhich is losing its original beauty in the global meltingrnpot. We can always dream . . . Given my major imperfectionsrnin English, a language which I admire so much that I avoid usingrnit so as not to massacre it, you can believe me when I sayrnthat, if French had won out, this speech would be less tiresomernfor you.rnVery few French writers—I speak especially of novelists —rnhave received in recent years American literary honors. For myrnpart, I know of none. There is at the moment an enormous gaprnbetween the number of American novels translated intornFrench and the number of French novels translated and publishedrnin the United States.rnThere must be reasons for this. Perhaps today’s French novelsrnhave simply become too bad, which is the case for many, itrnis true, but no more so than elsewhere. There are bad Americanrnnovels, even bad ones written by your famous writers. Perhapsrnthe very French world of novelists in my country is of norninterest to the American reader, even though the French readerrnfeels almost at home in the world of today’s American novelists.rnWe could dwell on that subject for a long time. Therefore,rnI was frankly astonished to learn that The Ingersoll Foundation’srnchoice for the T.S. Eliot Award had fallen upon my humblernselfrnIn the letter and documents that were sent to me by the Executirne Secretary of The Ingersoll Prizes, Mr. Thomas Fleming,rnwho I would here like to thank, I immediately noted thatrnthis award is for writers whose work “affirms the best values ofrnour civilization.” With all deference to my illustrious predecessors,rnI can indeed glimpse the reasons why I have had thernhonor of receiving this award. And it set me thinking, whichrncan be a dangerous pastime for a novelist.rnI am above all things a novelist, which means that I am not arnphilosopher, a sociologist, an historian, an eminent professor,rnor a dogmatic writer of newspaper editorials; I am not a professionalrnthinker. I am not intelligent enough for that. I actuallyrnbelieve that a brilliant intellect is a handicap for a novelist: it eitherrnmakes him go too far and create over-complicated systemsrnand be too demonstrative, or it paralyzes him. Nothing wouldrnplease me less than to be what we call in French “une belle conscience,”rnone who gives lessons to others.rnWhen I write a novel, I content myself with telling a story. Ifrnthat stor’ carries within it a certain conception of mankind andrnWestern society, it is simply because that conception is part ofrnmy deepest nature. I do not have to think about it. I do notrnhave to pluck at my heart strings. I simply write because I havernto. I do not intend to convey a message. This is why I generallyrnrefuse to comment on my books. I do not wish to add a singlernword to that which I have written. I have written them, andrnthat is enough. Again, if my books carry what some consider tornbe teachings, I did not do this intentionally. I simply broughtrnout feelings which I experienced naturally and for which I dornnot have to explain myself, especially if these feelings do notrnsuit the lowest common denominator. One may sense a certainrncaution in my attitude. This has unfortunately becomernnecessary in France. One may also sense a refusal on my partrnto enter into a dialogue which, by its very nature, is already distortedrnand in which words do not have the same meanings forrnall. Which gives you an idea of the difficulty I have in overcomingrnmy natural reserve to speak to you this afternoon.rnIbelieve that we-the United States,rnFrance, Europe, and a few otherrncountries-are brothers, that we arernpart of the same family. I also believernthat we cannot do without the UnitedrnStates in the defense and promotion ofrnour shared values.rnI prefer simply to give you an example. In 1973, I wrote arnnovel called The Camp of the Saints. This book was translatedrninto several languages and was first published in the UnitedrnStates by Scribners in 1975 and afterward by other Americanrnpublishers over the last 20 years. The Camp of the Saints tells inrna symbolic way, as in a long parable, the peaceful invasion ofrnthe West by the Third World. The subject is simple and evenrnoversimplified, I must admit. One morning a gigantic fleet ofrnrusty old boats runs up onto the beaches of the Mediterraneanrnin the south of France. Aboard, ready to disembark on thernpromised land, are millions of poverty-stricken, defenseless,rnand starving men, women, and children of different race andrnculture from ourselves. It is the immense force of numbers andrnneed. Millions of other poor people are ready to follow themrnand surge into the beach as soon as it has been opened. Whatrndo we do? Do we let them come in and risk being submergedrnand having our own identity swept away by the somber multitude?rnThis would be the response conforming to the Christianrnideals of Western mankind, but at what price? Or should wernpush them back to the sea using all the means at the disposal ofrnthe rich, and if so, with what damage to our consciences andrnwith what doom-laden consequences?rnThis is the theme of The Camp of the Saints. A symbolicrnone, I repeat: if that day should come, it would not really happenrnin that way but at the same time the demographic predictionsrnfor the next century are eloquent. At the end of the novel,rnFrance and the Western world renounce the use of force.rnAPRIL 1998/15rnrnrn