In speculating “as to why anyone embarks on the adventure of writing” Bernard-Henri Lévy (BHL) says in Public Enemies that
you write to find out not so much who you are as who you’re becoming. I believe that what is at stake in a book is not being yourself, finding yourself, coinciding with your truth, your shadows, your eternal child within, or any of that other idiotic stuff, but rather changing, becoming other than the person you were before beginning and whom the book’s own growth has rendered obsolete and uninteresting. Do we write to retreat into ourselves or to escape; to disappear or to make an appearance; to occupy a territory or to mine it and, having, mined it, to change it and lose ourselves in the maze of an unreachable identity? For me, the answer is obvious and in itself explains why I couldn’t care less about the nonsense written about the ‘truth’ of my relations with money, media, power [. . . ]
He might even be right.
The book as a whole feels self-indulgent and pointless so far, though it isn’t stupid and could improve with time.