A novelist does well, when he has the power, the rhythm, the intensity of which Luc Lang, of One thousand six hundred bellies (Fayard, 1998) to At the beginning of the seventh day (Stock, 2016), has multiplied the demonstrations, something is happening, floating as well as the book by the way. The face-to-face of a hunter and a staggering opening scene, of too brief a magnetism -, several masterful scenes of action – bodies, places, looks, whirling movements of the inner and outer narrative -, the sudden luster of a face: beauty arises through gaps in The temptation, as if the novel were not resolved to be what it is.
Or, for the rest, the demonstration supported by some general ideas, which constrain and laminate the story of François – the hunter -, an aging surgeon, swept away by the torment of his daughter's love with a mobster, and the greed of his Banker's son, but banker of operetta, if you will, his portrait, which serves only to turn the symbolic machine that Luc Lang unfortunately wants to arrange, is a caricature. It is the new world and the old world, the transmission of violence, the anxiety of being swept away in the passage of time. Matters worthy of interest, which deserve better than a set of schematic oppositions and thesis dialogues. And Luc Lang also deserves better, not to mention the stag and faces, all this scattered beauty.