[by Xavier-Laurent Salvador]

So we decided to rewrite the great classics of Literature in inclusive writing in order to compensate for the inefficiency of reactionary publishers who do not dare to take the step. Determined to fight for the beauty of the gesture, we are going to put the middle point back everywhere that white heteronormative cis-gendered and patriarchal authors have forgotten to do so. to free literature from the sordid straitjacket in which it has been languishing since the Sorbonne and other conspirators of the same ilk tried to abuse grammar – this pitiful orthoshaming tool – to produce reactionary content. All the great authors will go through it, and believe me, it will be a celebration of the midpoint. A real carnage, there will be some everywhere! Inclusiveness as if it were raining, a real festival. Today: The Disappearance of Perec.

Anton Voyl could not sleep. He turned on the light. His Jaz was twenty minutes past midnight. He sighed deeply, sat up in bed, leaning on his bolster. He picked up a novel, opened it, read it; but all he grasped was a confused imbroglio, he kept stumbling over a word whose meaning he did not know.
He left his novel on his bed. He went to his sink; he wet a glove and passed it over his forehead, over his neck.
His pulse was beating too fast. He was hot. He opened his skylight, peered into the night. It was mild. An indistinct noise rose from the suburb. A chime, heavier than a knell, duller than a tocsin, deeper than a drone, not far away, rang three strokes. From the Saint-Martin canal, a plaintive lapping signaled a passing barge.
On the flap of the skylight, an animal with an indigo thorax and a saffron sting, neither a cockroach nor a weevil, but rather an artison, was advancing, dragging a sprig of esparto grass. He approached, wanting to flatten it with a sharp blow, but the animal took flight, disappearing into the night before he could attack it.

Damn it!