WHEN WE—M. DEVAUX AND I—FINISHED the second version, the stories felt different from the ones Fabienne had dictated to me. What exactly had happened I could not tell, but the new stories felt less like hers, more like mine. Not that it was me who had written them, I was only taking down what M. Devaux dictated. But if you put the new version next to Fabienne’s, it was like putting me next to her. Fabienne was savage. I was only crude.
