Behind the mask: David Thomas

Poetry suffering: Approaches

David Thomas' A brother (2025, shortlisted for the Prix Goncourt) confronts a twofold challenge: on the one hand, the author recounts the life and death of his brother Édouard, who suffered from schizophrenia for four decades; on the other hand, he simultaneously reflects on the difficulty of writing about mental illness in a literary way without reducing the subject to their diagnosis. How can a fictional or literary text do justice to the experience of mental illness? How can suffering, alienation, and the fragmented perception that schizophrenia brings be translated into narrative forms without appearing voyeuristic or simplistic? These questions constitute the novel's fundamental problem.

The text is neither a linear biography nor a clinical report, but a mosaic of memories, reflections, scenes, and inner dialogues. Starting with the discovery of his dead brother, Thomas unfolds a panorama of childhood memories, family crises, hospital experiences, but also loving details, everyday fragments, and poetic reflections on death, illness, and sibling love. The result is a text that hovers between autobiography, essay, and novel. The literary approach itself thus becomes part of the problem. A brother It not only shows what mental illness does to a person and their family, but also addresses the difficulty of making this experience narratable.

The work opens with the scene of death: The narrator discovers his brother's lifeless body in his apartment. From there, a flashback unfolds. Thomas recounts a childhood filled with closeness, then the first signs of Édouard's illness in his youth, the decades of hospital stays, relapses, and medication, and finally, his isolation and the break with everyday life. In these memories, the text alternates between unflinching descriptions—of the medications, the physical and psychological side effects—and poetic moments in which the author's voice addresses his brother. Midway through the novel, Thomas reflects on his own hesitation to write this text: Is one even allowed to do something like this? Towards the end, the funeral, the clearing out of the apartment, and the lingering effect of the memory take place. The ending refuses any definitive resolution: Édouard remains present in his absence, stored in his cell phone, present in language.

Readings

Fragment and experience of illness

The formal structure of David Thomas's novel, characterized by short chapters, abrupt scene changes, and essayistic interludes, is a deliberate aesthetic choice that mimics the discontinuity of schizophrenia. This illness manifests itself not as a coherent narrative for either the afflicted individual or their loved ones, but rather as a succession of ruptures, crises, and disjointed episodes. The novel's non-linearity reflects the fragmentation of Édouard's subjectivity, whom the narrator describes as "himself, but no longer himself. Another," and whose life has been transformed by the illness into that of a "living dead man." The narrator experiences the illness as a "fog" that hung over the family for almost forty years, slowly but inexorably causing Édouard's silhouette to fade "until he was barely distinguishable, until he was just a shadow." This inability to perceive Édouard as a complete, unchanging person is reflected in the narrative style, which jumps between childhood memories, moments of acute crisis, and present-day reflections, such as the speculative scenes of Édouard's death on June 18th, while the narrator was on holiday with his family. Such abrupt shifts prevent a continuous narrative and reflect the experience that Édouard's life appears not as a logical sequence, but as a series of isolated, often traumatic moments. Even the author struggles with this fragmentation, writing of his brother as "a culbuto" (a resilient figure), oscillating between hope and despair, which is reflected in the hesitant and disjointed development of the text.

This narrative fragmentation is not only an expression of Édouard's inner state, but also of the paradoxical situation of his family. For them, Édouard's illness is "another world, an obscure world" in which they can find no orientation. The essayistic interludes, in which the narrator reflects on the nature of the illness, the difficulty of writing, and its impact on his family, illustrate this attempt to make sense where often none exists. The novel's form deliberately rejects the illusion of wholeness, as a coherent "history" of the illness would be inappropriate. Instead, Édouard's life and suffering are presented in a mosaic-like manner, illuminating his experiences with music (blues as his language), his personal struggles, and his moments of "relative stability" in short, self-contained sections. This aesthetic choice allows the narrator to depict the raw, unfiltered reality of schizophrenia and its impact on the lives of all involved without trivializing or rationalizing it, and makes it clear that the suffering is “a pain that transforms into a presence” that lives on in the text.

Double absence

In his novel, David Thomas explores the “deux pertes” (two losses) of his brother Édouard, a concept that serves as a central interpretive key to illuminating the profound and paradoxical grief of the relatives of the mentally ill. The first loss was an almost forty-year-long, seemingly endless estrangement, during which schizophrenia robbed the narrator “every day a little more of my first echo.” Édouard was physically present, but “he himself, but no longer him. Someone else.” This gradual disappearance, this “alienation,” was caused by the illness, which destroyed his brother’s judgment, free will, autonomy, and credibility. The narrator describes how, during this time, he went through phases of carelessness, blindness, denial, and avoidance, but also experienced despondency, sadness, anger, alcohol, and isolation as a means of self-preservation. This manifested itself as a "fog" that hung over the family for almost forty years, a "silent lament of pain," while his brother's silhouette was "slowly, inescapably, swept away by mental illness until he was barely distinguishable, until he was just a shadow." Schizophrenia forced him into an inner struggle that made him a "living dead man," whose life was defined by conflict.

The second loss was Édouard's brutal physical death, which the narrator, however, foresaw as the logical consequence of the "forty years that had been a slide toward ever greater hardship." When the narrator found his dead brother, he initially tried to deny the reality of the death, calling the fire brigade even though he knew it was too late. But in that moment of death, when the illness seemed to vanish instantly, he experienced a profound return to his childhood brother. The realization that "it wasn't his death, but his life that was unbearable" meant that death itself brought not relief, but sadness and anger. Death doubled the grief for the "lost" living brother. The narrator describes how, in that moment of parting, he became a twelve-year-old child again, and the bond they had shared as children and adolescents "has just been shattered. The illness no longer appears; it has dissolved. Instantly." This double loss and the resulting reawakened, primal grief permeate the entire narrative, creating a melancholic atmosphere. For the narrator, writing becomes a way to "transform pain into presence," allowing Édouard's material and immaterial existence to live on in the text.

Physicality as a repository of illness

Édouard's schizophrenia manifests itself not only in his behavior and speech, but also drastically in the materiality of his body, which becomes a visible archive of his decades of suffering. David Thomas describes with astonishing realism the physical effects of the psychotropic drugs on his brother's body. He wishes that an ignorant critic could experience for himself what these medications do: "gaining forty kilos, sweating so much that his clothes are soaked, losing his teeth, his hands trembling like those of a Parkinson's patient, difficulty with bowel movements, erections, speech, vision, walking without stumbling, and understanding where he is." These side effects, along with the "pestilential breath caused by certain medications," testify to a profound "alienation," a loss of self that transcends psychological symptoms and presents the body as evidence of an illness that alienated him for almost forty years. As early as the 1980s, Édouard was administered "far too strong molecules" that turned him into a "living dead man," barely able to articulate, his footsteps, the slowness of his gestures, and the emptiness of his gaze testifying to the power of the treatment and the sedatives. The description of the "abominable state" of his apartment, characterized by filth, rotting food scraps, and cigarette butts, is also presented as a direct consequence of his illness, leading to a "loss of dignity" and self-respect.

Even after Édouard's death, physicality remains a central symbol. The narrator describes his brother's dead body with remarkable precision that transcends the purely physical: "I look at him, the skin of his face has stretched downwards." This and other details, such as the "grey," "violet, blue, greenish stains" on his body and face, underscore how the body becomes the ultimate testament to suffering. The narrator emphasizes the importance of the body as an integral part of identity: "The body is important, the movements, the breathing, the glances, the skin, that's important. Someone is not just a personality, thoughts, opinions; it is also a physical mass that moves, shifts, that has a texture, a smell, a voice, eyes that say just as much, and often more, than that voice." Through this detailed description, even beyond death, the body becomes the bearer of an indissoluble presence that lives on in the text. The act of writing about his brother serves the narrator to “restore who you were” and “transform a pain into a presence,” thereby perpetuating Édouard’s physical and immaterial existence in the narrative thread.

Metaphorical approach to the “other” perception

This passage makes a crucial distinction between the poet's "seeing" and the mentally ill person's "seeing," drawing on Rimbaud's concept of the poet as a "seer" through a "rational deregulation of all the senses." The narrator emphasizes that while both can perceive an "other reality," the poet controls this perception (it is "rational"), whereas the mentally ill person "lives" it and is trapped within it, unable to control or articulate it intelligibly. This underscores the tragedy of Édouard's condition: he is constantly in a "poetic state," an "other perception," but this is a prison, an "exile" in which he "suffers it." The sick person's inability to "transcribe what he sees" renders his reality "abscons" (obscure, difficult to understand) for others and stands in stark contrast to the poet's ability to make the invisible comprehensible. This passage is a reflection on the isolating nature of mental illness and the inherent, uncontrollable “poetry” of his brother’s experience.

David Thomas's novel approaches the complex perception of schizophrenia in a compelling way, using rich metaphors that make Édouard's mental state comprehensible not only pathologically but also imaginatively. Particularly striking is the episode in which the narrator has a dream in which his deceased brother Édouard calls him. To the narrator's question, "Mais tu es où?" (But where are you?), Édouard replies in a calm voice, "Je suis en Paranoïa." This seemingly surreal sentence functions as a poetic metaphor, portraying the otherworld of Édouard's illness as a distinct, habitable space. The unusual, almost beautiful sound of the word "Paranoïa" evokes in the narrator the image of a tropical, equatorial island, characterized by both gentle beaches and refreshing, lush forests. This notion stands in stark contrast to the common understanding of paranoia and offers the narrator a symbolic answer to the agonizing question of where his brother had actually disappeared to during the nearly forty years of his illness, this "infinite distance": "In Paranoia, a country where the sick live." Here, the alien mental state is not understood as a mere deficit or "malfunction" of the brain, but as an independent "topography of deviance," an inherent "otherness" that characterizes Édouard as "himself, but no longer himself. Another." The metaphor of the island exile reinforces the idea that the schizophrenic is "constantly trapped in a poetic state, constantly in another perception," from which he can see the "mainland" of the normal world, but can no longer inhabit it.

Another striking example of this metaphorical approach can be found in the novel's first chapter, where Édouard is described at a wedding. While the other guests glide in a "fluid and elegant ballet," Édouard sits "immobile, hunched over, his shoulders rounded, his hands clasped between his knees," with a "mask on his face, the mask of suffering." This state of rigidity and the "mask of suffering" metaphorically condense the experience of illness: schizophrenia is portrayed here as a standstill amidst the flowing stream of life. The contrast between the light movement of the celebrating people and Édouard's rigidity underscores how "misfortune freezes people." The mask of suffering that covers Édouard's face, as he seems to speak with an inner voice and wears an expression of "inevitable defeat," symbolizes the profound alienation from his own self. Édouard's "true" personality, his former, brilliant self, is hidden behind this mask and has become inaccessible to the outside world. This is a poetic condensation of the "alienation," the loss of judgment, free will, and autonomy, which the illness has caused over almost forty years, turning Édouard into a "living dead man." The metaphor of the mask suggests that the illness not only alters the outward appearance but also shrouds the afflicted person's innermost identity in a "fog" that slowly reduces the true person to a "shadow."

Writing between betrayal and salvation

In his novel, the author repeatedly enters into an imagined dialogue with his deceased brother Édouard, whose fictional voice constantly emphasizes the problematic nature of the writing process. Édouard unequivocally forbids the narrator: "I forbid you to write about my illness." This imagined confrontation reveals a profound dilemma: writing about the brother's mental illness can be perceived as a betrayal, as it publicly exposes Édouard and risks reducing him to his illness. The dead brother's questions – "What are you doing with this book? I don't want you to tell this about me. Do you think I want to have this image of me?" – illustrate the anxiety surrounding the perception of his person, which had been alienated for almost forty years by schizophrenia, turning him into a “living dead man.” Édouard accuses the narrator of being “lache” because he waited until his death to write about it: “You waited for me to be dead to authorize you to do it. You are lache. You have no will. You would never have dared to do this to my living soul.” These accusations reveal the moral dilemma and the ambivalent role of the author, torn between the desire to preserve his brother’s existence and the fear of violating his intimacy. The narrator defends himself by claiming that he writes “to restore who you were” and to recount Édouard’s “struggle” as well as his “own experience.”

Literature in this context is not understood as a cathartic healing, but as an ambivalent process, both necessary and painful. The author explicitly states: “I don’t believe for a second that writing brings relief.” He experiences a profound “paralysis” at the beginning of the writing process and describes himself as a “culbuto” (a resilient figure), wavering between the impulse to write and discouragement, which causes the process to “stall.” He fears he will be unable to add anything “relevant” to the topics of mental illness, death, or grief. Nevertheless, writing is necessary to keep Édouard’s memory alive and “to transform pain into presence, to give it back to me.” The pain lies in “transgressing the silence of the dead man,” as the narrative enters areas that Édouard tried to protect throughout his life. The author admits that he has “distorted reality” and “embellished” his brother because his bond with him was stronger than the demand for “clarity or accuracy.” The goal is not to idealize the brother, but to make his "presence" imperishable: "She will never leave me. Because I don't want her to leave me." This act of writing is therefore not a liberation from grief, but a continuous, complex attempt to maintain a living connection to a lost person.

The relationship between privacy and publicity

A central point of tension in the novel lies in the crossing of the boundary between the deeply private experience of suffering and the act of public narration. The author, David Thomas, is aware of the ethical dimension of exposing his brother Édouard's intimate pain, which, in principle, should not be readily available for literary expression. This tension manifests itself in the recurring imagined dialogue with his dead brother, who states unequivocally: "I forbid you to write about my illness." Édouard questions whether the author has permission to tell his life story and fears that writing could reduce him to his suffering and convey an image of him that he does not desire: "I don't want you to tell that about me. Do you think I want people to have that image of me?" The author experiences a profound "paralysis" and "anxiety" while writing, doubting whether he can add anything relevant to the topics of mental illness, death, or grief. He admits that he has "distorted reality" and "embellished" his brother because his bond with him was stronger than the demand for "clarity or accuracy." Writing thus becomes an ambivalent process, both necessary and painful, and one that transgresses the silence of the dead man.

Thomas's answer to the question of whether one is allowed to write about the suffering of others is ambivalent: yes, if it is about making the human element visible and portraying Édouard as a complex person, not just as a patient. The author defends his decision by saying, "I am writing precisely to restore who you were." He wants to capture Édouard's "struggle" and his "personal experience." To counteract this narrowing of focus to the illness, Thomas places great emphasis on the detailed descriptions of Édouard's multifaceted personality, his passions, and idiosyncrasies. His deep connection to the blues is highlighted—the blues was "his language." He played guitar not for public consumption, but to connect with his innermost self. Édouard's sporting achievements in riding his pony Pionnier, his dandyish appearance and sense of elegance in his youth, his witty and provocative nature as a child, his tenacity in love, and his intellectual acuity in conversation are also explored in detail. Even his habit of not wearing underwear (“to go commando”) is celebrated as a sign of his personality, which continues to surprise him and extends his presence beyond death. This comprehensive portrayal makes it clear that while Édouard’s suffering is central, his person is never to be reduced to it; instead, it is about “transforming pain into a presence, giving it back to me.”

Memory files

At its core, David Thomas's novel is a profound struggle against oblivion, initiated by a series of acts of remembering following the death of his brother Édouard. The clearing out of his apartment becomes a central scene in this confrontation. Although the narrator and his brother Antoine initially clean together to make the apartment presentable for their parents, discovering countless medications and cannabis in the process, the narrator later undertakes this task alone. He devotes himself to leafing through and sorting papers such as bank statements, tax returns, pay slips, CAF correspondence, and even old identity documents with photographs of his brother from different periods of his life. This intimate engagement with the administrative and personal traces of Édouard's life, spanning three and a half decades, is painful, but it also creates a deep connection to the deceased: "It's sad, but it does me good to do this, because I am closest to his life and to him." Even listening to old records by Rory Gallagher, JB Lenoir, or Howlin' Wolf amidst this activity, with the "crackling of the sapphire on the groove," reminds the narrator of a time when everything that shaped him was inextricably linked to his brother. These actions save Édouard's existence from the oblivion that illness and death threatened to engulf. Even small discoveries, like the fact that Édouard didn't wear underwear and "he went commando," become joyful moments that continue to surprise his brother and show that they "continue to learn things about him" and that "it's not over."

Through these diverse acts of remembrance, the text itself becomes a vibrant space of memory, in which Édouard lives on not only as a patient, but as a multifaceted human being. He is portrayed as a brother, musician, friend, and lover, whose passions and idiosyncrasies are described in detail. His coded messages in notebooks, which refer to his beloved pony Pionnier or his great love Lorraine, illuminate his deep attachments and longings. His profound connection to the blues, in particular—"his language," through which he expressed "the vibrations of his soul"—brings him vividly to life as a musician who played not for the public, but for himself, to connect with his innermost self. The central function of literature in Thomas's novel is to preserve the past and make Édouard's presence imperishable. Although the author admits to having “distorted” reality and “embellished” his brother to counteract his reduction to his illness, this serves the overarching goal of “restoring who you were.” The text rearranges a “scattered reality” to make it bearable and to preserve the brother’s presence, as the author does not want that presence to ever leave him. Thus, the novel becomes a testament to love and the struggle against the annihilation of a complex human life.

Presence and Dissolution

Despite all the harshness and distance, the central theme of the book remains sibling love. This love is intensified in the scene where the narrator sits beside his dead brother and repeatedly says, "Tu es mon frère" (You are my brother). Here, the relationship is not reduced to illness, guilt, or shame, but to a raw connection that requires no further justification. This scene lies at the heart of the novel: it makes clear that beyond the illness, an indestructible bond exists, one that cannot be broken.

At the end of the novel, the themes culminate in a twofold movement: the dissolution of the brother in the physical world (funeral, clearing out the apartment, administrative cancellations) and his simultaneous presence in memory and language. The ending ("He always appears in my phone, first on my favorites list") illustrates this paradoxical situation: Édouard is dead, but he remains inextricably present in the author's everyday life. The novel thus ends not in a dissolution, but in a state of suspension between absence and presence.

That is precisely the literary point: mental illness and death cannot be "resolved" or "coped with". A brother The novel denies the comfort of a closed ending. Instead, it shows that the bond between the brothers endures—as a constant, sometimes painful, but also vivid memory. The literary text itself thus becomes the medium of this enduring presence. In doing so, Thomas answers the initial question of how one can approach mental illness fictionally: not through explanation or linearity, but through fragmentary remembering, through the recognition of the ambivalence of closeness and distance, and through the literary staging of a voice that continues to resonate between life and death.

A brother This is a novel about schizophrenia, but even more so a novel about the impossibility of adequately portraying this illness. By formally recreating ruptures, fragmentations, and ambivalences, the text remains true to the experience. Its literary greatness lies in the fact that it not only addresses the illness but also places brotherly love at its center—thus demonstrating that humanity is not extinguished even by the radical destructive power of the disease. Moreover, through metaphors such as "paranoia as a country" or the "mask" of the illness, Thomas succeeds in finding a literary language for the "other" perception of the schizophrenic: a language that does not smooth over the unfamiliar but makes it tangible. Through the detailed depiction of Édouard's musicality (blues as his language), hobbies, and idiosyncrasies, the novel fights against reduction to the illness and preserves humanity in all its complexity. The book thus becomes a memorial space for the brother, allowing Édouard's multifaceted presence to live on in the text, unvarnished yet lovingly.