In The Disoriented, I draw very freely from my own youth. I spent it with friends who believed in a better world. And even if none of the characters in this book correspond to a real person, none is entirely imaginary. I drew from my dreams, from my fantasies, from my remorse, as much as from my memories. The protagonists of the novel had been inseparable in their youth, then they had dispersed, blurred, lost sight of. They meet again on the occasion of the death of one of them. Some never wanted to leave their native country, others emigrated to the United States, Brazil or France. And the paths they followed led them in the most diverse directions.

What more does the libertine hotelier, the entrepreneur who made his fortune, or the monk who withdrew from the world to devote himself to meditation have? Some shared reminiscences, and an incurable nostalgia for the world before.