Who hasn’t spent an evening, a dinner, a closing, a meeting with him, when he was in good shape, doesn’t really know what laughing is. Laugh not once, laugh not five minutes, but laugh continuously for two hours, laugh out loud, laugh to get your jaw off, laugh to have a stomach ache. Laughing not like at a show or in front of a film, but laughing at everything and nothing, about others and about themselves, about everyday things or the hassles of the job, about the important and the sous-chefs, short laugh of life so that you don’t have to cry about it. This time we will not laugh, except to tears: Pierre Bénichou died last night, in his sleep, a fatal error, he who used to happen, precisely, not to sleep at night.
Like all funny people, he had his share of tragedy, the fear of age and death and, above all, his unmistakable gifts that a passion for long evenings and an unhealthy demand prevented him from deploying their measure. After studying letters
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Laurent Joffrin publishing director of Liberation
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