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Proust Booster, The Book Surgeon, The Rogue Structuralist, The Typologist, Theory's Favorite Underdog
I've preached the good word of Narratology and dismantled French literature for the best and brightest at the Sorbonne and my other alma mater, École Normale Supérieure. Along the way, I was director of the School for Advanced Studies in the Social Sciences, which is crazy prestigious, and did lecturing stints at Johns Hopkins and Yale.
Go ahead, guess. Give up? Okay, I went to a fancy-pants lycée in the suburbs of Paris and then made the inevitable move through the sequence of institutions of supreme intellectual training known as the Sorbonne and then the École Normale Supérieure—the Harvard of Paris, but even better. Among my fellow students were Pierre Bourdieu and the formidable Jacques Derrida. We weren't tight then, but he already stood out as a dashing intellectual.
Full disclosure: I was a dedicated member of the Communist Party and wept upon hearing of the death of that homicidal dictator Joseph Stalin on March 5, 1953. I've been told I was a bit of a pest with all that Communist dogma, harassing people to sign petitions and trying to wrangle people into political meetings.
I was a Communist. I didn't give a hoot about organized religion—you know that old Marxist saw: "Religion is the opiate of the masses." (That's a paraphrase, by the way, but it does get the point across.)