In October 2018, I had the privilege of meeting Éric Vuillard, winner of the Prix Goncourt 2017, during an evening organized at the Villa Albertine in New York City. The event was a dédicace (book signing) for his widely acclaimed work L’Ordre du jour, a book that continues to resonate deeply with me years later.
The Villa Albertine, situated in Manhattan, is a vibrant cultural institution run by the French Embassy. More than just a residence for French creatives in the United States, it serves as a dynamic space for exchange between artists, writers, scholars, and the public. That evening, the Villa was alive with conversation and curiosity—a gathering of minds around literature, history, and memory.
What made the night unforgettable was not just the ambiance, but the opportunity to speak directly with Éric Vuillard. He was generous with his time and thoughts, and I left the event with a signed and dedicated copy of his book, as well as a photo—a personal memento of a powerful encounter with one of the most compelling voices in contemporary French literature.
A Powerful Reflection on the Machinery of History
L’Ordre du jour is a deceptively short book. Barely 150 pages long, it defies the traditional boundaries of genre. It reads like a historical essay, but is written with the narrative flair of a novella. Vuillard doesn’t merely recount events—he dramatizes them, illuminates their absurdities, and strips bare the mechanisms behind some of the darkest chapters of the 20th century.
The book opens with a seemingly mundane meeting: twenty-four German industrialists gathering to pledge support to Adolf Hitler in February 1933. Vuillard gives each man a name, a presence, and a quiet sense of accountability. These are not anonymous historical forces—they are individuals with influence, who made deliberate choices.
Throughout the book, Vuillard invites us to look again at what we think we know. He brings out the cowardice of the political class, the hypocrisy of diplomacy, and the eerie smoothness with which the Anschluss—the annexation of Austria by Nazi Germany—was carried out, almost bureaucratically. His prose is sharp, ironic, and relentless. Every sentence feels like an incision into the polite fabric of official history.
What struck me most is how Vuillard doesn’t shout. He whispers, almost. And in doing so, he allows the horror to emerge in the spaces between the lines—in the silence of diplomats, in the complicity of elites, in the machinery of convenience and denial. There are no heroes in L’Ordre du jour, only men who knew what was happening and let it happen.
This is what makes the book so modern. It is not only about the past—it is a meditation on the present. On how power operates through meetings, signatures, and staged photo opportunities. On how the greatest crimes are often carried out without a single shot being fired—just handshakes, protocol, and a willingness to look the other way.
Reading L’Ordre du jour is like being gently but insistently pulled out of historical amnesia. It is a reminder that history is not a distant past—it is a series of decisions, actions, and silences that shape our world today. As someone deeply invested in literature and in the lessons of history, I found Vuillard’s work not only moving but profoundly necessary.
Meeting him in person, speaking with him, and witnessing the care he takes in choosing every word—both on the page and in conversation—only deepened my respect for his craft and message. That evening at the Villa Albertine remains etched in my memory.
I wholeheartedly recommend L’Ordre du jour to anyone who wants to understand not just what happened in the lead-up to World War II, but how it happened—and how history continues to be shaped by those who have the power to act, or not to act.
