In preparation
Release date: March 2025
Jean-Baptiste Dethieux
Is a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst.
Full training member of the Paris Psychoanalytic Society.
He is the author of several articles in the professional field and carries out editorial activities alongside his main activity.
He has published essays, stories and novels.
Her first work, Le voyage de Jeanne, was published by Anne Carrière.
Every childhood is a journey. It is also a fight, a fight to the death against death, from which one most often emerges victorious, leaving childhood intact behind. A childhood to which one can return to remember, that one can leave to find it better, until the day when it is possible to find it again to leave it for good.
The places of childhood are then revisited one last time. These are places that an analytical trajectory allows us to return to in order to lose them instead of getting lost in them.
Release date: September 2025
« Je vous ai haï et j’ai aimé vous haïr, jusqu’au vertige. J’ai surtout aimé la colère inévitable qui en découle. Vivifiante, tonique, stimulante ».
Ce sont par ces mots que débute ce roman où on retrouve les souffles du triller psychologique mêlés à ceux des grands classiques du siècle dernier.
Quand un sale individu saccage ses quatorze ans, Marie est submergée par la haine. De la force dévastatrice de ce sentiment, naîtra une colère viscérale qui va décupler son désir de vivre.
Loin de l’anéantir, l'horreur subie fera d’elle une femme sûre de son droit à exister.
L’écriture de Marie. B. Ferreira ne s’encombre pas de fioritures. Avec des mots incisifs, à l’instar de Marie, elle nous bouscule, elle nous bouleverse et nous interroge. Et si la haine n’était pas la seule responsable de tous les maux de notre monde, mais bel et bien la principale manifestation d’un ras-le-bol de ceux qui nous dominent.
Release date: October 2025
Dear reader, my fellow man, my brother, before you start reading this guide, close your eyes and imagine.
Imagine an old cemetery, on a full moon night. The old rusty iron gate creaked hideously when you pushed it, like the laughter of some lost witch. The stone tombs look like boats stranded on land, raising their cross-shaped masts towards the black sky. Here and there, a few abandoned sepulchres, with broken slabs, reveal their earthy entrails. An owl hoots. Suddenly it gets colder. At the bell tower of the neighboring church, the twelve strokes of midnight ring out. Over there, between two tombs, a pale silhouette has just passed. The silhouette of the White Lady. In spite of yourself, dear reader, you shudder…