A very simple question: Did he really write all that himself?
The answer is less spectacular than one might think: sometimes yes. Sometimes no. And very often, not entirely on his own.
In politics, books occupy a special place. They are not merely a means of telling a story or developing ideas. They provide an opportunity to attract media attention, give interviews, organise book signings and build an intellectual or presidential stature. Political scientist Christian Le Bart has long spoken of the book as an instrument of political marketing: publishing can become a way of making one’s political mark.
Given this, it would be almost surprising if the production of these works were still the sole responsibility of a single person sitting at their computer.
The political world is well acquainted with the system of ‘ghostwriters’. Speeches themselves are commonly prepared with the help of specialist staff. Henri Guaino, for instance, was one of Nicolas Sarkozy’s main ghostwriters, whilst Sylvain Fort held this role for Emmanuel Macron. The politician provides direction, narrates, corrects and approves; another person may organise and format the text.
When it comes to books, all manner of arrangements are possible.
A politician may indeed write the bulk of their text themselves. Others work from recorded interviews lasting dozens of hours. A journalist, publisher or writer then transforms this spoken material into chapters. In other cases, a staff member prepares a first draft, which the author then revises and corrects. Finally, in some instances, a genuine ‘ghostwriter’ takes on a much larger share of the writing.
This practice is, in fact, nothing out of the ordinary in the publishing world. Ghostwriters have long been working on the autobiographies of public figures, sportspeople, actors, business leaders and politicians.
The recent example of Jordan Bardella has brought the subject back into the spotlight.
In March 2024, *Le Monde* recounted the genesis of his book, reporting that the journalist Jean-François Achilli had worked with him on the initial draft, a claim which Achilli had publicly qualified by stating that he had not signed a writing contract. The newspaper also explained that various publishing professionals had subsequently been involved in the project.
When *Ce que je cherche* was published, the publisher Nicolas Diat was presented as having supported Jordan Bardella in the preparation of the book. Bardella, for his part, had explained that those close to him were involved, in particular, in proofreading. Above all, these details show just how difficult it is, from the outside, to determine precisely the literary contribution of each individual.
And that is probably where the real question lies.
**What does ‘writing one’s own book’ mean?**
If a public figure spends fifty hours speaking to a journalist, proofreads every sentence, amends passages, deletes chapters and approves every word, are they the author of the book?
Legally and editorially speaking, they certainly can be.
But from a literary perspective, the matter becomes more nuanced.
Between coming up with the ideas, recounting memories, constructing the argument and actually writing the sentences, there are several distinct roles that a book’s cover often summarises under a single name.
The phenomenon is all the more interesting in France because the book retains a very strong symbolic value in politics. French history has long maintained a close link between literature and power: de Gaulle, Mitterrand and Pompidou belonged to a tradition in which mastery of the written word was directly linked to political stature. Even today, publishing a book can lend a public figure a depth and permanence that social media or television interviews struggle to provide.
This is why transparency might ultimately be more worthwhile than hunting down ‘fake’ writers.
There is nothing scandalous in itself about a politician working with a publisher or a ghostwriter. Writers themselves are edited, restructured and guided by their publishers.
The difference arises when the reader believes they are buying a public figure’s personal writings, whilst a significant portion of the editorial work has been carried out by someone else without this being clearly indicated.
And in the age of artificial intelligence, the issue becomes even more intriguing.
Writers are now asked whether they use ChatGPT. Their texts are analysed using AI detectors. People look for the artificial sentence, the suspicious paragraph, the phrase that’s a bit too perfect.
Perhaps we should start by asking a much older question:
Before trying to work out whether a political book was written by a machine, do we even know whether it was written by the person whose name is printed on the cover?
