Pierre Foglia, the Soulful Rebel of Journalism, Has Left Us
So… Pierre Foglia is gone, mon vieux. And for many of us, especially those who devoured his words in La Presse for over 40 years, it's like losing a friend we never actually met—but who still knew exactly how to talk to us. Foglia passed away at the age of 84 after a long battle with Parkinson’s disease. He chose medical assistance in dying and was surrounded by his loved ones in his final moments. His family, understandably, is choosing to grieve in private.
Now, if you’ve ever read Foglia, you know. His writing wasn’t just journalism—it was life, poured into ink. He could write about his cats or the Tour de France, the Olympics or his village of Saint-Armand, and somehow, it all felt connected. He had this rare ability to make the mundane feel magical, and the extraordinary feel oddly familiar. With a blend of poetry, mischief, and philosophical nudges, he’d take you from laughter to tears, sometimes in the same paragraph. He made us feel, deeply and unpredictably.
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And boy, could he provoke. Foglia didn’t shy away from controversy. He’d call out public figures, question institutions, jab at celebrities—sometimes a little too sharply. Like when he compared singer Michèle Richard to a lasagna and got hit with a $150,000 lawsuit. His apology? It went to the lasagnas and the toasters. Classic Foglia.
Born in France to Italian parents in 1940, he moved to Quebec in 1963. Started as a typographer, climbed into journalism, and eventually carved out a niche all his own. He covered sports, yes, but also politics, war, philosophy, and a whole lot of "n’importe quoi." He wasn’t afraid to insert himself into his writing either, with his famous “courrier du genou”—a sort of advice column from the knee, not the heart, because, as he once joked, it was “more cheerful.”
Even in moments of darkness—like the Iraq war or the Polytechnique tragedy—he brought a humane, almost fragile honesty. He made you see things differently. Not better, not worse—just more clearly.
He never craved recognition. Hated being fussed over. But his absence leaves a silence that’s hard to fill. Pierre Foglia didn’t just write; he gave voice to doubt, to beauty, to rage, to wonder. His style was singular. Imitated often, matched never.
And now, his voice is quiet. But his words? They're still here. Still whispering from old clippings, dog-eared pages, and the memories of anyone lucky enough to have read them. Bon vent, mon vieux.
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