Georges Réveillac

My

Love

Of the year 2000

202000

A novel of Love

& Philosophy

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2
–HOW EXISTENCE BECAME
LIVING,

–HOW LIVING EXISTENCE

BECAME AWARE OF THE
UNIVERSE,

–HOW CONCIOUS EXISTENCE

BECAME AWARE OF ITSELF.

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 ISBN
979-10-96013-02-6

Georges Réveillac, February 14, 2016

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 About “Mômmanh”

Mômmanh is the personification of what you can call, if you like, “Mother
Nature.”

If you want to be more specific, you must read or reread Chapter 2.

Like everyone else, you feel the need to exist. Well, according to my theory,
this need for existence is present in all matter, living or not. It acts on the evolution of
this matter, promoting what it considers good and vice versa. I believe that it does not
follow a plan leading to a goal. When you are given a new dish to try you taste it and,
if it pleases your taste buds, you make sure that you remember it so that you can find
this pleasure again if the opportunity arises. Well, the need for existence is the same:
“existence precedes essence.”

I call this need for existence “Mômmanh,” which was what I called my
mother in our native language, Gallo. If it is really the origin of life, I may well
consider it to be our mother.

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 Table of Contents

Introduction

1-The Initiatory Journey of the Lonely Male

2-MÔMMANH and the STRUCTURE of HUMAN EXISTENCE

What is existence?
Laws of history
The STRUCTURE of HUMAN EXISTENCE

3-Up-there in the Mountains

Liberated consciousness
What lessons does Nature give us?

4-Alleluia
Spoiling a child causes his misfortune. Why?
What is stress?
What is an ideology?
Why does an ideology need to be open?
What are the conditions of a great love?

5-The Great Manoeuvres

To demand: NO. To want: YES
Spoiled child, frustrated child: the same fight
The orgasm of lovers: a powerful part of existence
The origin of alienating passions
How far is the Buddhists’ control of desire healthy?

6-Marriage
What is the field of active existence?
Negative stress, positive stress, anxiety
How can selfishness kill love?
What is the purpose of dreams? Do we have a guardian angel?
What is humour? What is the purpose of humour?

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What does a game serve for?

7-The Cost of the War

How can existence transcend death?
The role of truth in art
How does the field of existence cover all the past and all the future
How to defeat death

8-The First Signs of the War

Specificities of feminine sexuality
Modern sexuality has to be invented
Women hold the key to paradise
The five gifts of a woman
Which cultural assets of a child foster education?
The real danger of masturbation

9-The truce of the Discoverers

The basis of human existence in Burkina Faso
Pleasures revealed by experience and pleasures yet to be discovered
How can different cultures understand and enrich each other?
Is it necessary to renounce the hope of finding paradise on earth?
In a global economy, do we need a world-state?

10-The Hundred Years War

Why lovers must have the same values, but not necessarily the same tastes
The recipe for a great love
The tendency of those that have been oppressed to become oppressors
Are the existential experiences of our life written in the memory of our gametes?
Catharsis helps to fight our unconscious evil desires
How love makes us better and stronger
How the transition from selfishness to altruism works
The main cause of scholastic failure
The main cause of misery in Africa
How Africans can make the jump into our era whilst preserving the best of their culture
Theory of the Struggle for Existence: its good personal use
How does other people’s gaze affect my existence?
What matters is to make yourself useful

11-Beyond Death
Selfishness leads to death; altruism leads to life

Interstellar conversation

About “Mômmanh”

Table of Issues Addressed

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8
Introduction

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 Hello.

Here is my introduction to the “Theory of the Struggle for Existence.” And in

order to illustrate it, a love story that has proved fairly popular on the website
“Alexandrie Online.”

…………………“My Love of the Year 2000”………………………………

In this version, the love story is there only to illustrate and test the theory,
which constitutes the bulk of the work. However, critics have taught me that most
readers are not interested in long theoretical developments. To them, I suggest that
they just read the novel. It is called:

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .“From Earth to Heaven”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

If you go to my website, http://www.livingexistence.net/ you will find the

links to the two PDF versions on the “Download” page. However, despite these
criticisms, it is clear to me that the theory, in its various forms, has had more success
than the novel. It is also available in English.

The “Theory of the Struggle for Existence” is a science-based philosophical

theory that aims to better understand man and life.

I am now a retired teacher. Until 1979, I was also a communist. Between the
real history which I had to teach and the supposedly scientific history that the “Party”
taught, I too often discovered what seemed to me to be contradictions. That particular
year, their mass had surpassed the critical threshold. I asked for a part-time job that
would enable me to research a better explanation of history.

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 After many months of cogitation, I discovered what seemed to be a
revelation: the concept of “human existence” that would finally enable me to make
history intelligible.

Where did this “need for existence” come from?

I obtained an answer very quickly. It was already present in our ancestors, the
animals, as well as in everything alive. Therefore, I had to overhaul the “Theory of
Evolution” into a bigger whole that could be called the “Theory of the Struggle for
Existence.”

And how could matter give birth to this “need for existence” of the living?

It took me another few months to find the answer to this question. And once I
found the answer, I discovered this: “What if this ‘need for existence’ was in matter?”

At this point, I almost caught the illness of big headedness. I felt invested
with a great mission: to save mankind. The setbacks that this attitude brought led me
to a consultation with the director of a psychiatric hospital. This good man assured
me that I was not crazy. As for my alleged discovery, he simply said: “Rest assured
that if you have found something, others will also discover it.” My famous mission
fell into the water. It had mainly served to hide a large dose of pride.

If this theory proved to be reliable, it would make us better equipped to deal

with the problems of our time: globalisation, unemployment, deadly pollution,
overpopulation, terrorism, genetic engineering, human rights, education, cultural
diversity… the hope to cure humanity from poverty, unemployment, wars and
madness, the hope to really go and conquer the stars and, in general, our much-
maligned hope would be given new wings, although this would not mean the end of
all of our problems.

“Yes, but we must not confuse our wishes with reality.

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 – That is true. But we should also not dismiss a real possibility just because it
matches our hopes too well. In conclusion: we should be prudent.”

However, since I wrote this preface in 2001, alarming events have occurred
that highlight the urgency of the situation. Violence is the most obvious sign. They
are induced by a regression of thought which is taking us back towards the Middle
Ages. In this world that offers nothing better than a mediocre present and, by way of a
future, the certainty that we are going crash into a wall, in their desperation some
people are turning to the ideologies of the past. Some want science to give way to
their sacred texts, or rather their interpretation of them. Creationists and
fundamentalists of all persuasions are increasingly numerous, increasingly influential,
and they pose a serious threat to knowledge, to the little peace that we have left and to
Human Rights.

Preconceptions, as tough as dogmas, blind us to certain emergencies,

however obvious they are. For example, the Earth’s resources cannot provide a good
life to 9 billion people: the population must be reduced. Furthermore, nationalisms
sanctified in their patriotic costumes are generators of wars; they also prevent us from
managing globalisation.

An 8-year-old child would see this clearly. Besides, one has only to ask a few
people to become sure of it.

Well, to make our blinders fall off, it is enough for the world’s historians to
show us the origin and genesis of these misconceptions. Then we would see that there
were times when it was good to have lots of children, but what was a blessing in the
past has become the curse of our time. We would also see that nationalism was a
good thing when it rescued us from feudalism and imperialism, but now each of the
nearly 200 passengers in the world bus can not have its own little steering wheel:
there needs to be one driver for the global bus and not 200, as most adults now claim
is necessary.

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 So, if my theory has any chance of helping us out of the quagmire, it is urgent
to test it.

Indeed, even if it is never able to help resolve the desperate situations that
torment us, it will at least give us hope for a more desirable present and future. And
fundamentalists of all kinds, reconciled with our world, will join their energies with
ours to avoid the wall towards which we are heading more and more quickly,
catapulted by the acceleration of history.

Having had this intuition that the need for existence is probably at work in
the whole of the universe, I have discovered that I am in the same position as some
renowned researchers that the scientific community has more or less marginalized.
The English biologist, James Lovelock, who created the Gaia hypothesis: that the
earth acts like a living organism, maintaining certain constants that are necessary for
life, for example, a level of 21% of oxygen in the air. Dr Jacques Benveniste, a
French researcher, thinks that he has discovered “water memory” through
experimentation. The German researcher Roland Plocher markets a product that treats
polluted water by putting “information” into it: nobody can explain how his process
works, but it has had some success. The “discoveries” of these two researchers help to
explain those of homoeopathy.

Formulated in 1980, my theory implicitly predicted some of the failures

suffered by cloning operations. Here is what, in fact, it means. During the course of
life of an individual, their need for existence keeps in mind the events that have
marked them and the appropriate responses; part of this memory is passed on their
descendants through the intermediary of reproductive cells known as gametes. In
other words, part of life becomes hereditary; the acquired part modifies the inborn.
“Bang, you might say, here’s the monstrous theory of Lyssenko who claimed that the
acquired becomes hereditary.”

Actually, it is not the same thing at all.

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 I think that gametes keep the most remarkable experiences of life in their
memory: yes. But these experiences need to be repeated, although I don’t know
through how many generations it takes for them to be inscribed in large characters in
the genetic inheritance. Therefore, supposing that the black skin of certain types of
humans is really a good answer to the constraints of very hot climates, perhaps it took
tens of thousands of years for the black ethnic groups of Africa, India, Papua and
New Guinea, Australia… to be formed. Even so, there are at least two hypotheses
based on my theory that could explain the difficulties of cloning:

- the genes are not the only hereditary factors, they are even the most
important ones either in the long term (see note at end of chapter);

- gametes don’t carry the same information as other cells, for example, those
used for cloning.

My theory also has similarities with several philosophies, in particular those

of Socrates, of Auguste Comte, of Karl Marx, of the scholar
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, of the existentialists and the phenomenologists…

But it contradicts Camus’ idea that history is absurd. He probably believed

that the Communists felt authorized to establish their terrible dictatorships in the
name of supposedly scientific history. In other words, making history a science
inevitably leads us to dictatorship. In fact, precisely the opposite is the case. The
Theory of the Struggle for Existence leads us to believe that freedom and democracy
are necessary for the development of human existence.

I have just discovered a new long lost cousin in a science-fiction novel

written by two American physicists: “At the heart of the comet” by Gregory Benford
and David Brin. They formulate a hypothesis of a “creation” or “evolution” in three
stages: first the existence at the beginning of the universe, then life, and finally
consciousness, the human stage of the planet Earth.

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 Here is one more tree for that forest: “… Then I can see my hopes and
strivings, my fears and cares as the same as those of thousands who have lived before
me, and I may hope that future centuries may bring fulfilment to my yearnings of
centuries ago. No seed of thought can germinate in me except as the continuation of
some forebear; not really a new seed but the predetermined unfolding of a bud on the
ancient, sacred tree of life…” (Extracts from My View of the World by
Erwin Schrödinger –– Cambridge, University Press, 1964).

And who is this Schrödinger? He was an Austrian that lived in the 20th
century. He was one of the fathers of quantum theory and the inventor of the famous
Schrödinger’s cat, which did not stop him from winning the Nobel Physics Prize.

If I am right, the implications of my theory would lead to relying on the

experimental method. Thousands of scientific experiments are conceivable. For
example, it should be possible to explain why the efforts of Jacques Benveniste do
not succeed every time and lead to other conclusive experiments.

Above all I don’t want to start a cult. As long as this “Theory of the Struggle
for Existence” seems valid, I shall be with those who treat it in the same way as the
“Theory of Evolution”: in a scientific manner. There should be no dogmas: each
element of the framework can be questioned. And if experimental verifications
invalidate the theory, then I shall have to discard it.

At the same time, it could be used to create complex electronic games, some
of which may be useful for science: simulations of the biological or historical or even
psychological processes.

The “need for existence” which may be present in matter is too much of an
abstract concept. So I gave it a name: “Mômmanh.” A body and a face? That,
however, was impossible. Yet, through the pages, this dark spirit that works tirelessly
to take matter where it is good, this universal genius that invented life and
consciousness, Mômmanh, gradually emerges from the darkness and we become
familiar with it.

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 Once again: this is just a hypothesis. But you still have the right to love a
hypothesis.

I have embedded it into two novels, and “excuse me” if I repeat myself.

The first (494 pages) contains the theory. Reading it will probably appear
daunting: this is the price that you have to pay to get to the end of my reflections. It is
entitled “My Love of the Year 2000.”

The book therefore includes two parts developed in parallel: the novel and
theory. The latter, in bold italic type, is easy to distinguish. So, if you prefer, you can
just read the novel.

You can download it from this website: http://www.livingexistence.net/

The second only has 320 pages, but it does not contain the theory. Mômmanh
is presented there as an imaginary character that is comparable to an ancient god. I
have entitled it: “From Earth to Heaven.”

Because it appeals to all dimensions of existence, love is particularly well-

suited to illustrating the theory.

Thus analysed and reconstructed, love should appear even more wonderful to
you: an essential agent of human existence and a source of unparalleled bliss. Above
all, you should realize, if you have not already, that it is at your door.

Both versions can be downloaded. First go to my website

http://www.livingexistence.net/. Then simply click on one of the icons or tabs
labelled “Download the book…”

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Note: Today, on 15th April 2015, I updated my work again. I have just read an article in the
French magazine “Sciences et Avenir”: “Epigenetics to the rescue of autoimmune diseases.”
(811-September 2014)
Besides genes, there are epigenetic markers that control their activation. And these markers
are influenced by their environment.
I quote the article by Hervé Ratel: “The best example that has been documented so far goes
back to the terrible winter of 1944-1945, during which a merciless famine struck all of the
cities in the west of the Netherlands.
The children of undernourished mothers were not the only ones that suffered from rickets,
because the disease was found amongst their grandchildren.”
And here is what Yves Renaudineau, a professor at Brest University Hospital, thinks:
“Epigenetic factors may be even more important than genetic factors. And if autoimmune
diseases are dependent on these markers… this means that they are reversible.”

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18
1-The Initiatory Journey
of the Lonely Male

Did she come from the fairy tales, this magic belief, which still clings on to
my being and to my enduring roots and which I shall be careful from now on not to
destroy because after all it brought me happiness, a conviction which has however
caused me a lot of emotional disappointments and which prevented me from enjoying
love when I was young and caused me to pour my excess energy into the wombs of
the women of Dakar who introduced their trade as follows: “I’m selling my ass,”
which, if I had not been careful enough, might have led me into even more filthy
solitary relief, masturbation replacing love coming from fantastical aphrodisiac
dreams. Who knows?

Which belief?

As far back as I can remember I have always seen the beautiful creatures of
the opposite sex, adolescents, young girls or women, as fairies. Yes, “fairies” is the
word which is closest to my vision of feminine beauties. At other times, without
hesitation, I would have called them “divine.” Nowadays, I do not dare believe that
beauty is the essence of the divine. And yet?

So, since women seemed to me to be the heralds of the marvellous

supernatural, how could I, a mere human kneaded with mud and crippled with
imperfections, shake off the dross of which I am made and fly towards the infinite to
drink the milk of the immortals? To be welcomed by the bosom of a fairy, I could see
only one way: to practice the only magic of which I am capable, that of the Word.

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Having thereby valiantly created my own immortality by means of beautiful
language, I would have gained a place in the harem of the eternal.

However, I wasn’t a complete fool, unless I still am. Women are made of
flesh, just like you and me: I know this well and I normally feel it. However, from
time to time one of them escapes the common lot. When seeing her, any idea of a spot
on the face, a wound, an illness, or ageing seems inappropriate. Worse still: such an
idea looks like blasphemy.

The one that has just appeared is beautiful and I would follow her
everywhere. But her beauty is so precious to my eyes, that I feel unworthy to have
her, even for a moment. That’s all.

To the beauties I dreamt of, I wrote exalted letters. The divine words should
have made them pine for a new bliss which I alone could give them. At least one of
these fairies – the least “silly” I thought sometimes because I was not very bright at
the time – should have heard my song and felt the irresistible need to drink from its
source. Together we should have stretched out on a carpet of moss, amongst the
violets, near the fountain, caressed by the gentle rays of the sun, our guest, lulled by
birdsong. There, she would reveal to me all the splendours which the common mortal
must not see and, together, we would have sailed off towards great mystery, a one-
way voyage where everything would be given to us, the definitive instant when we
would take flight from the unbarred human prisons and discover that the infinite
universe has been given to us, against all the odds and in spite of the mortal
imperfections that afflict our life on earth.

Alas! It was not to be. Worse still! If all beauty was of a divine nature,
especially when possessed by a woman, my friends would have only a really vague
consciousness, an unsteady and pale outline of a consciousness, my friends who,
between us, showed such a lack of respect (or ignorance) that they called them “tarts,
bitches” or even old bags, still obtained in spite of everything, and sometimes easily,
what I desired so much; they got laid! whilst I continued to sigh as I swung between
two crisis of epistolary delirium. When they wanted to be kind, they called me “Poet”

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and they gave me good advice about how to achieve my goals; and at other times,
discouraged in their helpful task by my obstinate dreaming, they gave me a mocking
nickname; “Pouette-Pouette!” Either way, I didn’t get very far. Sometimes they told
very realistic stories about their amorous feats where the marvellous element was
massacred by nauseating insults such as: “That bitch screws well… but oh my god,
she smells bad!”

Now, I believe that they also realized the supernatural character of beauty.
However, they weren’t prepared to think of carnal love as a sacrament. The old
monstrous belief that coitus is dangerously impure was eroded, but there was still the
idea that it was a filthy act. Now, you know that men, as opposed to women, do not
need to share any feelings of love in order to feel a violent desire; you also know that
they are afflicted by the almost continuous urge to squirt their semen into any vagina
as long as its owner belongs to the great mass of “screwables.” This is why this old
superstition suited my friends well. In fact, the act of coitus, being so disgusting,
could never be associated with love, which is so pure. Therefore, there was no need to
cultivate this delicate plant in order to start screwing. It is also possible that some had
felt that their conquest had felt a love for them which could snap them in two. In this
case, they sullied with filth in order to become more detached from it.

Be that as it may, their method still disgusts me. Because yes, sometimes I do
look for another love. But, starting with the need not to betray Jeanne, there are so
many conditions to fulfil that I have yet not managed to “consume” a relationship.
While waiting, I have to make do with the delicious peaches that are in the garden.
Well. To hell with greed! In any case, I do not intend to steal some moments of
eternal happiness from a beauty pretending to give her what she expects from a lover.

What taste could stolen love have? In any case, I don’t want to try it.

When an immaterial beauty dazzles me – immaterial certainly, but endowed

with two warm heaving breasts, the rump of a frisky filly and generous lips – when I
would do anything for her, when the full power of the divine keeps her alive even in
my dreams and when, like a sewer rat, I cannot see the slightest chance of ever sitting

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in her coach, I tell myself: “If the nature of beauty is indeed divine, the poor girl who
is endowed by it is only like me, a frail human being vulnerable to dental caries and
diarrhoea, whose imperfect soul struggles in the swamp of existence like mine,
looking for a branch at which to clutch.” My friend, that divinity over there is not a
goddess: she is the daughter of a man, her tastes are human and she has ordinary
human needs. I, like anyone else, can fulfil some of them, if I want to.

Gifted with this confidence in myself, I could begin her conquest. Who
knows? Perhaps I will have a chance. But I leave it at that, my life is already too
busy.

It is also true that the more beautiful a woman is, the more she is wooed.
Amongst the crowd of men pressing at her feet, she will probably find the ideal, man,
endowed with all the qualities (and faults!) which she is looking for. My chances
seemed really slim. And yet, my situation could be worse.

Suppose that… – I forgot to warn you: considering my reader as my equal

and my friend, I am on familiar terms with him – therefore, suppose that a superior
race did exist, like the Nazis wanted to establish: a lot of beautiful women would
prefer them. Could this be how the Neanderthal man disappeared from our planet,
replaced by the Modern Man, i.e. by “ourselves”? Until the palaeontologists find the
clue to this riddle I could risk this hypothesis, which is no less fanciful than many
others.

Having said this, I feel similar to some rather ugly girls: from amongst their
rare suitors, they have to either choose the least mediocre or give up. But I hadn’t yet
acquired that half-wisdom and that is fortunate.

Besides, even if I had only eyes for the immortal ones, it seems to me that
although I was no more successful with them than the others, which were only pretty
or rather without beauty or grace, or still, by a cruel quirk of fate, burdened with
ugliness: they all waved me aside with the same indifference. Faced with the success
of my friends, I was both angry, disappointed and perplexed.

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 After reflecting over and over again, I made up my mind to act on the advice
of the Bible, for once, although in the eyes of my parish priest I had become a non-
believer. I remembered the astonishing words, taken from St Luke’s Gospel: “Do not
worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear…
Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn,
and yet God feeds them… Instead, strive for his kingdom, and these things will be
given to you as well…”

In its literal meaning, this parable incites laziness; and also leads one to
believe that God can clothe us as he does for the birds. Yet I couldn’t believe that its
author was a fool. Moreover, I translated it my way. The part I liked was: “these
things will be given to you as well,” and I understood this to mean that “If you do
everything that is necessary to gain immortality, one day or another the immortals
will recognize it.” Because for me, the kingdom of God was on earth rather than in
some ever more hypothetical Heaven. I preferred that formula to “Do what you must,
come what may,” which is certainly well-balanced but which leaves little space for
hope.

And this is how I made up my mind from now on to become “a good man.”
Dear reader, we both know that this is not easy. However, hope helped me to advance
little by little in this endeavour.

I must tell you that it was not my excited poems that drove the beauties away
from me but my two serious faults. First of all, a great dose of shyness; because they
were fairies and I thought that I didn’t stand a chance of seducing them, whenever I
found myself in their company, I always lost my self-confidence and started to
stammer like an idiot. To that handicap, I had added another, which was even worse:
not only did I stammer like an idiot but my mind was always elsewhere, in dark
places where nobody could join me. In this condition, therefore, I quite often seemed
like a rather sinister man.

How did I get like this? In the same way that someone becomes a gambler, an
alcoholic or a drug addict: gradually.

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 Spoiled by my success at school, I always wanted more. That was how the
crazy idea of mastering everything by thought had entered my mind. Everything,
absolutely everything! An insane wish which became madness after becoming a need.
So I needed – Yes, you heard right: I needed – to understand everything. Everything!
Everything! Everything! And to do this, I was always carried away beyond the
frontiers of reasonable thought. In that desolate no man’s land I felt as if I was sailing
on a rough sea. As soon as I tried to get back to the coast and to the land of man, an
undercurrent dragged me back into the open sea. Those years of exile in a wild land
have nevertheless yielded something precious that I will tell you about very soon. It is
a fabulous character which my sick mind has laboriously brought up from the dark
depths where it struggled against a nasty octopus: it is my great friend Mômmanh.

– All this is quite confusing, you might say.

– Don’t be afraid, everything will soon become clear. Soon I will explain that
strange illness. When I introduce you to my dear Mômmanh, I will tell you how she
gave me this poisoned present.

Thank you, Mômmanh.

For the time being, just understand that the type of madness that I was
suffering from drove away every girl that was looking for love. Therefore, when I
made up my mind to become “a good man” I braced myself to dispel the demon
which had taken hold of my soul. At first, despite my efforts which left me exhausted,
I only had partial success. This “partial success” was however enough to make me
accessible.

I have not yet finished talking to you about this demon. Without thinking,
facing a mental illness of which I did not know the cause, I reacted as most Christians
had throughout the ages. To start, I called it a “demon.” And in order to expel it from

24
my body, like exorcists, I used physical violence: I inflicted suffering on myself until
the pain was stronger than its grip on me.

So it went away… For a while!

Does it need to be said that I entertained a lot of illusions at the time? I still
believed that the beauties, the possessors of their carnal shell of immortality, only
offered themselves to those that deserved them: the conquerors of the infinite, the
best. Beauty, like the face of God, can only be associated with goodness, which
protects each existence to the ends of space and time. One more misadventure might
have enlightened me, but I must believe that I still distrusted that type of revelation at
the time.

After I had gone to the trouble of getting my front teeth fixed, going to the
hairdresser and dressing up nicely, a young lady showed some interest in me. She let
me know that she was ready, at least, to walk some way in my company and that she
would be willing to offer me a ticket to the stars. Never had I been so close to
achieving my dreams. At last I was going to screw! My goodness!

But why then, good God! Why did I tell her about my intention to go to
Africa to bring civilization to the poor blacks who lived in darkness?

She replied to me: “I am not a nun from a charitable institution.” Whilst I was
under the double effect of surprise and annoyance, she had offered me her lips and I
had refused them. However, had she known that, in the Third World, French overseas
development workers spent most of their time living a life of luxury, the pretty girl
would have followed me and I wouldn’t have had this story to tell.

In any case, a pretty girl was interested in me: to me this meant that I was on
the right path. I kept striving to become “a good man” and soon enough I was
rewarded for it. “My Love” fell from the clouds like lightning.

I still haven’t overcome it.

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 After that day, “My Love” made me suffer a lot of disappointments. In spite
of everything, my mind has not totally lost its original conviction. I no longer believe
in Father Christmas or in the god of my parents, nor in the infallibility of Saint Lenin
or of his cousin Saint Mao. No, fortunately I have lost my faith in all of that. But I
still believe that female beauty is of divine essence, a flash of inspiration in the
bedlam of life, an angel guiding us towards eternity.

Do you think that I am getting carried away? That my mind is blowing

bubbles in the air which glisten for a brief moment before dissolving in the sunlight?

Is that what you think?

Then, the time has come to introduce you to Mômmanh.

A long time ago, I wondered how nature could give birth to this infernal
wonder that we are: man. I explored space and time as much as I could, especially
time. And I discovered it, in the meanders and the tumult of history, in the explosion
of life, and even in the big bang. And I saw it at work, fumbling, gaining experience,
finding its way towards whatever it was looking for, except that I was also looking
for it, and that is perhaps what we call “happiness.”

What I saw is not like anything we know: it is neither God nor mortal, strong
nor weak, mind nor matter, conscious nor unconscious, being nor nothingness. A
massive call to being, like the Cry of the painter Munch echoed by all of the echoes of
the universe, something or someone with a tremendous appetite to exist endowed
with mysterious powers. That’s the best picture that I can paint of it. It is a dark force
that is present everywhere, at all times and in all places. All over the world I meet her
avatars. I am also wearing one of her avatars. And you, my friend, are wearing
another. Oh yes!

When something good happens to her, she remembers it and she tries to
repeat it. But if something bad happens, she remembers it as well and always tries to
avoid it from happening again. Thus, throughout billions of years she has built up an

26
incredible memory. And despite her wisdom, which is almost infinite, she needs our
eyes to see and she needs our consciousness to know. She leads me when I’m
embarrassed, if I have found the strength to speak humbly. And to the extent of my
tiny means, examining the world beyond multiple horizons, it’s me that illuminates
her way. She is like a big blind person and I am a tiny paralytic one.

Therefore, I carry only one of her billions of avatars. Or maybe it is the avatar
that carries me. Who knows? In any case, like all of the others, this one, mine, has a
tremendous memory. It remembers everything that has touched the complete line of
my ancestors, from the first primates, several million years before Lucy, to the first
bacteria, a few billion years ago, and even beyond that.

She says to me:

– What do you see?

– I see the sea.

– Approach it then, my boy. Lots of good things are there. Approach it, but
be careful, do not go in.

– I know: the aquatic environment, which was good for my ancestors the fish,
is not good for me. OK. The expired memories have been erased. Or hidden? Who
knows? In any case, her memory guides my steps.”

Have I seen her? Or did I think that I saw her? Either way, I do not know
anyone else who has even noticed her. Mômmanh has this in common with the
apparitions of the Virgin Mary in the grotto of Lourdes: only Bernadette saw them.
Or with the voices that spoke to Joan of Arc: only she could hear them.

Anyway, I have seen her for real, twice. You do not have to believe me, of
course. Yes, twice she has appeared to me.

27
 First, it was precisely in these mountains here, during a beautiful summer, a
year before Jeanne appeared before me in turn. It happened as I was coming out of a
large wood on the edge of a pasture amongst the flowery grass full of cows, looking
at the glaciers and snowy peaks.

She rose to the sky, standing against the mountain. She had the face of a
young girl at the immortal age and she stared at me with big eyes that were loaded
with heavy memories. They were so eager to learn as well! Her clothes were
beautiful, pure and fresh water, greenery and all kinds of assorted flowers, waterfalls
and rocks. There was also the sea in her clothes. Vines and ancient trees formed her
arms and legs. In her gracefully agile hands she held… she held… But what was it
that she was holding? In her smiling skilful hands, she wove kisses. For me. For you,
if you wish.

Her large eyes, which were loaded with heavy memories or eager to learn,
fascinated me, spoke to me. This is what I read in them:

“Stop being stupid. Do you understand? Look for me. Look for me with all of
your strength. When you have found me, I will help you.”

She kept staring at me intently for a moment that seemed an eternity, then she
melted away into the nature.

On that day our alliance began. Since then she has continued to accompany
me. It was her that helped me to stand up straight.

She does not know everything, far from it. She makes mistakes. Perhaps I am
one of those mistakes. But she invented liberated consciousness for me. (Dear
friend, I will explain a bit later.)

“What am I saying? For me? No: through me.”

28
And, as a bonus, she gave me love.

29
30
2-MÔMMANH and the
STRUCTURE of
HUMAN EXISTENCE.

The will for existence: the origin and the guide of life, the
origin and the guide of man.

“It is done, now. Very soon it will be time for me to leave the shore where I have lain so long,
listening to the ocean… It will be chilly and I have never learned how to light a fire and to
keep myself warm. I shall try to stay here a little longer, listening, for the feeling never quite
leaves me that I am just about to understand what the ocean is trying to tell me. I close my
eyes, I smile, and listen… I still have some curiosity left. The emptier the beach around me, the
more densely peopled it appears to me. The seals on their rock are silent, and I lie here, with
my eyes shut, smiling…” (ROMAIN GARY)

As I have already told you, my imagination

gave painful birth to Mômmanh many years ago, in a
strange no man’s land beyond the frontiers of
reasonable thought.

At first, I had the idea that perhaps man

was driven by a formidable wish for existence.

What is existence?

31
 The Theory of Evolution can be called the
“Theory for the Struggle for Life”: the life of
the individual and of its species. Here was the
motive behind t he evolution of the living. My
theory was far-reaching. The desire for existence
didn’t stop once the life of the species had been
assured. It also aims to preserve the life of
other species and even the conservation of certain
non-living elements such as beautiful landscapes
made of stone, of sand, of water, of ice or of
clouds, of light and fire… This is why I propose
that Darwin’s theory should be extended to a vast
wholeness that could be called: “The Theory of the
Struggle for Existence.”

In order to understand what I mean, you must

have within reach the table that I have added at
the end of this introduction. It aims to represent
the structure of human existence. I advise you to
print it out: then you will be able to use it
throughout the novel, each time I try to put into
practice the theory of “The Struggle for
Existence.”

To begin with, he re is how I see the

existence of man. It is life and pleasures as well
as communion with those of our kind, both in the
present and in the long term, in eternity itself,
if possible. It unfolds itself sometimes
individually and sometimes through others –
sometimes selfishly, sometimes altruistically, if
you prefer – or else combining the two modes: our
children, our beloved ancestors, our distant
descendants, all kinds of celebrities, the

32
homeland, humanity, nature… can be vehicles for
our existence.

Here then are the six basic elements of

human existence.

When one of these components is too

difficult to realize, the desire for existence
resorts to the others: If the present doesn’t
offer anything positive, man will resort to
perpetuity, to religion, for example. If his
personal life has no appeal, he may delegate his
existence to someone better placed: a famous
football player, a scholar, a great actor, his
boss, a friend… which enables him to exist by
proxy, like a good dog who sacrifices his life for
his master.

The most vast existence encompassing space

and time and governed by moral laws is important,
but the one which most closely concerns the
individual – myself, in the here and now – is
preferred.

At this stage of my reasoning, I still

thought that the desire for existence was limited
to man alone, but I observed many signs showing
that it is present in animals as well.

So I asked myself when and how, during the

course of evolution, could the desire for
existence have appeared. When? My knowledge of
palaeontology did not give me the answer. How?

33
Although I racked my brains in vain, I couldn’t
see how matter could have produced such an
abstraction, how its atoms could begin to feel
emotions to the point of dying for love, how it
had created, at the end of the day, the essence of
the mind. How?

Then, I said to myself: “And what if this

desire for existence was already there, within
matter itself?”

Mômmanh had just been born.

I made a science fiction model out of it to

simulate the appearance and evolution of life,
above all ours, our history and our stories. I
shall use it now and again in the novel, in order
to try to explain what constitutes matter: the
characters, the nature, the countries, history,
the universe. This is the “scientific” part of the
work, the other part, the fiction, can be found in
the novel.

“Science” and fiction: how can you know

which is which? That’s easy. Each time I use the
scientific model, I shall write with th e same
script as in this chapter: big, bold letters that
bend beneath their weight.

In this model, Mômmanh – i.e. matter – will

be endowed with memory: from amongst the elements
that have touched her, she will remember those
that responded to her wish fo r existence, for

34
 better or for worse. Afterwards, when the hazards
of life bring her again into contact with agents
that she knowns, she will have the power to act
upon them: she will be able to favour the elements
that she has good memories of and reject the
others. It is very likely that she will reinforce
the memories that are evoked often whilst
gradually forgetting the others. This process will
have led her to write in our genes the memories
accumulated from the remarkable and repeated
events that happened to our whole line of
ancestors since the beginning of life. In other
words, our reproductive cells, our sperm and egg
cells, also known as gametes, would carry in and
around their genes, the memory of everything that
has had a lasting impact on the lives of our
ancestors.

Cain against Abel, selfishness against altruism.

Throughout history, the almost constant

presence of selfishness can be observed in all its
forms. It never ceases to find a thousand and one
ways to steal altruism’s first place, just as Cain
was so envious of Abel that he killed him. Even
when the species is in danger, this nasty
selfishness only gives way to altruism long enough
to immediately come back in through the back door.

“So, Mômmanh, why do you allow this cursed

selfishness to have such a strong hold?”

35
 She knows that it is a vector of death! She
therefore knows that it is the main enemy of
existence!

I have my own ideas about this. The need for

existence, which is present in the smallest
particle of matter, the need for existence that
embodies each of us, is inherently selfish. Every
grain of matter wishes to exist without
considering all of the other grains of matter in
the double infinity of time and space. But by
itself, it will never succeed. It needs the whole
universe to fully achieve its aims. For this, it
must cooperate with others. It must delegate
everything that it cannot do itself, as a speck of
dust lost in the infinite.

But God, it’s hard!

Mômmanh would have to find something to

force us to be more altruistic. Certainly, she
invented the love that is the title for this work.
That is great, but that is not all. Perhaps, in
addition to this exquisite sting, a better
understanding of ourselves will finally deliver us
from the infamous quagmire into which we
constantly fall.

The time has come to mention the two great

laws of history that we will develop in the essay
entitled the “Theory of the Struggle for
Existence.”

36
 Laws of history

The first is the Law of the Jungle (the

survival of the fittest), as in nature. Those that
have the power to destroy others make its law.

The second is the law of existential

success: those that excel in this area attract
others.

Throughout history, the power of warriors

often alternated with that of sovereigns. In our
time, the rich are able to monopolize power: they
have enough money to buy, if necessary, the
loyalty of warriors. On a global scale, the rich
are buying American power in order to continue
their rule over the whole world, primarily the
global economy. The main objective of the rules
they make up is to make them even more rich. It is
up to the citizens of the world to take control of
this hidden power.

How evolution produced the human intellect. Human intelligence

and artificial intelligence.

Now you understand that artificial

intelligence can never replicate human
intelligence: this would require that it had our
colossal memory that is both innate and acquired,
both conscious and unconscious. If she swallowed
the ocean, she would still have to feel every

37
taste and disgust associated with each of these
memories that are like so many drops of water in a
sea. But first and above all, like any intelligent
animal, she must serve the paramount need for
existence.

Observing human beings with the help of

Mômmanh or having them x-rayed, is roughly the
same thing: one discovers things that were
invisible.

Real? Or imaginary?

In any case, this is the game that I propose

to you. We shall ask Mômmanh to tell us the story
of love.

And, again, this is only a hypothesis that

has been developed into a theory. It is up to
science to test and assess its reliability. If you
are looking for a guru, you will not find one
here.

38
39
40
3-Up-there in the Mountains

The meeting took place in the mountains. Is there a better place for love at
first sight? Its echo reverberated for a long time across the rocks. I wonder if the birds
and the other perplexed animals that witnessed the event can still remember it? In any
case, they should, because the event was extraordinary enough. Yes, because the
lightning which accompanied the fusion of our two bodies into a double being didn’t
burn us to cinders like a common pine tree, we survived all the more easily because
we were young and gifted with a vigorous heart. Later on, each of us two would feel
hurt by the discomfort of this fusion, sometimes to such an extent that we would often
curse the moment of initial grace: you know that it is not easy for two normal people
who, so far, moved easily with their own perfectly autonomous pair of feet, to take
the first steps on four legs in almost permanent conflict.

Love is perhaps the fusion of two beings. So be it. They don’t, however, need
to become Siamese twins.

In any case, that day, our two personalities, which were normally quite
stubborn, were brought together and the love at first sight was strong enough to unite
us for ever, despite everything.

– It is too much, you may tell me. Nowadays we no longer believe such
fables.
– Well, too bad! This is my story and there is nothing I can do about it.

41
 By waving a wand, two sterile beings had just been turned into a fertile
being: this reinforces my conviction that the nearby animals, which are very curious
about life, still remember the event. Were we exceptional beings? Each of us is, and
the same thing could happen to you.

Young and confident in the future, we were discovering the mountain

together.

Like the desert, the sea and the forest, the mountain is a place where the joy
of existence is offered to us.

Could it be that on approaching the mountain tops one dominates the vast
panorama of peaks, hills, valleys revealing their mysteries without modesty, that the
chalets at the bottom look like dwarfs’ huts in a kindergarten, that men, if one
distinguishes them, are no more than ants and one feels overjoyed to be the only
proprietors of all that, a Zeus watching the creatures from the top of Olympus,
savouring the trick that he is about to play on them? In the splendour of the desert, I
get a similar feeling: it seems to me that a new world is being given to me, to me
alone, still more beautiful than the mountain, because it is free of your annoying
presence, my dear fellow.

Hold on, since I have spoken to you of the ants, these tiny beasts that are
often stepped on by mistake, insignificant beings, no doubt mass-produced, which
only attract our attention when they prick us, I imagine one, clinging on top of a
footstool, observing its team mates from up there far in the distance, stupidly trudging
on the ground, an ant at the zenith of its wretched life, having no other goal than to
perpetuate its sorry species, an ant fortunately lacking in consciousness and however
triumphant, happy about its own stupid exaltation above up there at the foot of the
glaciers.

Are ants altruistic?

42
 Mômmanh interrupts me. She says that ants
are not like us. I should have expected it. She
leads me to believe that those tiny creatures
don’t suffer like humans from a chronic tendency
to boost up their egos until they burst. My
humblest of apologies, then, to the honourable
little beasts.

Luckily, thank God, I have other reasons why I love the mountains.

In the mountains you have to climb: so much the better, because to me inertia
is like an early death. My muscles must be prevented from atrophying by doing
nothing in their sarcophagi of fat. Each of them must start working and become
stronger through exercise. Ah! Are they begging for some oxygen? That’s good! I
have to throw away my cigarette and spit out the tarry soot that is fouling my lungs.
After this energetic chimney-sweeping, my reward will be enjoying a cigarette at the
top, peacefully sitting and contemplating the immense wild panorama that stretches
below me.

The mountain is healthy.

At each steep turn of a footpath, at each moment of the day, the sky paints a
different picture which is always original as if, hidden in the invisible that we have
naively placed in the Heavens, the unfathomable “I Don’t Know Who” nourished my
soul by presenting me with multiple inexhaustible splendours, telling me: “Look! Life
will always find new ways to continue onwards. Let that be a lesson to you, my son!
Get off the armchair and come to see me more often.”

Did nature invent beauty?

“Tell me, Mômmanh, are you doing it on

purpose, when you offer us so much beauty? Or is
it, quite simply, in your nature?”

43
 The mountain is magical.

At each level I enter another continent.

Below lies the opulent, fatty domain of nature, which has been domesticated
to work for us. In the course of her enslavement she has lost most of her innate
defence mechanisms as if, from now on, she has entrusted her fate to man.

Does nature have a consciousness? What is the consciousness of

the animals like? What is Human consciousness like? What is
man’s own consciousness like?

But the consciousness that Mômmanh has given

us, alone, the only human animal on earth, this
consciousness which seems to be man’s very own, is
still not developed enough for man to take
responsibility for everything that lives on our
planet, for all terrestrial existence.

Is consciousness that of man?

Please note, there is consciousness and

there is consciousness. The first, ours, I will
call “liberated consciousness” as opposed to that
which can not go beyond the senses and which I
will call “captive consciousness.”

And I believe that there is a third type,

which comes before the other two: the
consciousness of Mômmanh. I will call this one
“blind consciousness.”

44
 There, I think of the minute fragment of
matter scattered in the universe, the minute
fragment of our mother who was lucky to discover
life where she settled down. From generation to
generation, she has recorded the existential
memory of all my ancestors, ever since the first
bacteria, more than three billion years ago, until
my precious person whose turn it is to live before
sinking into history. And it is like this for each
and every one of us, as well as for each and every
living creature.

This has made of the wisdom gained a long

time ago through billions and billions of years,
the lives in which Mômmanh has incarnated herself.
What is my little liberated consciousness worth in
comparison to that? Almost nothing, in appearance,
but a lot, in reality, as you will soon
understand.

Here is what constitutes the best part of

our beloved ego: a minute fragment of Mômmanh that
carries the experience of everything that is
living and that is in control of our being.

“How can someone or something control me

without me knowing it?

– Because this someone or something is you,

stupid.

– My God! How can this be possible?”

45
 I imagine that it happened in the following
way. And don’t forget that this is only a science-
fiction model which doesn’t yet belong and
probably never will belong to real science.

The will for existence, which I call

Mômmanh, present in the smallest atom of matter,
keeps in her memory all of the events that affect
her: on the one hand, those which do her good and
on the other hand, those which do her harm. After
that, when an event recorded in the memory of
Mômmanh recurs, she treats it based on which
category it belongs to, welcoming with open arms
what has done her good and rejecting the opposite,
what has done her harm. She has the ability to
favour what she considers good for her and to
reject what she considers bad for her. This is, of
course, subject to the limits of her strength.

Her memory only contains the events that

recur; accidental events as well as many rather
random ones are therefore forgotten.

Thus, nesting in the soul of the mouse that

she has been creating since time immemorial,
Mômmanh has discovered that human houses can offer
her shelter and food, but that she has to beware
of the cat; she remembers and she nevertheless
settles down in our homes, always in the same way,
whilst, through the accumulation of experiences
and existential memory, she develops an effective
defensive strategy against cats.

46
 This is how Mômmanh has gradually favoured
the appearance of the developed lifeforms that we
know. But how did the handover from one generation
to the other take place, from the beginning of
time until today?

The only biological bridge between parents

and children are the inseminated reproductive
cells. Therefore, in order to pass the heritage of
her existential memory on, Mômmanh must settle
there, but it is likely that all reproductive
cells benefit from it.

Only those? If this were the case then

cloning would reproduce incomplete individuals,
poorly equipped for life. But this is another
story.

And this is how Mômmanh invents millions and

billions of ways of existing in the vast universe
which is ever always unfolding. In spite of
everything, amongst her multiple avatars, the most
intelligent of her creatures were only animals
until the appearance of man some two million years
ago; a unique species, so different fr om the
others that they can hardly recognize their
parents. Ever since man appeared, his existential
power has been growing, like a snowball. It is now
an avalanche that threatens to sweep away the
whole planet if we don’t learn, as soon as
possible, how to control it.

47
 “What is the quality that animals do not
possess?

– It is liberated consciousness.

– Ah, really?

– Yes. Our cousins, the big apes,

chimpanzees and so on have hands thanks to which
they can be as skilful as us. What they lack is
liberated consciousness.”

Liberated consciousness?

I imagine that man’s appearance started in

the following way.

One day, a child of an anthropoid ape was

born with an extraordinary gift: it was capable of
precisely conceiving realities that were outside
of the reach of its senses. It could see things
that were otherwise out of sight; it could hear
the cry of a bird that was out of earshot. Thanks
to this anomaly, it soon managed to retain in its
memory the interesting paths, leading to the
river, to game, to harvest and places of safety…
Without seeing the far away glade full of game, it
knew how to leave and which way to go.

The intelligence of the animals cannot be

exercised beyond the reach of its senses. The
memories that it has of past experiences are
precise enough for it to recognize what it has

48
lived through before when it appears, but far too
vague to be able to relive and manipulate through
thought. A dog may well dream of a string of
sausages, but it is a prisoner of the narrow field
of its perceptions. Its dream will hardly ever
come true. But I, thanks to my precise memories,
can reconstruct the truth with which I have been
in contact. Thus I delve into my memories and take
out what I need in order to build a path towards
the famous sausages. My consciousness is separated
from my senses.

It is a liberated consciousness.

Ah yes. Since Man has the ability to

perceive the memories of the lived-through reality
with as much precision as if they were still being
touched by his senses, he has been able to develop
knowledge, techniques and arts. He is capable of
seeing and therefore of acting far beyond his
senses, ever further in the vast universe: this is
liberated consciousness. He has known for a long
time that his death is inescapable whereas the
cow, stuck inside its captive consciousness, is
still ignorant of the farmer’s intention to
slaughter it.

We shall not, however, consider this

capacity something that only man has. Many animals
possess it, but to an infinitesimal degree. It is
as if they had made a small step in that direction
and then stopped, not seeing any reason to
continue.

49
 Let us recap. Let us observe, if you wish,
Mômmanh’s continuous progress towards the
significant existential stage of the formation of
liberated consciousness.

When she finds herself embodied in a few

grains of matter, Mômmanh can only perceive the
environment that is in direct contact with her:
this is very little and therefore the memory that
forms in these conditions is very poor. She is
therefore nothing more than pure desire and blind
force.

The first form of consciousness that she

knows is blind consciousness.

Blind consciousness has grown considerably

over time, mainly with the evolution of life. In
fact, when Mômmanh finds herself in control of a
living body, she creates a genetic memory, which
is much richer than the preceding one. Besides,
she perceives the external elements much better
when she is embodied in an animal and when she
benefits from its mobility. But she is still
limited to the fields that the senses of the
animal which she embodies can perceive.

This enriched blind consciousness reaches

living beings through the heredity channel. It is
expressed in the name of Mômmanh by directing
instinctive actions. She is the Prime Minister of
the need of existence, she is Mômmanh’s vizier.

50
 But she remains locked in the second form of
consciousness: captive consciousness.

When at last she finds herself embodied in

human form, through the agency of the
extraordinary intelligence with which she has
endowed us, her look can penetrate the heart of
the atom and the infinity of the stars: she has
now attained the third form: liberated
consciousness.

Let’s try to move forward a little more.

We have seen that, according to my basic

hypothesis, blind consciousness, acting on behalf
of the need for existence, remembers everything
she considers good for her and on the other hand,
everything that she considers bad.

Bl ind conscious ness is the basis

of ou r morality, w hich dictates our
conduc t. However, it may be w rong:
that is why liber ated consciou sness
has th e power to co rrect it.

Blind consciousness is enriched by all of

the experiences stored in the grains of matter
that carry it. Eventually she moved into
increasingly complex living beings. Sh e then
directed their captive consciousness. Finally, and
this is the only ultimate stage known on our

51
planet, she moved into man, where she directed
clear consciousness.

It follows t hat morality is

everyw here, in matt er, in plant s, in
animal s and, of co urse, in our dea r
humani ty.

Now you understand why we gave th e word

consciousness to these apparently foreign senses:

- to be aware of a portion of the universe,

- to be aware of what is good to do or not

to do, to have a moral conscience.

An d that of man in this story ?

I have spoken at length to you about man’s

ability to see reality without the help of his
senses, an ability that allows the liberated
consciousness to develop. Well, I have long
believed that this gift was reserved only for man.
I thought it w as something unique to man. I
believed that until I heard about several
scientific experiments that proved the contrary.

Some animals can imagine simple plans to

achieve a goal that is outside of the reach of
their senses. For example, a famous chimpanzee at
Stockholm zoo prepared, in the solitude of his

52
 cage, piles of stones for the tourists that he
knew would come to visit him. It was necessary
that there should be a clear enough image in his
mind ofthe missing tourists. And there are other
examples of this kind, not only amongst several
representatives of our cousins the apes, but even
amongst certain birds which are not even mammals
and that only have a very small brain.

Tentatively, I deduced that animals might

also have an embryo of this consciousness that I
thought was reserved for humans. But it is only a
tiny embryo because, between the consciousness of
the bird that is able to find where it hid the
food and the ability to develop the Theory of
Relativity, there is an almost infinite gap.

Therefore, there must be a something that is

unique to man, i.e. a barrier to cross to access
human capacities. If there was not this barrier,
the game of evolution would have led some animal
species to get a lot further on the path taken by
mankind. And there would be several human species
on the earth at different points along this road
that leads to the liberated consciousness and
thought.

Another hypothesis is possible. It was

suggested to me by the palaeoanthropologist
Pascal Picq. And to quote him:

“… The selection pressures that ultimately made the length of human gestation
9 months did not emerge magically overnight. It certainly started with the first
representatives of the genus homo, homo ergaster, 2 million years ago. On the

53
one hand, the shift to highly efficient bipedalism resulted in a narrow pelvis. On
the other hand, there was the relative development of the brain. Both
evolutionary trends met at the time of delivery. Then, women that carried babies
with a gestation period of more than nine months died in the most terrible
suffering. This never stopped, because whilst the pelvic size has changed little
during the evolution of the Homo genus, the size of the brain has doubled!”
(Pascal Picq – Nouvelle Histoire de l’Homme (New History of Man) – Ch. 6)
This leads me to think that the evolution of
man may have passed through a type of maze with a
series of dead ends, the crossing of which was
highly unlikely. I call these dead ends any new
characteristics that do not favour the survival of
the species: natural selection tends to eliminate
or at least not to develop them. This would
explain why only one species on earth has managed
to complete this course.

First example: Bipedalism freed the hands

and made the feet unsuitable for gripping. At this
time, the primate needed four hands to cling to
branches in order to escape from predators. Yet
hominids developed this disabling ability: the
first dead end.

Second example: The development of the skull

resulted in the death during childbirth of a large
number of human females: the second dead end.

Third example: The lack of fur forced humans

to seek devices to protect themselves against the
cold and other weather: the third dead end.

There are probably other examples of these

dead ends. Some, such as the excessively large

54
skull of human babies, even represented a mortal
danger to the species. However, after the
improbable crossing of this cursed labyrinth, one
discovers that the associated disabilities have
become valuable benefits.

Even chimpanzees seem to be stuck in this

maze. They have clumsy hands, but these aren’t
much use to them because “they can’t see beyond
the end of their noses,” because anything out of
reach of their senses is almost always outside of
their thoughts. So how could they come up with the
idea of making objects for use “much later”?

They have a tiny embryo of liberated

consciousness, but why would they develop it if
they lack the necessary support tools? It is as if
they had a rudimentary engine, but neither the
wheels or the metals or the technical knowledge:
why would they try to make a car? It is more
useful for them to develop their senses, their
resistance to disease and their agility. These are
the qualities that favour natural selection.

The same is true for articulate speech: what

could they do with it if they developed it?

Bipedalism freed the hands to manufacture

all kinds of objects, and it makes it possible to
travel a long way. The lack of fur helps to
regulate temperature through perspiration: it
becomes possible to sustain effort for long
periods and to work or walk for a long time. The

55
large brain makes it possible to think, guiding
the hand in its manufacturing and the feet on
their journeys. It is therefore very useful to
develop the aptitude for liberated consciousness
together with provisions for articulate speech.

It is likely that, at the same time,

liberated consciousness revealed to man the
precariousness of his existence, which is as
fragile as the flame of a candle. This was the
beginning of unbearable existential angst. It was
enough to make some commit suicide. Another dead
end. It was necessary, therefore, for Mômmanh to
invent some coping strategies:

- a certain ability to take their desires

for realities that can create ideologies, so that
humans could be saved by faith,

- a certain ability to hide unsustainable

realities revealed by the cursed liberated
consciousness in the unconscious,

- and who knows what else…

Therefore, man is unique on Earth because

his genesis results from a combination of highly
improbable factors, so improbable that many human
species have fallen by the wayside of natural
selection, the last known of which was the
Neanderthal.

56
 With man thus endowed, Mômmanh has finally
found a way to establish the reign of existence
over the earth. Over the universe, even! In any
case, she has entrusted this task to us, as long
as we do not betray her.

Oh yes! Thanks to this gift of liberated

consciousness, we have been promoted to the role
of chiefs in the struggle for existence.

However, Mômmanh keeps almost all of the

secrets of her blind consciousness, and here is
what o ur liberated consciousness lacks most:
during those billions of years when she advanced
in the dark, like a mole, finding her way and
following the instructions of her memory alone,
each time a contact with the environment brought
back a memory she worked miracles, the least of
which is beyond our understanding. She gave us the
liberated consciousness which she had previously
been missing cruelly so much, maybe, but we are
still incapable of giving life into matter as she
did. We must, therefore, quite modestly, accept to
serve and to question Lady Nature, above all the
living one, for at least as long as she shows
herself wiser than us.

Let us go back to where I left you, when once again I let myself be tempted
by the demon of the original sin and, once again, I bit into the forbidden fruit: “… but
you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat
from it you will certainly die.” (The Bible)

57
 We were at the foot of the mountain, where the foal gambols about, where
the pig stuffs himself, a fat meat bag endowed with a puny brain, where the vine
flourishes in the sun, burdened with alchemists’ secrets conceived to revitalize us,
opulent nature but enfeebled by man.

Higher up there is the land of the wolf, the fox, the boar, the deep forest
which temple-like towers against the sky. Shielded by the swell of the trees where
sometimes the black raven can be spotted, all sorts of creatures nestle in the cosy and
mossy nests. They hide away as man draws near and observes this strange animal
which nature obliges to clothe. If you can be discrete, respectful and patient, you will
be able to catch a glimpse of the squirrel interrupting its acrobatics to hear the
meditation of the old trees, the gentle darling giving a short respite to her perpetual
alarm to pick gracefully a few mouthfuls of grass… Sitting on an old stump, in the
soothing shadow, you will watch intimate dramas and comedies unfold themselves:
so, if your contemplation is enough, you won’t fail to feel the sap ply never endingly
between the roots and the sky to receive and distribute solar energy…

What lessons does Nature give us?

Your life can be spent there, till the end.

One must not sleep nor dream too much, as you have
plenty to do for several generations: observe then
and study all of Mômmanh’s inventions until you
understand them well. Now and then, you will have
the luck to applaud a good success among the
various assaults leading towards the impossible
“existence” towards the conquest of the eternal
joy of life. From time to time you will be the
privileged spectator of the grand baroque opera of
a courting couple in a tribe of beetles, or of the

58
 subtle diplomacy of a family of aphids which do
not want to vanish,

or still the genius of a clan of butterflies

inverting their silk thread…

But on e cannot do everything. Luckily, the

biologists work for us.

Higher still, beyond the preserve of the black firs, lies the domain of the
fawn-coloured cows, tinkling goatskins which, all day, graze the high mountain
pasture for our sake, stopping only to look, dumbfounded, with their big eyes, at the
human phenomenon crossing the territory on two feet.

Higher still, one reaches the region of the pure and invigorating air, where
one has to take care not to step on the rapturously bright flowers which emit an
ecstatic brightness of colour. It is the village of the marmot which, from behind the
door of her burrow, seems interested in any human matters.

At last, beyond the piercing cold brooklets which escape the grip of the
glaciers, I can see the inaccessible battlements: the home of the leaping chamois. I
will not climb any higher…

In the mountain, nature has multiplied its inventions, irreplaceable sources of

life which man in favour of slavery has not had time to mutilate.

The mountain is a witch.

One must say that the annual paid holidays, still very short, at the time were
mostly dedicated to the fitting of one’s homes, which did not appear as battlements
yielding juicy profits. The mass leisure industry wasn’t a lucrative business where
holiday makers marched past an assembly line like strings of sausages in the

59
slaughter houses of Chicago, neither was the immaculate snow-capped mountain
quoted on the Stock Exchange. For the time being, I could believe that the mountain
belonged to me and I did not deprive myself of it. As it is immense and as I felt alone
up there, I was ready to share it with “My Love,” if of course she was willing to show
herself.

I would be ashamed if I tried to deprive the others, my fellow creatures with

their “paid holidays,” of the joy and mental health which communion with nature
gives, or else the happiness – which I ignore – of skiing, after skiing and between
skiing.

And yet? You know only too well what “THEY” – the great Satan
responsible for all our miseries – you know what “THEY” have done to our
mountains. Does anyone still find places where to have a true conversation with
nature?

In the same way as they have done to the Mediterranean so rich in history
and poetry and blue sky, a collective bath tub, the anonymous mass of cancerous
cities, pulled down on the mountains the same holds good for our motorised ants
which have brought there their incurable illness. Only once we have returned to our
mountains and found it devastated.

Thousands of cars, superb glossy steel beasts, falsely living. It is very

convenient. Mine takes me wherever I want, when I want, it allows me to escape the
tyrannical notice of gossipers lying in ambush behind the curtains of their kitchen if it
suits me in order to go, to discuss with the gulls and the cormorants, it widens my
otherwise narrow horizons: it is a great part of my freedom. But the millions of other
cars – yes, even your own! – scandalise and hurt nature.

Should everyone succeed to have theirs, where would we end up? In this
regards, I keep a dear memory of the time when having a car made a king of me,
since you didn’t have yours yet. Most of you, women above all, let themselves be
convinced that driving was a difficult art, reserved to some men, the knights on the

60
road. What happy times! Now that we are all kings, even you ladies, I feel like
squashing the coaches of the other majesties. So I understand those who detest
equality above all when the others are right.

Therefore, thousands of thousands of cars in “our” mountain. A driver who

did not even know me, very unpleasant took the liberty of addressing me familiarly
and rudely giving me a driving lesson. He didn’t know whom he was talking to, but is
it a valid excuse.

All around concrete buildings, bitumen, wire or plastic fencing, arrogant

publicity boards harassing us by their aggressive colours and striking us to enforce
their lies, flashy artificial materials, and an invasion of clashing cacophonous
geometric patterns. “Private Property, Keep Out,” or “No Parking,” paying car parks,
electric wires one brushes against, cable cars and ski lifts, the sacred mountain has
been torn to shreds! But who do we think we are when we mutilate and disfigure the
presents of nature incapable as we are of creating the least of living creatures?
Ignorant and irresponsible children who, in spite of everything, have been entrusted
with the future of our planet?

We disfigure our old Mômmanh who has always been young, she whose
beauty enlightens us whenever doubt assails us and which a promenade by the seaside
helps us to recover our serenity. And then we mutilate her to fulfil our wishes, risking
killing her. Suppose we didn’t have any gratitude shall we be from now on able to
make do without her ahead?

In our youth we had known decent poor peasants, very nice indeed, amusing
in their period costumes, and which seemed to form part of the landscape. It is at least
like this that I remember them even if, on second thoughts, I can’t see any reason why
the poor should all be nice and the rich, all crooks. In any case many of them had
blessed our budding pitiful love. Where can they have gone? We needed a certain
amount of time to realize that they had turned to leisure services. That they had stayed
poor for our sake! Not only didn’t they go into raptures in front of our car, neither in
front of our wallet, our knowledge and prestige of decent citizens “well beloved, my

61
goodness,” but they did not even recognise us. Were we juicy clients, yes or no? No:
ah well, “goodbye” The number of “paid holidays” had altered completely even our
Savoyard peasants.

Does Nature need man? What is the purpose of nature’s

beauties? Are nature’s inventions models for us?

No, I don’t think we need to go back to the

Stone A ge in order to preserve nature which,
besides, is not always able to make it alone and
may need our cares, if only they are enlightening.
You know well: this is precisely why Mômmanh has
created us.

You have not forgotten that, at least on

this earth, we are the only eyes of our blind
“Mômmanh.” But, if Mômmanh needs us, we need not
play the spoiled brats, all the more so, since we
also need her.

Enormously.

Because you are just as well aware that,

behind her closed eyelids, she carries a great
wisdom vaster than the ocean, acquired in time
ever since her origin.

Life is like the tree on which last spring

the new buds blossomed. One bud alone is called
humanity. If we chop down the tree, we shall
perish: this is obvious now.

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 And this is not all!

In the course of her persistent groping for

existence, Mômmanh has piled up an anthill of
inventions which, to say the least, were useful to
her for a long period of time. Many of them still
have a lesson to give us, like the silkworm which
invented silk and the bee honey.

“And even if it were proved that such and

such a species from now on were perfectly useless,
should we be entitled to obliterate it? – Without
going as far as to eliminate it, we can remove it
from circulation; imprison it in a bank of harmful
species for example. Thus it would be removed from
the march to existence. At the same time, it would
be just as well to preserve carefully its memory
in our archives: like this it will continue to
exist in history. Isn’t it fair to grant every bit
of Mômmanh, and therefore to ourselves as well,
the right to existence?”

There is also beauty. The beauty Mômmanh has

brought forth along her many paths. Not only the
beauty of creatures, but also that of matter: the
beauty of the desert, of the ice floes, of the
mountain, the beauty of the sea and sky, with or
without clouds, of the play of light the sun
orchestrates… I’ll let you know later on how
beauty takes us arm in arm and guides us to the
Garden of Eden.

So, all the creations of Mother Nature make

up our picture gallery of our ancestors. What is

63
there so surprising, therefore, if I like
caressing my distant cousin, the shy violet, or
look at my coquettish great-great aunt, the blue
magpie, resume each day, her lonely fashion show
on the lawn, which gives finally the weeping
willow a good reason to let the tears flow? And
must one be surprised if you meet me at twilight,
alone in the desert, the big eyes open, on the
verge of hearing Mômmanh’s voice?

I still consider all these inventions of

nature, as messages she left us at each stage of
her tenacious struggle to conquer eternal life.
“You to whom I have given the gift of eyes, to
look around! A long time ago, I created the
earthworm. It is not pretty, I admit, but it
renders a great service to the family!” Since we
have acquired such a destructive and creative
power, at the same time, we are so fallible, that
it is not too much for our senses on the lookout
and on our souls quite alert to decipher those
messages before they get burnt at the stake of
inquisition, sacrificed on the altar of the god
Money, or simply stifled beneath the ass of
indifference.

Neither do I claim on any privileged right

to converse with the boar, the lark and the wild
mint, to find again the salty embrace of the
primal sea, to enjoy the scorching kisses of the
sun, or still to commune alone, sitting on a mossy
stone in the forest, where the streamlet murmurs,
under the protection of the big trees, and finding
there the inner peace of the soul. I think on the

64
 contrary that taking nature’s advice, patiently
deciphering its many messages and humbly,
nourishing ourselves with them, allying ourselves
with the infinite variety of its offspring, and
acknowledging our mother finally and her loving
children, on the river of existence which is
carrying us along towards the mysterious infinite
whose veils tear as we approach, I believe that
this dispelling of our vanity belongs to all. What
is there at the end of the journey? Will there be
an end? It’s a mystery! As long as we advance,
all’s well.

Yes, I let myself be carried away and I

realize I have been giving you advice within the
framework of a scientific theory. Like this I risk
betraying the objective of science which is to
illuminate rather than show the way ahead. I beg
you to excuse me! It is stronger than me!

Besides, who can expect to search only to

satisfy his curiosity, and not to assume a little
better the control of his destiny? Ask the
computers to do pure research because I believe
that man is incapable. In order to erase this
fault inherent to our kind, even if I take the
liberty of giving you advice, I promise to respect
the decisions we take together, all of us, all the
billions of human beings and “Myself all alone,”
the rest of the world. I will keep this promise
for as long as I can bear.

– And love at first sight?

65
– Yes! Yes! We shall get to it.

That summer, fate organised the meeting of two young people of

complimentary but not opposite sexes: it was I, it was her. You will understand soon
that she took the first place: the idea of occupying another one didn’t occur to her.
Therefore, it was her, it was me. I will call her Jeanne, in memory of Joan of Arc.

– Excuse me? What are you saying?

– Have you asked for the permission of the holy virgin?

– Of course not! And then? How many “Joans” are unworthy of carrying that
name? My pretty one does deserve at least to be called that.

I could have called her Ocean. I saw in her eyes the vast and self-begetting
sea, the age-old living ocean. When I first dived in it, I thought I very nearly
drowned. Afterwards I have learned to turn into a dolphin before going for a swim.
Tell me, isn’t it marvellous to catch a glimpse of the sea in the eyes of so many
women? Already, nature has given us the universal language of gaze for which no
grammar needs to be studied and which even dogs understand; by putting the sea into
the eyes of the beloved, the consciousness of Mômmanh obviously wants to remind
us that women are the source of life, just like the primal ocean. Be it as it may, I will
not call “My Love” Ocean, because I want to keep those that are healthy in my
French roots and the names of our brave ancestors are part of that.

She will be called Jeanne, in memory of Joan of Arc and also of

Jeanne Hachette. Let us forget Joanna the Mad, all right? Paying homage to the
woman who brandished her virginity like a standard may seem worse than boorish:
the rape of a dead person, what is more, of a saint, stiff in the swaddling bands of a
deceased, no longer able to defend one’s honour from now on. Rest assured that I
would have been ashamed to associate my beloved with the gallant shepherdess who
gave birth to France, if she was unworthy.

66
 Times have changed today and the ways of gallantry are not the same.
Because men establish their beliefs in function of the level of knowledge or rather of
ignorance of their time. In our days, the one that heard voices from the Heavens
ordering her to take command of armies in order to drive out the English would
obviously be considered mad and treated with injections in a psychiatric hospital. At
the time of Joan, the ignorance of man was still such that it did not seem absurd to
hope for material support from God. Thus, it was only right that the Most High
should speak clearly, and that his representative on French soil should be a pure
young girl: a virgin.

Today purity has also changed guise. My Jeanne won’t be a virgin, thank
God, because my story would have ended there.

Unfortunately, in those days, people believed that carnal love was filthy.
Consequently, the less one fornicated, the purer soul one had. What wicked words!
What an aberration! Why did the Church graft on our minds such a painfully
unnatural belief? On one hand, it fostered love among man, on the other it forbade
them to enjoy it to the full! As if it had asked them to prepare a feast and that none
had the right to touch anything. At the same time, she promised to those unfortunate
ones the resurrection of their bodies. To do what, unfair heavens? Also, has the
Islamic faith placed beautiful girls in its heavens? Doesn’t it make a formidable rival
to Christianity?

But this is another story.

– What? What are you saying?

– It is high time that you begin to tell your love story!
– But ultimately, I am the author! I write what I like…
– You b......!
– Eh? What? I can’t hear you very well. You read only what is interesting to
you?
– M..... f.....!

67
 – That is a good one. Finally… since the reader is the king, let’s keep going.
You will not get to the bottom of my thoughts: so much the worse for you. I ask you
just the same quite respectfully, not to interrupt me very often.

So, that summer, destiny organised the meeting of two unique and
exceptional beings – “But yes! Allow me to be the only judge on this matter.” – it
was Her, it was Me. We were supposed to work during the same month, in a holiday
camp in the mountain. This centre for teenagers belonged to a municipality of the Red
Belt of Paris, managed by communists, which was normal at that time. I would have
nothing to relate if one of the conditions was lacking. Since destiny decided
otherwise, you are going, please, to continue the reading.

– Shall I tell you about fate?

– Above all no.
– It is understood, I will speak to you about it some other time.

In that holiday camp, I got a job as a driver. Jeanne had been employed to
assume two functions: as a nurse and administrator. When she sat in my delivery van,
among the vegetable and fruit crates, I blushed. This was only the first of a series of
shocks she was to give me. She had right away, as in many other circumstances later,
chosen the wrong moment to move me, because I was an inexperienced driver yet.
Luckily, I was much younger than now and that is what saved us.

During the war in Algeria I had had great fears and my share of miseries: like
my friends for months and months, I had sighed for the blessed liberation day and for
our happy future life which would be mine, once out of that diabolical bear garden
which was Algiers then. Of course, I had neither gone through the atrocious hell of
Verdun nor did I know Dien Bien Phu, but as in those days life was becoming easier,
I believed to have known the worst. Well no! The worst was yet to come!

The fairy was setting the trap into which I ardently fell, the exquisite beauty
of the eternal flesh was preparing to pitch and keel the boat of my existence to such a
point, in the series of tempests, hurricanes and cyclones, that it took me years before I

68
could distinguish clearly again the north from the south. At this moment I could still
run away. This story would have come to an end. What does it matter! I would
perhaps have another story to tell. But since I stayed, we must get to the bottom of it.
Pluck up courage! It is true that by taking part in our war sitting in your armchair, you
are not running big risks, you!

And now if I had to do it all over again? … Yes, I would follow the same
way. Oh! Rest assured! I will nevertheless try to avoid the atrocious mistake we have
made. But, since in all ways there is no life without risks, I would once choose the
same traps.

Finally, we had just brought a conclusion to the interminable debate on the

sex of angels. The one who descended from the heavens and sat in my delivery van,
belonged to the female sex. What must I do not to annoy her, so that she stays a little
longer? The cleaning lady, cantankerous “old girl” had immediately occupied the
only passenger seat. I believe I have already said, the apparition sat on a crate, amidst
luggage odds and ends, piled up crates full of vegetables, fruit, as well as diverse
other supplies for the hosts of the camp. Could the buttocks of an angel sitting on the
sharp edges of a wooden crate stand the jolts of the rough road? Could the stomach of
an angel hang on sufficiently in order not to give way under the effects of the
whirlwind and turmoil which the ten kilometres of winding roads and bends were
going to cause?

She was beauty itself descended from the heavens: which is why I don’t
know how to describe her to you. It is up to you to recognize her when she will
appear. She did have several minor faults: for example, her hair was too straight to
conceal the slight disproportion between her ears, but these petty faults made her look
a little human. Like this, I would perhaps find the courage to conquer her. Moreover,
there was a peculiar smell in the van, neither of victuals nor of an angel – acrid,
rancid and aggressive. At first I attributed that smell to the sour old girl but later on, I
had to admit that it was coming precisely from the armpits of the beautiful one. When
we became intimate, I let her know that this dissuasive perfume diminished her

69
beauty immensely and that I wouldn’t be able to suffer from a running nose all my
life.

I never smelled that odour again.

She was still young, even a little younger than I was, and nature had not
begun to undo what life had succeeded in doing so well. She kept putting finishing
touches to her work, carefully choosing and straightening the traits which, until then
had preserved an indecision of the youthful, rough shape, lighting up the complexion
and the forms in order to fulfil the best promises of adolescence, put off for so long.
This masterpiece of flesh, spirit, light, which I could later touch, and even kiss, was
not wrought by the hand of nature alone. She had only made the sketch which an
inadequate education prolonged by the stupid choices would probably have turned
into a vain stout woman. This was not the case. Jeanne and her family had known
how to achieve the poem which they had started so well.

Wholesome food, a little sport and plenty of activities kept the vigorous
harmony of her shape. An education which had always kept her mind alert showed in
her eyes and on her face. The practice of dancing lent her suppleness and grace and
even music accompanied the slightest of her movements.

Yes, music! And if I tell you that she was a living symphony, you are going
to laugh: well, laugh! She was Botticelli’s Venus who had finally managed to land
her scallop shell in order to join wholeheartedly an orchestral symphony. I could not
list you all the instruments, but fortunately, I am sure that there was at least a trumpet.

I who regret that I am unable to appreciate the great music drank without ever
quenching my thirst.

Finally, on her face, her soul had mirrored some expressions which I liked.
Her large eyes have a surprised or amused look, that which without wanting to
possess the world are eager to tirelessly discover it. Wait! It was not a “rapturous”
look: intelligence always sparkled in it. “Like champagne? – Goodness, yes.” There

70
were also features in this dear face reshaped by will, by an indomitable activity of the
mind, by a dignified and discrete pride: as much nobility added to nature’s work.

There was also what my rapture prevented me from seeing: the fairy had
undergone certain touches. Should I complain about this? On the contrary, since they
completed the work, so well, it was lucky that Jeanne was on good terms with
Mômmanh.

– You say that youth and beauty are fleeting?

– Ah well! If you believe so, pose in front of the objective without delay.
Pictures: are all that will remain of the happy years. As far as we are concerned,
neither Jeanne nor I do we resort to the need of recovering the pitiful artifice.

How do you help nature? How do you delay aging? How do you
keep in good shape and in good health?

You know that nowadays in our blessed

country most people age slower than they used to.
You also know the reasons why. To those classic
recipes to slow down aging, Jeanne and I will add
our own invention. I’ll give it to you for free.

You can’t have forgotten that Mômmanh

controls our body – “Be careful, once again, I
remind you this is only science fiction.” – you
also know that, most of the time, she follows the
advice coming from our intelligence, since she
creates it for that reason. Ah well, here you are.
When we are young, our brand new organs do not
need Mômmanh to stimulate them; they practically
function on their own, she must only remain

71
vigilant that they do not misbehave. With old
people it is the contrary.

Consequently, as soon as you feel age

catching up with you, you must appeal to Mômmanh
to spur on your organs all day long, to prevent
them from falling asleep and failing.

“Because can we give orders to Mômmanh who

is controlling our body? Can we order our boss? –
Certainly. I told you already. This is why she
created us. She trusts us…”

It is here that we come upon an old belief:

the distinction between the flesh and the mind,
between the body and soul.

My organs are “physical-chemical-mechanical”

constructions. They run the programmes inscribed
in my genes. However, if they were only that, the
hands, legs, heart, liver, kidneys, stomach, etc.,
would have been kinds of robots, flesh robots
invented by nature.

Here is what constitutes my body.

Some billions of years ago, it so happened

that a tiny fragment of Mômmanh took control of
the first terrestrial bacterium. Life delighted
her and she never left it. You know only too well
how she developed, passing from one generation to
the other, from one species to another, all the
way from man to my parents, from my parents to me.

72
She is my original soul, one who has been leading
me since my birth and perhaps even before.
Afterwards, she has been enriched by my
experience. Usually, I call her simply Mômmanh
but, according to that aspect which I want to
emphasize, I could call her otherwise: my soul, my
ego or else my Mômmanh.

This is then what constitutes my soul. At

least, the one I was given on birth and whom it is
my mission to improve.

My bodily organs would not know how to

function on their own. But they are very sensitive
to the orders which Mômmanh sends them or, I
remind you, of this fragment of herself, her
representative given full powers: our person. This
power which always vested in her is an important
aspect of our will. It can go further than we
usually think: with training, certain fakirs who
can control their heartbeat.

As long as my organs were new, they had not

yet suffered the slightest weakening and their
cell-repair faculties were intact: they were
liable to function well. As a child, my legs
spurred me to run rather than to walk. Today my
legs incite me to rest.

So in order that all my organs continue in

spite of everything to live and develop, in order
not to deteriorate more rapidly, I ask Mômmanh to
make all those lazy bones function, on the

73
slightest occasions, without however taxing them.
It is what nowadays we call sports.

But, before going along the route coughing

up my lungs, running aimlessly, however, I shall
use all the gestures of everyday life to stir up
my old frame. Besides, I strive to go quickly, to
force each action, and otherwise make a ll the
parts of the body function in co-ordination, at
least the greatest number: I try to bend my knees
and all the rest each time that I squat, I go up
and down the stairs not in fours but two by two, I
go in search of my newspaper on my bike… In brief:
each ti me possible, I introduce sports in the
compulsory actions of daily life and I kill two
birds with one stone.

And when I sense discouragement or illnesses

prowling around me, ready to annihilate me, I
plead with Mômmanh to send me a vigorous sound of
trumpet in every nook and cranny of my old abode:
“Stand up, everybody! This is the time of our
lives and we have a lot to accomplish.” After all,
the well-known effect of “morality” in the
treatment of illnesses is not there.

This method, Jeanne and I invented it

together. We love repeating to those willing to
listen: “When one is young everything is alright.
But when the more one grows old the more he has to
struggle.”

74
 By all these means combined with a wholesome
diet and a bit of good luck, in spite of the
misfortunes which overwhelmed us, we managed to
slow do wn our ageing process. Jeanne kept her
beauty fifteen or twenty years longer than her
grandmother. We are convinced that our recipe has
contributed to it

But Mômmanh cannot break her own laws: we

have to age – and it is imperative! – one must die
so that our children more advanced than we are
take existence into the stars.

Jeanne managed to slow down but not to evade the insidious deterioration of
her magnificent body. The living symphony had been distorted by “false notes”
always stronger; the radiance of the immortal beauty fades away, little by little,
buried under varicose veins, wrinkles, the yellowish pallor and roughness of the skin.
Slow but ineluctable wrecking… Only the artifices and prostheses of beauty can
conceal for a while the ravages of the pitiless vandal: aging, the forerunner of death.

The time came when Jeanne had become less beautiful than her dresses.
Would the time come when, her body completely shattered, she would look like an
ambassador for posterity: a great soul in a dilapidated body, all presented in a
beautiful wrapping of sparkling jewellery?

Therefore I know why, on the days out, she must get up earlier and be long in
the bathroom before daring to face the look of her fellow friends. It is good that
women for this reason have excellent means; the important thing is that when they
wake up they can endure with success the test without make-up in the merciless light
of the morning. However, I was in a thousand places of that sordid realism to which,
besides, I often run away, so imposing still to my eyes the former beautiful image of
Jeanne which explains why, in the road, it is more and more difficult to recognize
today my half-faded wife.

75
 But let’s go back to the delivery van, on the day that Jeanne entered my life.

To begin with, I had to show the Apparition what a good driver I was and
since I lacked self-confidence, it was a great fiasco. Now, I would know better; I
would tell myself, firstly: “So what if she runs away from you, there are millions of
others.” and I would add: “Go on, you just have to try your luck! After all, she is only
human like you. She is not asking for the moon; just drive, which you know how to
do, avoiding any unnecessary fears, and hope will take shape.” Luckily, I had not yet
acquired that half-wisdom, because my story would have ended there. It is exactly my
lack of confidence and my clumsiness which made me attractive in the eyes of this
beautiful girl. Oh yes! This is how it happened.

The journey to the camp was unnecessarily dangerous. A narrow road wound
along the side of the mountain to lead us up there, to the uncertain edge between the
dark forest and the high mountain pastures. We skimmed the precipice every time
which the vehicle went out of control, but I always knew how to how to straighten it
up in time for us to continue our adventure. When we arrived safe and sound, I was
not proud of myself. At least once, we came close to disaster and some mischievous
crates had even split on my beauty, the new queen of edelweiss travelling with such
an appalling crew. When, moreover, the old hag gave me her compliments, I thought
that I had definitely spoilt my slim chances.

– I ask myself where they can have recruited such a driver like you. I who
have never touched a steering wheel; I would drive better than you. We were damned
lucky that we came out of it alive! Murderer! You will not get the chance to kill me
because I shall never get into your car, idiot!
For a moment I asked myself if human rights applied to this old hag. It
seemed yes. In any case, miserable consolation, I would no longer have to bear the
brunt of her bile in my van, except on rare occasions when I shall not pay much
attention to her anyway.

It was then that the first miracle happened… Guess what the immortal told
me! And in front of witnesses as well!

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 – It is nothing, Michel. You are a good driver. It is lack of experience: when
you get used to the van and to the mountain, everything will be alright.
What a lovely creature, isn’t she? In that instant, the old hag vanished for
good out of my existence, like a witch dissolves in the air when the good sovereign
fairy appears. Will she utter some evil cawing a few last times? It is possible. But,
already out of earshot, I could not hear.

The queen of edelweiss, the divine came from some suburb of the Parisian
region near the ramparts which defended the capital in the bygone days, and of a vast
vague land full of mysteries and dangers, which she called “The Zone.” If you want,
let us rename that place Vieuvy-on-Seine, an ancient opulent village put up amidst the
fields on top of which factories had been built, housing estates, a row of pavilions,
and a series of small houses of all sorts made of bricks and bits and pieces with,
haphazard, little gardens of all sorts of cultural origins and their fences cobbled
together matching the discordant ensemble. Vieuvy-on-Seine, its “ramparts” and its
“Zone” were the fulfilment of the anarchic dreams of the working class.

The new town had flooded and completely submerged the old opulent
village. And then?

How do you preserve the heritage of humanity?

To ensure the continuation of the

development of existence it is necessary that the
old makes way for the new. And our roots? The
lessons of the past? Today we have the means to
represent them faithfully and to preserve them in
our archives. For our edification, we should keep
only our masterpieces. If, we put all the vestiges
in the chariot of existence, it will get bogged
down and, on our planet; we would have provoked
the suffocation of Mômmanh.

77
 That expression, on the big day, of a vast heterogeneous grouping of bad
tastes of all sorts, evoked a gigantic funfair: it had its composite character at times
touching, exciting, pitiable and distressing. Sometimes, however, at the turn of a
street, it revealed the discovery of a pearl: a beautiful marginal creation which would
not have been able to obtain permission to show itself elsewhere. Thus, as you know
as well, jazz, tango could only have been born in the poor neighbourhoods sheltering
outcasts.

In normal integrated society, in the world of “decent people,” the mould of

received ideas, necessarily rigid, crush the more unusual beauties doubly. Because
those who struggle to lay the foundations of their lives on a more or less solid ground,
or otherwise stated to instruct themselves, those grumble in front of every issue all the
more so since most unusual innovations are errors. Therefore like the other
unconventional people, the artists and the inventors who are not so daring are driven
back to the poor neighbourhoods. Fortunately, these shelter zones exist, these natural
parks for discoveries in gestation, comparable to those created for species on the way
to extinction.

At that time, the working class had only just begun to come out of its
poverty. The absence of finances imposed a strict limit to their fantasies. The pagodas
made of cheap junk and the small castles of the butchers, in praline chocolate were
still rare. The houses “My Dream” were often small old houses, some boxes with
eyes, a small mouth and a sun roof in the shape of a hat which they had extended
several times according to the varying fortunes, sometimes in height, sometimes one
on the other. You know the type of caricatures of beauty which are sold at Mont-
Saint-Michel and in the other tourist spots: the small varnished boat wheels with a
gleaming barometer in the middle, painted shells put together, all sorts of earthenware
animals – pigeons, cats, pigs… – whose colours could enrage the dogs, post cards
showing a heart of sugar barley or flowered skirts lifted revealing candy-pink
behinds… In the reshaping and in the successive additions of the original little
houses, as well as in all the other additions – gates, railings, glass canopies, ceramic
ornaments, main front doors… – the bad taste found a way of expression in the same
manner but on a larger scale. The repair of the gardens carried out with certain

78
salvaged materials: bricks, breezeblocks, or planks, steel sheets, fibrocement, scraps
of all sorts contributed to the deterioration of the landscape…

After this period of joyous cacophony, our state deemed that the individual
freedom must be curtailed when it defaces the environment. Strict town planning
regulations were imposed and gigantic termites’ nests all in the form of modern
hutches in cement were put up. But men are not termites: you know the rest… In any
case, the bad taste had to take refuge in the intimate lodgings, and only friends could
benefit from them from now on. After the epoch of the termites’ our epoch came
when, thanks to a greater wisdom and to important material means, the town
councillors transformed our cities into agreeable places to live in. Little by little,
Vieuvy-sur-Seine has learned to dress up like a fine lady.

But when Jeanne, introducing herself as a Parisian, spoke to me about her

suburb, and even when I had the opportunity to stroll there, I was not sensitive to its
touching ugliness. Vieuvy-sur-Seine could only be a magnificent place because it had
given birth to the beautiful one, to the sublime flower of the suburb: Jeanne! as
regards who it did not take me long to learn that she was truly “well-bred” indeed.
That city had nourished her, pampered her, educated her, formed her and kept her for
me only till we met and I was very grateful. It could only be a happy city because it
had the chance to see her every day. Ah! How I would have loved to live in Vieuvy-
sur-Seine, in the aura of the divine and weave from now on my whole existence in the
rays of her beauty.

– Wasn’t I a little mad?

– Completely, you might tell me.
– Doubtlessly, I would love to relive that madness! Besides, doesn’t one
need to be drugged in one way or the other to find courage to go to war?
After our first encounter in the van, I sought all the opportunities to approach
Jeanne and to be in her company. This was easy because, rather than shy away, she
would provoke herself the encounters. I was wandering on a cloud and sometimes
took pity on my contemporaries who seemed so little when, from the Sky, I saw them
condemned to accomplish in sadness their daily chores of doubly handicapped, at

79
 times terrestrial and mortal. Jeanne! Her name was Jeanne! What a marvellous name
evidently! Don’t you think so? Wasn’t that name immortal like the fairy that brought
her?

I close my eyes and see her again.

The young and the feeling of eternity. What is beauty for? Why
does natural adaptation appear to obey the principle of an
end?

Her skin is a river of health and of youth.

It wraps up the living and vigorous flesh. She
flows in the seducing forms which Mômmanh has
discovered and chosen for her all along the never
ending path.

She does not reveal the complex machinery at

work inside the beauty factory. Those called
liver, guts, bladder, spinal cord; the anonymous
workers with dirty callous hands who work in the
beauty factory remain quite well hidden. Only some
meandering little veins are allowed to dawdle in
full view. To what avail? Maybe to testify to the
life we evoke with blood.

The new factory is working well. The least

injury is repaired as soon as it occurs. This is
why the beauty of the young girl remains intact.

80
 Thus permanently regenerated, youth and
beauty appear to be eternal. Time is abolished.
Please don’t go telling the young girl: “Like that
flower, old age will ruin your beauty.” She cannot
hear that type of warning and she will greet you
with a peal of mocking laughter. Because she does
not doubt having eternity ahead of her. And if, in
that place of living eternity a small black or
dark brown sets in, it is the exception to the
rule. It is welcome and we call it beauty spot.

Did Mômmanh act purposely when she gave the

young ones the feeling that they have eternity in
front of them? Perhaps. Because the young don’t
hesitate to undertake things: like this, they
stretch the roads of the future.

Jeanne, such as I still see her through my

eyes of a man in love, was so beautiful. She was
the triumphant soul of nature, the sublime
incarnation of that call to live which is
struggling in t he darkness of matter until it
breaks free, like a mineral spring gushing from a
rock and spilling across the universe and smiling
at the sunshine of its thousand silver sequins.
Each time when the impetuous desire to live, live,
live here, everywhere and forever, each time the
grim will of existence has known how to snatch
beauty from its gangue of mud, she kept it in mind
and cherished, protected and recreated it, so
that, reappearing like the longed for happiness
before our fascinated eyes, she be our guide from
now on.

81
 Because among Mômmanh’s inventions, beauty
ranks the highest.

Beauty is not the ideal existence: it is the

representation of it. Thus you are sometimes moved
by a beauty, whether of a woman or of something
else. You are moved because, consciously or not,
you have recognized some elements of existence to
which you aspire, and which delight you. Next you
have to discover and match the elements in reality
through your work, because the image of ham is not
the ham.

This is how beauty shows us the way of

existence. Each time she came across her, Mômmanh
felt the presence of good: This is w hy she
inscribed it on her tablets. Just as she invented
the prettiness of flowers in order to further
pollination, she created the beauty of women to
attract men. Moreover, those of us we call
artists, she endowed with the faculty of creating
new beauties. Perhaps they have a sensibility to
the heightened existence to such a point that it
can be moved by the least of her evocations?

I have been telling you about Mômmanh’s

“inventions.” However, don’t forget that before
settling down in us, she can’t have had any
intentions as she remained closed in her gangue of
matter, without her own consciousness, without a
clue to the future. Everything seemed to have
happened the way she wanted and planned her
success but in fact, she obtained them groping her
way and selecting after each time.

82
 Mômmanh creates the characteristics of
living creatures the way I make choices hanging
about in a shop. The shop assistant who keeps
asking me what I need annoys me: I don’t know what
I want, but I will know perhaps by discovering an
object I like a lot, if only they would leave me
alone with the items. It is only later that my aim
will be revealed.

This is why biologists, for the sake of

simplification, can argue according to principle
of an end that, for example: nature has given the
chameleon the faculty of changing colour to
dissolve into its surroundings in order to escape
its predators. The end is the existence: the
manners in which she accomplishes herself are
known later.

However, after the liberated consciousness

appeared with man, Mômmanh can proceed otherwise.
Seeing the immensity of reality through our eyes,
she can cogitate plans more or less feasible for
the future: “I shall buy a new car in three years’
time… I will be a doctor… We shall make heaven on
earth…” Through our own intermediary she tries to
fulfil her plans and if the result matches her
hopes, she validates it. It is the principle of an
end a priori. This method is much more rapid than
the old one. Moreover, she increases the chances
of avoiding catastrophes such as plague or a world
war.

Let’s get back to art. A guide along the

paths of existence: when an artist, not only makes

83
 you appreciate the value of an objective but also
shows you the ways to achieve it, he has served
humanity well. Like this, I would like very
quickly to make you taste the flavours of a great
love and give you the recipe. So much the worse if
you find me a mediocre cook, I continue my work
just the same: “the rest will be given to you just
as well.”

See the little of voluptuous orchids; look at the mane waving in the wind, see
the wild mare galloping freely in the boundless prairie, see the frangipani’s white
flowers dissolving their carnal purity in the dazzling tropical sun. Through the foliage
in the moving shadow, before the gaze of the blazing panther in its smooth black
velvet dress, invulnerable: her majesty stretches her languorous muscles full of
energy in perfect harmony, like the music of a symphony; her majesty sharpens its
nails sliding in the soft fur, steel stilettos which will flash at any moment like a blue
flash amidst dumbfounded flesh, panting, definitively seized in their final movement,
the shredded life that will serve to nourish the conquering life of the beast. Breathe in
the scents of the month of May in the garden finally delivered from the winter
“numbness” and who is ahead of the others as mad. Prepare yourself blue seaweed –
or brown to the malicious eyes if you prefer – and let yourself be pampered in the
folds of the serene sea, so benevolent at times. Listen how the Indians of the Andes,
risen from the blind and century long colonial devastation, listen how they make their
stone mountains sing: listen how their music flies away taking wings which
obstinately, tell us in spite of everything the hopes of the misunderstood. The
beautiful child of interminable tragedy breaks free from that land of misery and from
up there, darting valiantly, sets out on a tour around the world. Let yourself, from
time to time, be enchanted by the friend Mozart who establishes happiness on earth…

This is what I see in Jeanne when I look at her well, but don’t go telling her.
She is the favourite daughter of the multi-faced nature which I find in her. All the
beauties, our sisters who go ahead in the long way to nirvana, Jeanne knows well how
to take them and how to enhance them. And that is good. I shall never reproach her

84
the long hours spent daily in front of her mirror, making herself beautiful rather than
prepare my meal or clean up.

Ah! I have believed to have forgotten her eyes, but I have already spoken to
you about them: unfathomable ocean where I like to plunge, lose myself, dissolve and
find myself again in the family, like a fish in the water, a recognized child of the
living universe.

If the eyes are windows of the soul, why is it that some have only dusty
fanlights?

It is possible that the portrait I had done of Jeanne is not enough for you. Is
she a brunette, a blond or red-haired? Big or small? White, black or yellow? Has she a
Greek profile? Small feet? Are her hands long and fine? I have nothing against the
figurative portraits which could be very beautiful but, I don’t know how to do them.
Little does it matter: beauty is not the body of the woman but the message which
Mômmanh has inscribed in it for us. In spite of everything, if you are keen on seeing
my beloved in flesh and blood, look up in the Bible, the Hymn of Hymns attributed to
Solomon.

It goes without saying that Jeanne had breasts and everything else to make a
complete woman: without which she would have been a type of painting in the
Louvre and I wouldn’t have envisaged marrying her. Yes, the breasts matched well
the whole. The mouth was well done to give generous kisses, contrary to the prickly
kisses evoked by thin lips. The tummy and the hips, wide enough, seemed designed to
welcome the beloved as well as, later on, the suckling who would have appeared
there.

As regards her buttocks, I asked myself – and I often ask myself why – they
seemed an indispensable part of the femininity. Don’t they serve to sit on the lavatory
pan? I also like the bottoms of the beautiful ladies and if I am somewhat disturbed, so
much the worse! Those of Jeanne were sufficiently firm and quite fleshy, as it should

85
be, but discrete enough not to arouse the lecherous feelings of a man when following
her. It was at least what I wanted to believe.

Why the heck does walk perform with her buttocks a sort of very suggestive
belly dance? Is it a natural phenomenon similar to thousand expediencies, of which
Mômmanh has endowed women with to attract men? Or is it just another trick
deliberately used by the majority of women?

What is the purpose of the butts of beautiful women?

Now I understand why Mômmanh attracts the

eyes and hands of men towards the bums of their
partners. There they find a large area ofsoft and
warm skin that is so comforting. In bed, when the
man pushes his belly up against the buttocks of
his beloved, as long as love is there, something
special happens. Through this interface, he comes
into loving communication with the body and the
soul of the beautiful woman. He just has to listen
to it and she invites him to continue the
conversation by making burning caresses. Freed of
human misery, he is at the doors of paradise. Then
the fairy says: “Enter, my love, enter!” Then he
will have to make sure - most of all! - Not to
behave like a cad, on pain of being thrown out of
heaven. He will continue the conversation inside
until the fairy says “Yes! Yes! Oh yes!” And if
the “yes” does not come because of an unexpected
disagreement? Ah well, never mind. It is necessary

86
to give up this time, until, perhaps, you finally
manage to agree.

I found a beautiful illustration of this in

a poem by Pierre Seghers (La rivière de ton dos),
put into song:

“The river of your back…

Is it a river or a torch?

The river that goes down…

That caresses it in passing

Burns his heart to the core.

It digs a bed of flames

That goes from heaven to the tomb…

Whoever enters the dwelling

Comes back out dreaming…”

This is no doubt what the popular language

has translated as “being so horny,” a term that
unfortunately I had not understood because of its
dirty and infamous innuendoes.

So, long live bums. And so what if Mômmanh

placed them around toilets.

87
 In any case, and contrary to what one would believe, it is not enough for a
woman to have “a nice bottom” to be sexually attractive, what one calls “sexy” in
vulgar language. How many times have I known that disappointment: my look lured
by the view of a “nice bottom,” I was eager for its owner to show her angel face but,
when at last she turned around, it was a rat’s face which appeared, dressed in dead
skin, with vicious empty eyes.

– Why do you insult rats, you say?

– Well, I don’t know. In any case, they will not be reading this book.

Forgive my rudeness, my friend. I wanted to

share with you a few technical tricks that can
help you enjoy the pleasure of love. Now, forget
about all of that.

If our bodies were only an assemblage of

cells just like a car that is made of machined
materials that smelt bad to Mômmanh in different
degrees, the technology of love would be enough to
take us to heaven. But it is not so, thank God.
We, the children of Mômmanh, are anything but
machines that do not know anything. That will
never know.

Forget about sexual mechanics, pull a

curtain in front of your indecent organs and guts
so that the emerging beauty of your body is hidden
from view.

When your beloved and you are in each

other’s arms, ready to seal the covenant in your
flesh that your souls have lovingly prepared by
overcoming discord, find your mutual happiness and

88
 let yourselves be guided by Mômmanh. Melted in the
immortal song of your reunited bodies, listen,
listen to the cheerful music of your beloved. The
pathway to heaven will open before you, step by
step. Do not continue looking to find out where it
goes, because it is beyond the flesh, somewhere
towards the heaven that our ancestors invented.

Here it is. Let us close the parenthesis.

This portrait that I have painted of my love seemed enough for you to
recognize your Jeanne when she comes into your visual field, which is certain to
happen regardless of the place on this planet that welcomes your presence.

Jeanne ignored that her beauty was of divine essence and still does not want
to hear about it: in that domain she refuses to share with Mômmanh her own freedom
of creation. But she was an expert in the art of the seduction of love. Without my
knowing, she had analysed, dissected, judged and evaluated me. That is to say: she
wanted me all for herself, for ever and, of course, as soon as possible. Her strategy,
prepared a long time before, was implemented soon.

She immediately set to work.

And one often hears men pretend that “they make conquests”!

89
INTERSTELLAR CONVERSATION

“The masters of this planet are semi-conscious animals, a lot of whom fancy themselves as
gods. Among those which escape this failure, most think that they are the only men in the
universe: they are incapable of understanding that a species other than theirs could become
human. To distinguish them from the other men of the universe, I will call them Earthlings, if
you like.
You can’t imagine how far their madness can go: most of the males whose male
reproductive organs are operational have, very often, one main concern.
– Enrich their knowledge?
– No, Master, the gods don’t need that.
– To enlarge their territory to the near stars, or extend it to the entire universe?
– Not at all! The territory of their neighbours interests them much more.
– To create works of art to nurture their souls?
– Think again. They prefer to contemplate their portrait taken in front of the pyramids of
Egypt.
– Then what?
– You will never get it, Master. I am going to tell you… Here you are: they dream about
inserting their sexual appendix into the receptacle of a female and injecting their semen into
her. But, wait a moment! Their aim is not reproduction, with some exceptions… When that
desire for sterile coupling has been satisfied, the male rests a little. Then he tries to repeat the
operation, sometimes with the same female, sometimes with several others, as often as
possible, as long as his reproduction of semen allows him to. Most of the time, the females are
willing: in their own way they also seek this sort of coupling. However sometimes one or
several males force a female to receive their seed. That is called “rape.” As far as I know,
females do not commit rape.
And now, dear Master, do you know what they call this sterile pastime? Oh! Don´t try to
guess. You will never get it. They call it “making love”!
Wait, Master. It gets worse. Those who refuse to waste their time in these games for the
mentally ill, discharge their excess of semen single-handed, those who are honourable, they
are called “wankers,” a very insulting term meaning “good for nothing.”
There you are, Master. Believe me: these Earthlings have nothing to offer us. Besides,
their madness is often devastating: look at the state to which they have reduced their unique
planet. Therefore, I suggest that the Intergalactic Confederation of the Children of Mômmanh
seize the Earth. As for those madmen who believe they are gods, we can breed them. They will
work for us, then, sometime before the appointed hour of their natural death, they will be
slaughtered for their meat. I can assure you that it is excellent: a real treat for us. My mission
is accomplished. I am asking your permission to return, Master.
– Rapid Exploraclone, continue your investigation. Earthlings are also the children of
Mômmanh. If she has chosen them such as they are, it is because they have shown their

90
abilities in that manner during thousands of standard years. We cannot call her judgement in
question as long as we don’t have a more solidly based argument than hers to decide.
You know this only too well, Rapid Exploraclone. Why are you in such a hurry? Are you
missing the children?
– Yes, Master. I would like to supervise the evolution of the transplants.
– Don’t be afraid. Everything is alright. And your children are educated according to your
wishes. I watch over it personally.
– Thank you, Master.
– As regards those creatures who believe to be the only men of the universe, try to understand
if their preferential selfishness has been able to give the advantage in the struggle for
existence, and in which way. We would also like to know more about what they call “making
love.”

(Exploration of the Earth. Great Archives of Waliullah.)

91
92
 4-Alleluia

I am still a little nostalgic while reliving those happy days when I fancied
myself as Alexander the Conqueror, even greater surely, since I was not afflicted,
myself, with his incredible vanity. In the morning she had easily persuaded me that if
I was not at all a god carried on the wings of love, it would not take me long to
become one. Ah! That was good! If the same compliment had been made to me by a
poor blood sausage of human nature and feminine sex, wrapped up in a gift package
and all coloured by carnivalesque ribbons, all fixed up beneath a funny hat, however
glad, besides its author, I would have sought only a strict human relationship of the
type that one can have with a woman of the category “not screwable.” And then I
would have had some doubts on the reliability of those praises.

In what conditions can man take his wishes for realities?

And so dear reader? It never happens to you,

to take for realities the wish to render concrete
certain wishes of yours, especially if they are
too strong. Yes, surely, because we are kneaded of
the same paste. It is one of the misfortunes of
the appetite for existence.

We question our environment in a way as to

be able to use it in the factory of our existence.

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Never obtaining an absolutely certain answer, we
must content ourselves with approximations more or
less reliable and put an end to our doubts to act.

“But so, if we take our desires for

realities, we risk a failure.

– That is true. Other factors intervene. If

the pursued goal is abstract, that is, to say
distant from our senses, if the risks of failure
are feeble, it is very tempting to take those
wishes for solid. Think of the dangers of the
road: as long as you have not seen a serious
accident, you hardly believe, isn’t that so? It is
because the television must show us the dead and
injured by way of a precaution.

– The Soviets’ paradise has lasted less than

a century whereas the Christian one holds on after
2000 years. Now, one was on earth, concrete
therefore, whereas Christian paradise is sheltered
from the curious in an inaccessible, unverifiable
and totally abstract heaven? After 60 years of
efforts, sometimes excessive, the Soviets saw with
their own eyes that their paradise in the making
was only a bi- prison badly kept which smelt of
cabbage, whereas the Christians themselves, after
2000 years, can often dream of their strictly
forbidden Eden.

– You are right. And there is still the

force of desire in the offing.

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 If she is big without however reaching the
summit which constitutes this high expectation,
the desire will find a reasonable way to satisfy
itself. Like this the ordinary Christian will not
rely on a hypothetical paradise to ensure hi s
survival. Above all he will entrust to the
concrete world which he knows: his children, his
heritage, his friends, his country…

But if power of the desire reached the level

of the high expectation, every time that it would
be impossible to satisfy it, our man will have
only the choice between madness and death. Thus,
irrespective of the heavy losses, the inveterate
gambler always believes that he will make up for
it, in other words he takes his desire for a
reality.”

And this is how, all dressed up, without a lifebelt, I set sail with my boat with
my entire luggage on an opulent river. Any swirls? Rapids? Well, well!

Venus herself, in flesh and bones – I am not interested in the bones, but it
seemed that even the goddesses need them – Aphrodite thus was inviting me to the
banquet of the gods. The harder would be the fall precisely without a parachute, when
she would afterwards hurl me down the lower regions of the mortals. Groaning,
moaning, handicapped by the multiple bruises, my eyes which the bright light high up
had upset, incapable from now on to lead me in the half-light where the human world
lived, I begged for death which luckily, was rather too busy elsewhere on our small
planet to be interested in me.

Ah! The bitch! Ah yes, it was about my love. And this is only the beginning.
The bitch! I cannot find again the real taste of life with in spite of everything a good
zest of bitterness, which by climbing on all fours the steep mountain to find again at

95
the peak my idol moved with pity, condescending, and kiss her feet, like a dog
squatting before its master, until she tells me: “Michel, are you sick? Come on! Come
to my arms.”

I was her man. I continued to be so after we tried it out. Pardon me for having
used that indecent term. To make love, it is necessary to be in love, but that is not
enough.

The second important condition, I was to discover it only later, since Jeanne
was careful not to reveal it to me: you must understand each other well. The souls of
the lovers must be in symbiosis so that the two bodies will have the possibilities to
fuse.

It is necessary that the two bodies be made for one another: you know well
that the love of the elephant for the white mouse will always be platonic, that the
frigid woman and the impotent man are far from the flash of orgasm…

The sexual fantasies stemming from the way in which one’s mind has
discovered carnal love must be in harmony. How can they unite themselves, the man
who can enjoy himself only in an express train and the woman for whom the scenery
of a Norman breeding stud is indispensable? How can they manage, he whose
indispensable accessory is the knight’s armour and the woman who can’t reach her
ecstasy if she is not wearing a crinoline dress? Take pity on their misfortune instead
of mocking them!

Part of the technique in the art of making love.

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 And last, even if Mômmanh has turned the
lovers’ bodies into instruments able to vibrate in
unison like a celestial symphony, still one has to
learn music first. This apprenticeship is served
easily as Mômmanh has endowed us with all
necessary gifts. I was initiated into this art
quickly, guided by both instinct and the advice of
Jeanne whose impetuous curiosity had set her on
this road long before me.

When and only when all of these conditions

were met, we finally embarked on our first journey
to the stars. And we held the universe in our
arms. Reciprocally. Yes! Yes! And I felt like
saying “Thank you.” “But to whom?” Certainly not
to Jeanne as the present was mutual. Therefore,
“Thank You, Mômmanh, for having conceived us so
well.”

I was her man. But the other Jeanne who was hiding behind mine and who
had not made herself evident, that one was still not convinced of it. From her point of
view, I had only bitten the bait. I had to strike without delay because, as you know,
the time of the holidays which is nearly always the time of illusions or each can do
what he likes as long as he does not want the moon and if one fancies himself an
eagle, before finding oneself grazed again and sometimes humiliated in the hard
chores of the daily necessities, that respite of the holidays in the hand of the one
thousand and one nights is rather short. Don’t be surprised if I speak of the holidays
when both of us had a job: first of all, we had chosen that job; then it was responsible
for our meeting; finally we still a month of real holidays.

There was therefore well concealed in Jeanne’s head the imperative: it was
necessary that I was solidly hooked before the two of us got back into harness in our
respective and too distant territories.

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 This is how she went about it. And in spite of everything that happened
afterwards. I say it to you: “If that way has to be done again, I will go the same way.”

She says to me: “Do you know that you are handsome, Michel? If you dress
up well, all the women will chase you…” A swarm of pretty women running after
me: a magnificent royal train hooked to the steps of “His Majesty-Myself,” brunettes,
blondes, red-haired, languorous ones, malicious ones, artists, sportswomen, the right
marriageable ones still virgins, to whom I will be teaching everything, beautiful
mature women, experts who will show me new pleasures… my mouth was watering.
But I had to stop drooling for fear of dribbling; because Jeanne did not leave me a
moment’s respite.

“Yes, Michel, you are handsome. But one would say that you do not know.
Hasn’t anybody ever told you?”

In fact, although knowing that Quasimodo had very slim chances of making
love to Esmeralda, I never cultivated beauty as a means of seduction. One mistrusted
it like a plague, in the surrounding countryside where I was brought up.

Every third or fourth summer at the grand communal feast they elected a
Miss Saint-Hilary-of-the-Désert. The queens of my village had a touching beauty,
approximate certainly but natural and sufficiently strong to triumph over the ugliness
brought over by the hairdressers and fashion designers of the village, beauties who
escaped miraculously the massacre which the tough life of the fields inflicted on
them. Those beauty queens of the village never found a husband.

But you, my young contemporary, you belong to an age so distant from that
of my youth that you risk understanding nothing from the habits of that era. Behold
about fifty years ago, if we were not more than halfway between prehistory and the
year 2000, we were not even far away from it. Whereas the average Frenchman of
today lives nearly in opulence, the average Frenchman of those days was poor. The
peasants of my village lived in clogs, on the over-exploited land, without heating or
running water or electricity. Many of the adults, especially the old, were toothless.

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For those country people, without social protection, the medical care was often still
considered as a luxury.

The ephemeral beauties of my village were not short of lovers, but they were
cautious in trying their luck. All those secret wooers shrank from the thought of
sending their beautiful one to dirty herself at the cows’ rear and to see her exquisite
grace mutilated beneath the red faced callosity of the hard work of the land. They also
feared that too beautiful a wife squandered a lot of money and time on futile
appearances rather than dedicate herself to feed the family in the first place, and then,
earn a certain “well-being” that is to say from the property above all. Beauty was then
a luxury. My fellows were too poor to dream to afford it.

My mother, that cunning peasant, half redeemed from the slavery of the
fields, had carefully avoided letting me know that I was handsome. Beside others
induced by the peasant tradition, she certainly had other good reasons for that.

Once, however, once, she made an exception to the rule. I was then about
twenty years old and, from her point of view, I had brilliantly succeeded in my
studies since I had escaped from the world of the little peasants who bogged it down.
I had become a “Sir,” and so she saw clearly that I was not attracting the girls.
Thinking that it hurt me and also that I risked not bringing her any grandchildren
which she was waiting for, she decided in spite of everything to encourage me to
seduce with my good looks: “Michel, don’t you have a lover? A young handsome lad
like you? I am sure that there are about a dozen around you who are waiting only for
you. But if you do not say anything to them, how can you succeed?”

Beauty? The fairies whom I did not know how to seduce had an abundance of
it: they must, therefore, ask for other qualities. Proof: despite my angelic face, nobody
had made eyes at me yet.

Why do women know how to distinguish the men of merit?

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 In fact, I was not far from the truth. If
the majority of women appreciate the good looks of
men, most often, they find that the beauty of
souls counts as well. And one can see a beautiful
woman love a brilliant and generous hunchback. The
probability is the sense of the myth “Beauty and
the Beast.”

Because Mômmanh has endowed them with an

amazing faculty: they are capable of feeling and
measuring men’s merit.

That is done by intuition: like this they

know how to recognize the artist although they are
not necessarily capable of appreciating his works.
After all – or rather, above all – it is they who
choose the father of their children and it is
quite necessary that Mômmanh in her millenary
memory chose a means to help them.

Instinctively, they can recognize beneath the tatters, the errant knight, the
cursed poet, the wise outlaw… There were the eminent experts, blinded by their
prejudiced scholars, discard the revolutionary genius, be it Socrates or Galileo, the
most subtle detail.

I was right when I said to myself “Become a good man and love will come as
well.” I had undertaken to eradicate resolutely the evil which was “blocking” me. As I
went along I had progressed that way, I could read in the eyes and on the lips of some
fairy the outlines of encouraging smiles.

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Spoiling a child causes his misfortune. Why?

What was the evil which had deprived me from

love? Yet another gift from Mômmanh, this time
poisoned!

Yes, remember: in the human existence, the

preference given to the merry troika “Myself,
Here, Now” would have a difficulty bowing in front
of a priority due to the severe trinity “Other,
Universe, Continuity.” Why should Mômmanh have to
be predestine to unhappiness the spoilt children?

The first born and only child of the eldest

of a big united family, my father went to war for
an undetermined time which was over six years, my
mother taken up by all the work of the farm, my
grandparents right next door were in permanent
adoration in front of the child-king, I was
extremely spoilt. When I had a wish, it was enough
– in the order – to give a winning smile, or to
start crying, or to stamp my feet, and I obtained
nearly always what I wanted. Little man, I was
master of my small world.

How good it was!

Consequently, I could never renounce to it

truly, while my universe little by little
broadened itself in the direction of a ll the
infinities. And then, something which resembled a

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miracle happened. At my village school, I wa s
right away the best student, he who was pointed to
as an example for those around. This glory lasted
sufficiently enough for me to catch the illness.

Yes: the “Illness” which kept the beauties

at bay, that from which I suffered to such a point
to call sometimes death, that which caused me so
much disappointment and which, in spite of
everything, revealed itself beneficial since she
permitted me to conceive the present work, the
message which I would like to give you.

After having been praised for a long time as

the best student of my country school, I ended up
by realizing that I owed those compliments to a
particular aptitude: I understood more quickly and
better than the others. I then had the idea that
the intelligence well directed could bring me much
more than the praising of my surrounding. Yes, it
would give me the power to satisfy all my desires:
cure the sick, gain a fortune, seduce the girls,
overcome death, conquer the world… and why not the
universe? My frustrated high expectations of a
spoilt child resurfaced with a happy and an
irrepressible violence. Yes! Yes! Yes! I was going
to be again the master of everything. It was
enough for me to understand everything: it was as
simple as that. And it was like this that I put
myself to the insane task of understanding,
EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING. I wanted –
what am I saying? – I insisted on being a God.

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 You are telling me that to have such a
stupid behaviour, I must have been short of
intelligence. And the gambler then? He whose sick
soul demands a luxurious lifestyle and who, to
satisfy that tyrant, resorts to gambling till he
is completely ruined, the latter is he deprived of
intelligence as well?

Thus, like many insane passions, mine was

formed in two stages. First of all, the spoilt
child who I was, had acquired the need to be
always master of everything. Secondly, with the
discovery of my intelligence, I believed that I
kept the means to satisfy that demand, which from
now on knew no limits.

I was victim of the process which I evoke

soon. We are sometimes condemned to ta ke for
realities some of our desires: those which have
become imperious and destructive passions, high
expectations.

The passion of being God blinded me so much

more than its origin, those high expectations of a
spoilt child, found themselves locked in the
subconscious. In fact, since all those who had
been leaning on me had instilled in me generous
morals of equality, of solidarity, of a struggle
for the prosperity of everybody, my monstrous
selfishness could only express itself under
disguise. I had no problem finding it: it appeared
under the evidence, that the need to understand
everything had to be of service to humanity.

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 I must explain to you now how that drawback
could render me unfit to live.

What is stress? How can stress release the existential

reactions? How is stress indispensable to existence?

Stress commands our existence. I use it in a

general sense given by the Canadian researcher
Hans Seyle, inventor of the concept. He said it
many a time that the stress general syndrome of
adaptation, is indispensable for life and that its
total absence, is death. Therefore, the elements
which release it are not always seriously
traumatizing neither frustrating. Joy can cause it
as much as sorrow.

Stress shows itself when we perceive the

taste or the foretaste whether of deprivation or
of satisfaction: a burn as well as the fear of
being burnt; the taste of the first kiss as well
as the hope of tasting more of them are al l
stress. That arouses the desire which is the voice
of Mômmanh in each of us. She makes herself heard
throughout the day, and even at night during
dreams.

And, guess what boredom is? Simply the

absence of stress.

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 To fight stress man resorts to the tools
which Mômmanh has bequeathed him: the senses to
perceive the environment, an intelligence to
understand it and find the means to avail himself
of them, the tools such as t he hands to ac t
accordingly.

As soon as he concludes that he as a worthy

answer to stress, the human mind orders to pass to
action. If he recognizes a pleasure, he orders to
welcome it and to prolong it, if he sees a
perspective of pleasure he orders to try and
fulfil it.

To obtain a better response possible to stress, what qualities

must man develop?

Let us look for the best process of an

answer to stress!

One must develop knowledge to know how to

act on nature. One must develop the skill and its
extensions which are our tools to subject nature
to what one wants. At the moment of stress, we
must call on these aptitudes.

It is necessary to be able to see whether

the resources we have enable us to respond
properly to the stress. I insist: we must know how

105
to properly assess our capabilities and adopt a
self-confidence that is justified.

At the moment of action, those wh o have

developed an excessive confidence in themselves
will experience some failures. Those who have
developed the opposite shortcomings, the lack of
confidence, will often fail because their actions
are clumsy.

Justified self-confidence: let’s assume that

this quality has been acquired. What happens to
those that are slaves of expectations that are
impossible to satisfy? They will not be able to
believe in their abilities for this impossible
mission; therefore, they will fail.

Let´s go over one or two experiences that

you have surely experienced.

My wife, busy with a crossword, asks:

– How do you spell “Elephant”? I knew it,

but now I’m not sure…

– Elefan, Elephan, elefen? Good grief! Me

neither.

– Write it at full speed, without thinking.

That way it will come to you.

– Without thinking? I see that you don’t

know me. I try anyway… no good!

106
 And I search my memory, I try, I try… and
the more I try, the more the word elephant breaks
up before disappearing into the fog of my memory.

In the end I gave up.

“Come on, let’s cut some wood fo r next

winter.”

I am in the middle of the forest, where

spelling does not interest anyone. Well, guess
what happens to me? Without asking it, my
unfaithful memory gives me the spelling of the
word “elephant.” Now that I no longer need it!

Do you understand what happened here?

The ink that prints the spelling words into

our memory is often pale. If you ask your mind to
find a tenuous memory immediately and without
fail, that is more than it is capable of. It does
not have enough confidence in its abilities so it
panics, it stumbles, and it gives a wrong answer.
If, instead, you ask it without any pressure, it
will easily find the answer. And the spelling of
the word “elephant” is consolidated in your
memory.

Another example?

You have to take a path that is about one-

meter-wide, on the edge of a cliff overlooking a

107
 steep drop. If you fall, you will definitely be
killed.

If the path was at ground level, at the

bottom of the valley, you would have no trouble
following it. However!

Suppose that you absolutely must not fall.

“No! No! No! I do not want to fall down there!” As
no one can give you an absolute guarantee, you do
not trust yourself. Besides, you start to shake…

And so, you say: “If I fall, so what? The

risk of that happening is very small. I know how
to walk, anyway! You just have to be careful, man!
After that, you will be proud of yourself.”

And the obstacle is overcome. “Bravo!”

Instead of having an absolute requirement,

you have adapted your level of desire to your
objective abilities, regaining justified
confidence in yourself; you have then blindfolded
your desire… and the obstacle is overcome.

How does the requirement of happiness transform life into

hell?

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 Ah well! my sick mind was never satisfied
with t he answers, since he demanded the
impossible: the absolute intelligence of
everything, including, therefore, the most
insignificant problem. None of the answers
sketched inspired me with confidence, but it was
necessary for me to act: before opening my flies
to satisfy an urgent need, I could not wait to
know with absolute certainty if it had to start
being opened from the top, from the middle or from
the bottom. Then my actions were so hesitant that
I happened to dirty myself.

And that lack of confidence in the slightest

of my gestures revealed itself every day, over and
over again. It happened often that I could not
speak, my language having become an
incomprehensible mess. It happened to me that I
had difficulty in driving a car, and forgetting
how to swim.

My natural state had become that of a zombie

constantly absorbed by painful problems, I was
incapable of interesting myself in whatever
happened. In spite of everything one invited me to
play, to dance, to discuss, even to eat, I did it
in a mechanical and clumsy way.

It was because as long as I had not

succeeded in pushing my demon, I had not been
allowed to make love. It happened that if an
attempt of a committing smile appeared on the lips
of the girls attracted by my good looks: but then
I found myself quite too far away from the other

109
 side of an invisible barrier, and above all, I was
incapable of communicating the least information
about myself.

However, that was not the last fault which

repelled them; the most patient would have in
spite of everything attempted to penetrate my
secrets, by hoping that their curiosity will be
well rewarded. No, my condemnation without appeal
came from what they had read in my eyes: a
desperate and tenacious aberration, the reflection
of a sick soul, gnawed at by cancer, closed to
life, doomed to disappear in the limbo of
forgetfulness, a limbo which had already started
to swallow its living victim. So, seeing th at
there was nothing to love behind my angelic face,
the beauties kept on going.

Once I had constrained my vice to withdraw itself into forgetfulness, I could

practice the habit of seduction of my era. I was convinced that, in a couple of lovers,
beauty must be the privilege of the woman. To each his role. While playing the
symphony of her body, the woman showed each moment the way to earthly paradise:
while studying, reflecting, working, and struggling… the man derived from nature the
elements which would make a reality of that divine promise. The feminine beauty
was the revelation of the primordial aspirations to which the power of the masculine
creation had to give body. Venus can only be the Muse which inspires the creator:
man

I was a man of my time: that era in which one idolised Brigitte Bardot in the
role of the “ravishing idiot.”

How did I want to seduce? With my intelligence, above all. I believed to have
set myself free from the hole in the countryside which had been my nest, muddy and

110
full of dung, thanks to my superior intelligence. From now on I saw myself actor of a
marvellous world of cities, that world without hindrance which was advancing at
great steps towards the opulence, freedom, conquest of the stars. At least, this is how
I saw it. But if you believe that I scorned my fellow peasants, my brethren, you are
wrong: I was sorry for them and wanted them to be free in due course.

So? Why did I feel my body dissolve itself in happiness when she told me:
“Do you know that you are handsome, Michel!”? But surely, I remember it now. It is
because at the same time, she wrapped me up in a long loving look, like the fisherman
imprisons his fish in his tender shrimping net.

She loved me! Alleluia!

Besides that meant: that my mind is finally free from that cursed concrete
wall, since she reads it on my face which has become again intelligent, curious, open,
and so on and so forth…” I concluded equally that she appreciated what I believed
that my essential qualities were, my qualities of a man: a well-formed intelligence,
open, capable of beautiful performances and a knowledge already well understood
which asked only to develop. She told me yes, surely, she appreciated those qualities
which she had looked for in vain in other men. Why had it taken me so long to come?

Together, we were going to put that into practice and work out feats. She
made me her oracle. God! That was good! Finally a fairy appreciated my merit. At
last a divine accepted to weave her existence with mine! SHE had come down from
the skies to look for me! From now on I would be her master and her slave because it
was like this, that paradoxically I conceived love.

She asked me if I wanted to have children.

– How? If I wished for it? But I wanted it.

– Because you believe that everybody wants to have children? Some don’t
want any of them absolutely.
– I do not understand the latter. But how can they deprive themselves of

111
such happiness?
– Some children, they are not always the joy, you know. And then, one can
have other goals, in his existence.
– It is true. I have not thought of that. But you?
– Rest assured, I want to have children, also. We are lucky.
At that time, I still found it absolutely normal to be lucky. It was another
consequence of the little treats which had filled my childhood. Much later, in our
house in the countryside, there was a period when we ate a cat each year. No, not
stew. In Autumn we used to take in a kitten; he spent a comfortable winter in the
warmth, pampered by all; in spring, he was overtaken by the eagerness to see the
world: he left to explore and disappeared, killed by an environment whose dangers he
did not suspect of. Ah well, when I found it normal to be lucky, I was similar to those
kittens. Fortunately, Jeanne’s education did not have that serious fault of having
given her excessive confidence in life.

– Michel, how many do you want?

– Three.
– But how did you guess? Even I want three.
– It was luck once again. But tell me, why three?
– I have been an only child. One gets bored and risks being spoilt. Two are always
bickering all the time, and then it is not a real family; and then I like better the
number three. Here it is.
– And you, Michel?
– They can play together and help each other. In a case of a fight, they can call their
brothers. And then that would give us a big family when we are old. Finally, it will
increase our chances of having grandchildren.
– Don’t count too much on that. But tell me, you want only boys: and the girls,
what will you do with the girls?
– Oh! The girls…
– Yes, the girls, like me. Do you know what I mean?
– One must…
– I know what one must! But do you want any?
– One does not have a choice. If we have a girl, we must take her.
– We will bring her up to do the housework and the kitchen. She can also iron her

112
brothers’ shirts…
– Stop there, my dear, where are you going with this? You know well that I am in
favour of progress. I defend the equality of sexes.
– The equality for the others, surely. But for you, hey? Can one make a small
exception?
– The girls, when they are pretty and gentle are pleasant. But I think of their future:
they do not have the qualities it takes to make a man at all.
– Ah Michel, tell me that I am dreaming! If they come home pregnant, the only
chance would be to find them a good husband. Tell me if I am wrong.
– Hey…”

I lifted my head. She had gone out to do a stroll around the camp. She walked
with quick steps and it seemed to me that her breathing was halting. She did not take
long to come back, wearing a smile which attracted me irresistibly in her arms. Her
tense body was rather cold.

– Dear, are you alright?

– Yes, yes… Tell me, have you related to me that you have prepared your higher
education in a mixed school?
– Yes.
– Were the girls less successful than the boys?
– No, I have not seen the difference? Ah yes. I see where you are heading. You know
the equality of the sexes, it is all new. So, like everyone else, I drag with me the
remains of the old habits.
– Yes, yes! It does not matter what remains. So what are we going to do with the
girls, if we have any?
– We shall accept whoever comes. If unfortunately… Excuse me! If we have only
girls, well, well… I will love them as boys.
– That is not bad for a start… Oh my, my!
– What happened? Are you hurt?
– Oh my my! I am afraid! Granted that they are normal!
– Ah! It is only that… Certainly they will be normal! Is that a funny idea?

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– That idea gives me nightmares. When I wake up, I no longer want any children. But
what can one do about it? Hey, Michel?
The tone was full of hope. Alas, the knowledge of which I was so proud did
not bring me any solutions to those painful problems.

– I never asked myself the question…It seems to me that no, we cannot do

anything about it. But there are no abnormalities in the family, at least among two
or three generations which I know of and which I have been told of. And in yours?
– As far as I know there is none to my knowledge.
– So you are not sure?
– Not completely. You know, that, that type of accident could happen to anyone. I
have seen some in hospitals. Oh! It is horrible!
– Come on, Jeanne, the risks are minimal. Each time we take the car we can have a
serious accident. Do you think of it?
– No.
– Yet the risks are bigger.
– A fat lot of good that does me! Well! Let’s talk about something else. Our
children will study for a long time. Do you agree?
– Certainly.
– Estelle will become a lawyer. At least if she is not a scientist, a researcher.
– Who is Estelle?
– It is my daughter.
– Ah good. She is mine equally. Our sons also could become engineers, doctors,
researchers, renowned artists. Perhaps I am dreaming.
– So, I dream with you. Since you are a teacher, you will be of great help so that
our children will succeed in their studies.
– I will try. But you have not forgotten that we want equality.
– Yes. And then?
– We therefore want all the young ones to be successful in their studies. And we
shall do our very best to succeed!… or rather. At that moment – there, our children
will have the same chances as the others to be plumbers, architects, cowherds,
swineherds…
– Ah no! not a cowherd or a swineherd! My children will not smell of manure, not
any more of cow pot, besides, not even fish or grub. And they will not have big

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podgy hands filthy with dirty oil all callous like the skin of a crocodile. No, my
children will be “well to do.”
– Ah! Comrade! Tell me that I am dreaming.
– I know! All you are going to tell me, I know it. It is not worthwhile starting it…

We were, at that time, communists both of us. Still another stroke of luck,
no?

– Jeanne, you know the meaning of “freeing humanity”: in the communist

world all men can develop the gifts which, today be dormant in it. Everyone will be
sufficiently educated to understand what is happening on earth. Anybody can be
president, Member of Parliament, mayor, general…
– There will be no wars…
– Ah! That is true… Well… In any case it will no longer be like in our foolish
epoch, where we spoilt millions and millions of talents…
– Mother Lopin will no longer have to wear out her back doing housework when
she becomes a dance star. Father Magloire will no longer earn his living gathering
up old rags when he is the pilot of a spaceship…
– It is easy to caricature. Perhaps their children will know that life.
– And ours? They will do the housework and gather up old rags. Fortunately, it is
not for tomorrow.
– If I understand well, you want all men to be equal below us. Here is a problem…
Besides, even if the Grand Evening does not come soon, the ideal of secular
schooling, is that all the children succeed in their studies, and we will end by
getting there. Don’t you wish so?
– Yes. In the meantime, I shall strive so that our children will have a good
education. You also, surely?
– Yes, obviously…
– As for the others they only have to do likewise. If they expect to find it readily
cooked in their plate, so much the worse for them.
– Nevertheless it is necessary to help them.
– Certainly.
– At last, we agreed. Kiss me, dear.

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– Michel! There is something else which is worrying me. You know that my father
died in a concentration camp. Other relatives, also died in the same way, and even
friends of the family. When I was young, I believed that it was normal to live in
fear.
– And, before, there had been the carnage of 14/18.
– Yes! I would not want my children to die in a war, I cannot take it.
– And if you fear car accidents, what will you do? You will compel our children to
go about in an ox cart? Life is full of risks: you accept it or die.
– Words, that’s all. Hold on, imagine… Oh! It is too hard! If one comes to tell me
that my twenty-year-old son has died. You cannot know! It is impossible to think
of that horror. There are no words. If I must imagine that? I will vomit the whole
world. Oh no! I don’t want any children!
– Let us see, my dear… As you said, they are only words… Have you surely
already chosen plenty of names?
– Wait a little, please… Let me get back to myself.
– Excuse me, dear. Let’s go for a stroll in the mountains if you want.
– It is too late. Besides, I feel better… Michel dear, there is still another thing.
– Yes?
– Sometimes it seems to me that I cannot have children…
– Have you seen a doctor?
– No! I am not talking of that inability. I am thinking of my character. It happens to
me often that I do things I do not understand. Afterwards I reproach myself, but it
is too late.
– Often the subconscious commands you: it is normal. Or rather your will is
perhaps weak: everybody knows that.
– No, it is about more serious things.
– I will understand it if you tell me what it is all about.
– I am going to try. You see, it is not weakness, much less in the ordinary way
because, I have a surplus of will: so when the normal people have one, I have
many.
– Is it a split personality?
– But no! Let me continue, please. You see in this moment I want children, I want
them very badly; ah well, it is possible that tomorrow, I will not want them, with
the same strength.

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– Do you keep changing, inconstant?
– Oh? Something similar. For example, I always agree with the last person who has
spoken. I never manage to keep my promises. But I feel bad about it, you know…
Oh! I fear for our children… You will help me, Michel? Don’t you? Will you help
me, say?
– Certainly, Jeanne. We will find a way to get to the bottom of it.

Do I have to tell you that I took advantage of it, rather cowardly, to hug her
in my arms? What happened next is none of your business: let us draw the curtains…

The sky has become clear again. Jeanne told me again.

– Will you give me beautiful children, say?

– Yes, they will be beautiful like you.
– Beautiful like us. And intelligent, no?
– Intelligent also, and everything and all… Oh! I adore the babies. They are so
cute, with their rose bottoms, I could devour them with kisses.
– I prefer them grown up… And kiss their face! It is very good like that: we will
take it in turns.
– Oh my God!
– What else? What are you scheming with that God in whom you never believed?
– Shall we hope that you won’t spoil them?
– Spoil out children? With the means that we have, that surprises me.
– So much the better Michel! Don’t you think that you would be a little too
overconfident?
– I don’t believe. Each time that one of our children will seem to take a bad turn,
we will find the means to set him right.

If you judge me, I will plead not guilty: in that which remained of my folly as
a spoilt child, I truly believed that my intelligence would bring me the solution to
Jeanne’s suffering as well as our pains.

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 In fact, she had gone into depth much further than my essential question:
“How to make children succeed?” I loved her even more for it. For me, in spite of
everything, they were only ideas: for her they were nearly real, nourished by her
body, her little loved ones already curled down in her flesh. Don’t be surprised: when
we were bent on this problem, Jeanne abandoned all the loving strategy. Besides she
never lied to me on that subject.

Another vital question for our love: the ideology. Just as one can mate with
all his might a parrot and a salamander, one cannot marry a fundamentalist Muslim
with an atheist feminist. In this regard, I have an anecdote.

Odette, one of our friends, had suckled communism with her breast milk after
the 39-45 War, when the Red Star of Moscow was like the Bethlehem star that guided
the Three Kings to the baby Jesus in his crib. Since then, the French Communist
Party, the “Party,” had declined continuously… nevertheless, Odette still clung to her
faith. One day, I had the stupid idea of trying to convince her to join those seeking a
different path. She jumped up, grabbed her things from the couch, gave me a
murderous look and left, slamming the door behind her. A few days later, because she
really was a good girl, she was willing to accept my apologies. She explained to me:
“When you attack the Party, I feel tingles all over my body, as if all of my hair stood
up suddenly, ready to go. Do you understand?”

What is an ideology?

Mômmanh has created us to fulfil her

project, which is also ours: it is necessary to
develop the existence as distant as possible in
space and time. To this end, we need to establish
a plan: for this purpose, Mômmanh has given us a

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brain that can see far, far away. Afterwards, also
thanks to Mômmanh, we have hands with which we can
put this plan into action.

As frail and defenceless newborns, we are

propelled into this mysterious universe, with
nothing more than our insatiable appetite for
existence. Babies, themselves, rely completely on
their parents. The first men, almost as
defenceless, took what little they were able to
take from nature. Then, to calm their anxiety in
this world that is so mysterious and full of
danger, they invented the “Spirits”: it was the
best thing they could find to replace their
parents.

Let us put ourselves in the place of these

early humans. Just to live our life in our small
cabin and its surroundings, we must keep in mind a
map of the area; we must discover the places where
there are animals that can be hunted, where there
are paths and edible plants, which beings can harm
us and which can help us and which can heal our
diseases; we must learn when winter comes and when
spring comes, in what season the young shoots come
out and when to harvest… in short, we must know
our universe. At the same time, we must also
understand it in order to satisfy our thirst for
existence. How is a child made? What makes plants
grow? What causes disease? What goes on in the
head of wild beasts?

To know and to understand: this dual map of

our clan’s territory is already complex, but when

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it needs to be extended to cover the obscure
infinite around us, it becomes insurmountable.

And when, additionally, we must involve a

certain number of our companions, because it is
obvious that we will never get there alone, it is
almost a nightmare.

This becomes the basis for an ideology.

Knowing our environment up to its extreme
boundaries, or rather thinking that we know it, we
see that it is possible to hope.

Really not much, in this time of early

mankind.

So, like the little children that we still

are, we seek to make a good life for ourselves
whilst rummaging through our environment. We soon
discover that there are things that we do not
understand. How are babies made? What causes
disease? Where does the sun go at night? Who
lights up the stars? What happens to the spirit of
a dead person?

Because we really want to continue to

understand the universe, we must now look into the
invisible, i.e. into the dark. So, we create the
most plausible hypotheses to guide our thinking.
“Diseases are created by evil spirits.” “The sun,
at night, sinks into a big hole in the earth. It
travels all night and comes out in the morning in
the east, through another hole.” And we try to

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create a good life for ourselves, eternal if
possible, based on these assumptions.

Why does ideology

rest on the explanation of the universe?

Because ideology must assure us of our

existence in the present, past and future, because
it must enable us to overcome DEATH, it must have
solid foundations: the pillars are useless if they
are planted in the fog and the shifting sands, we
need our knowledge about the universe to be as
perfect as possible.

Karl Marx expressed this basic approach as

follows: “It is necessary to understand the world
in order to change it.”

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 To understand our environment, natural
explanations and the experimental method (a broken
bone repairs itself if it is immobilised for a
long period of time) have always given us the most
reliable answers. But the first men knew almost
nothing of our monumental modern science.

Yet they needed answers to satisfy their

unbearable anguish.

So they imagined the “Spirits”: at the time

this wa s the most rational among all possible
explanations about the universe, in these
prehistoric years that are lost in the far
distance, thousands and thousands of years before
us. They created animism. What else could they do?

“Who gives life to all living beings?”

The explanation they found seemed completely

plausible:

“Just as man is moved by his spirit, so are

animals, and even plants have a spirit.”

This eventually led to the invention of

prayers, offerings, sacrifices, witchcraft, the
immortality of the soul, funeral rites, ghosts,
etc. because it was not enough to understand the
world to guarantee his daily life, it was also
vital to satisfy the existential need for
immortality.

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 How is it that, usually without ever meeting
each other, most of the earth’s peoples have
invented animism?

Because at the time it was the best answer

to their often unbearable existential angst.

When the advance of natural explanation

rendered animism irrational, men invented
polytheism. The latter had soon to give way to
monotheism, however with difficulty. And now, the
latter tries hard to resist the onslaught of
materialism, that is to say the explanation of the
world by way of the natural laws only.

This materialism together with the Universal

Declaration of Human Rights constitutes the
dominant ideology on a worldwide scale. Even
though it dispenses with gods, it can not dispense
with beliefs. What ideology could? Here, for
example, is the dogma that my theory of the
Struggle for Existence contests: “There is no
trace of spirit in matter; it only obeys the laws
of physics and chemistry. During evolution, it was
more and more complex physico-chemical
combinations that created the life from which
spirit eventually emerged.” When he believes to be
holding the proof of long distance communications
between the molecules, Doctor Jacques Benveniste
clashes against this same dogma.

As a result, a lot of scientists are looking

for “the” very complex algorithm(s) that enable

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them to create an artificial soul, in the same way
that one develops a computer program. But if, in
its biological implications, my Theory of the
Struggle for Existence is right, then they are the
ones that are wrong: physico-chemical reactions
are not enough to generate life or, much less, the
spirit: the need for existence must also be there
together with its millennial memory, as installed
in man.

But this is another story. Let’s go back to

the subject of ideology

Its pillars are placed in the best

reinforced concrete: after all the effort it took,
we are not going to rebuild them every day. Our
cathedral is finally completed: it must not move
for centuries and centuries. Its pillars are now
sacred: these are the articles of faith, dogmas.
Often those that question them are even killed:
cursed infidels, cursed apostates, the henchmen of
the devil, lackeys of imperialism etc.

Dogmas are not recognized as such: they are

The Truth. “Jesus said to him, I am the way, and
the truth, and the life.” (The Bible. John 14.6)
That helps us a lot when we must at all costs put
this faith into practice, even sacrifice our lives
so that the sacred cause triumphs.

The evolution of belief through the ages is

reflected in the way the mad were treated.

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 Long ago, it was believed that they were
inhabited by a benevolent spirit and they were
honoured as such, up to the point that they were
asked to tell the future or to heal the sick. Or,
on the contrary, it was thought that they were
possessed by an evil spirit. Later, it was not
much better because they were considered to be
possessed by the Devil himself; they were
therefore tormented to bring out the devil and
sometimes even burned as witches. Over the
millennia and centuries, it has hardly changed;
the Sun King had them locked up; then they were
treated with hot water, cold water, purging,
bloodletting, the straitjacket, electricity,
drugs, the couch, etc. Meanwhile, the Nazis
executed them.

And the cultural evolution continues, of

course. By correcting each error with another
mistake, we hope that we will gradually get to the
truth.

A philosopher that enters an ideology leaves

his philosophy at the door. Because philosophy
questions everything, including the ideological
“Truth.” In churches, whether religious or
atheists, philosophers are replaced by the
guardians of the faith, theologians and other
ideologues.

This is probably due to Mômmanh, who has

predisposed us to seek and receive faith.

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 Most often, the temples of antiquity were
representations of the universe with the heavens,
the earth, the underworld, the visible and the
invisible, the natural and the supernatural. Our
churches are the same. This is a reflection of the
ideology that is our everlasting home, not as a
tomb but as a vessel that travels through space
and time, in the present, past and future.

Ideology is our ship on the ocean of

eternity. If we leave, we become a man overboard
that will disappear forever, forever leaving the
warm safety of the ship and all of his companions.
That is why so many people cling to their faith
and deny the evidence against it. For them to
attempt the great leap, they need at least a
lifeline and the hope of quickly reaching a
stronger vessel.

Can we live without ideology? Live, perhaps;

exist, surely not. That is why each of us has one
in his head.

All the men who are associated with this

plan will increase our chances of success, and
vice versa. Those who do are our brethren; the
others, if they do not do it already, could one
day oppose our ideology: they are, at the very
least, our potential enemies. It is primarily for
this reason that over time th e religions have
evolved from the local to the universal.

Let me explain myself.

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 The first animists believed in the spirits
of their small territory, the jaguar for some, the
bear fo r others, when it wa s not th e cow,
crocodile, sun, fire, and all the holy places,
without forgetting the spirits of ancestors. As
knowledge was gained and as their domain expanded
to take in the neighbouring tribes, which were
sometimes hostile, as the victorious warriors
trampled on their totem poles and masks, th is
first animism was discredited and gradually
developed into polytheism: the Spirits were
separated from nature, where we no longer saw
them, and they became gods. Thousands of years
later we arrived at the age of empires and when
invincible armies crushed them the local religions
showed their helplessness, and from the heaps of
corpses came the need for a universal religion, in
the hope of sealing an alliance between all the
men in the world. And so Buddhism, Taoism,
Christianity, etc. were born.

But let’s go back to the earliest men who

were in the situation of a newborn: they came to
the world with a huge appetite for existence and
they had almost no means to satisfy it. In this
situation, babies rely entirely on their parents.
Therefore, instead of parents, early humans
invented their ideology, probably animism. In this
way, the spirits became their mothers and fathers
and for tens of thousands of years our ancestors
felt too weak to venture out of their protection.
To be quite sure of not going astray, to the
golden rule of “respect for religion” they added
another: “Respect for tradition”: “progress”

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 encountered such resistance that it took
centuries, except in the field of war.

You can see for yourself how the gods took

the place of the spirits before being replaced
themselves by a single, universal god. But they
were still religions – the protectors of man were
still in the supernatural realm.

It is only since the Enlightenment that we

dared to leave this “cocoon” and to venture out
alone on earth. Alone, without the advice or
protection of the gods.

Today, February 11th, 2016, these ideologies

without gods have disappointed a growing number of
earthlings. A lot of them are trying to recreate,
by fair means or foul, the cocoon of the old
religions. May free men find good reasons to hope.

In a family the beliefs are as important as children, sometimes even more.

The gods of the past, from time to time, sold their assistance to men in exchange for
the sacrifice of their beloved daughters and sons. On nearly all over the world, we
have stopped that atrocious deal concluded with fantasies and we have transformed
most of the gods in myths which haunt our museums, but modern ideologies often
demand that sometimes one sacrifices his children, to war for example, or denounce
his son who has become a dangerous criminal.

To look for love for those whose majority of beliefs are conflicting?
Impossible. At least insofar as these beliefs are very important to those involved.
Hold on, here is the story on this subject.

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 A young woman had decided to make love to a Nazi admirer: because he was
handsome, because he was intelligent, because he was an artist… because she liked
every aspect of his character except his execrable ideology. She realised that she
could not come when he was well on the way of reaching an orgasm. Outraged at the
idea of giving him such a present, she told him: “Do you know that I am a Jew?” He
broke off. “Yes, I am a filthy Jew. The Nazis gassed my parents and burnt their
bodies in the flesh fired boiler? And what’s more, did you know that I am a
communist? When the time comes, we shall kill the hideous beast. You, as well, we
shall crush you like a cockroach.” He smiled: “I met your mother this morning.” then
he took his pleasure all alone in an inert frigid body. Because Mômmanh has made
women like this: a woman cannot have an orgasm if there is no love. (I will tell you
later what I mean by that.)

Ah well, on this mined ground of beliefs, once again fortune smiles at us. I
did not have to undertake the arduous task to convert Jeanne. How lucky I was! Ah
but! Like myself, that magnificent flower of the suburb was “fighting” to render the
world better and make out of the world the “paradise of workers.” She knew how to
proceed just as much as I did: one only had to follow the “Party” directives protesting
from time to time – the rebellious French spirit obliges! – against such or such an
error which will take some time to be corrected thanks to the “Democratic Centrism”
and the vigilance of the “Comrades.” Ah! The good times, the marvellous era when
our spirits, up till then blind, opened themselves dumbfounded, on the “Radiant
Future.”

To exploit us better, to make us kill one another in their wars “to crunch us
better, my child!” the dominant classes had always known how to conceal the truth,
but this was all over. Like me, surely, Jeanne read “Humanity: the Newspaper which
said the Truth.” It is true that we did not read the same pages: I studied the articles
concerning the situation on the “front for the struggles of classes” and the strategy to
adapt; most frequently Jeanne contented herself with the crosswords. In any case, we
were both well informed and it was useless trying to deceive us.

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 Although our own standard of living has noticeably improved and there was
no unemployment, France was the country on the way to impoverishment. – Yes, yes!
It was written in the “Human,” for those who could read.

So our looks moved to pity looked towards the happy “Soviet Countries,” the
paradise that was being built where thanks to the enlightened government of the
communist party, everything was more successful than elsewhere: the kolkhoz, the
tractors, the lorries, the dams, the industrial complexes…were gigantic, the cows
were fatter and gave more good milk so that the happy children of paradise could be
more beautiful still, the perfectly well-formed athletes were the best in the world, the
glorious Red Army was invincible…

The summer evening after the opulent harvests of the blond ears of corn, the
young and beautiful kolkhoziene labourers in good shape at the end of their working
day put on their traditional costumes so rich in colours, then they danced and sang till
the late hours of the sleepless night, their sometimes devilish music, sometimes
tender and languorous, the popular music, surely the most beautiful in the world.

The U.S.A. remained the principal “reactionary” force which was delaying
the triumph of communism and the happiness of humanity all over the world. But the
hot-headed Khrouchtchev had just launched a challenge to the grand Yankee puppet:
in some year – ten or twenty, I do not know how much – the paradise of the workers
would have surpassed the American giant in every field.

The “Dictator of the Proletariat” was opening the doors to freedom: it was the
real democracy while that of the liberal countries, ours, was false. There, I found it
hard to believe: that resembled too much to the “Mystery of the Holy Trinity” of the
Christians: one had to accept the absurd. He who followed scrupulously the directives
of the Central Committee was a free man whereas an individual of my type wasn’t: I
had the tendency to think only with my head, then, try to share my convictions, which
were too frequently out of the “Party Line.”

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 A section secretary, irritated, once told me: “It is necessary to shoot all the
intellectuals!” It was precisely during a little trip to the soviet paradise. It is true that
the comrade was upset by the general mediocrity which we discovered, similar to a
great upsurge of inedible mushrooms; it is true that he was dumbfounded because a
young and beautiful soviet comrade, our guide at Bakou, in Azerbaidjan, was wooing
him in the hope of gaining a ticket for the capitalist French hell; it is true that in the
group we were two or three intellectuals who asked un reasonable questions, going as
far as to call into question the dogmas; it is true at last that we had drank a lot.

Nevertheless, an acid idea wedged itself in the corner of my mind: “In the
marvellous Country of the Soviets, would my place be at the gulag?

But when I had met Jeanne, fifteen years earlier, our faith was still roughly
intact. Should total freedom follow the advent of the communist society, the ultimate
stage in humanity’s painful history, after that period of purgatory where the “shock
workers” were building the socialist economy, protected by the “dictatorship of the
proletariat.” That was the earthly paradise to conquer. There would no longer be even
the state! You will realise! Even though there still, I had my doubts, my faith had its
roots hooked to the three matrix of the future, to the three hopes that swelled my
heart: equality for all men, the universal peace, and the fortune for all the world.

One day, I saw my father, a small peasant, grovel himself in front of “Our
Master,” Mr The Owner of the farm; he even gave him the most beautiful pears of the
garden, those which I hoped to treat myself with. In the world which the comrades
were going to build; that did not happen: the land belonged to those who worked it,
the equality would no longer be but a word; none would have to kneel down, each
one would have his seat at the banquet of existence.

You have noticed those people, our fellow creatures in spite of everything,
settled down on the front box seats of the grand theatre, those people, who even when
there are free seats, trample on our fingers when they try to climb the social ladder. In
communist language, this cohort of enemies of the people, have a name: they are the
dominating classes, the responsible for human destitution. Ah well, in the new world,

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there would be no more talents, even geniuses, still-born, stopped at the bud, as much
by the will of the dominant classes as by the lack of teaching, of money, of time…
Above all on earth millions of creatures would arise who, from their audacity, would
transport the entire humanity in a marvellous dream: the dream which she followed
after the first stumbling steps in the hostile obscurity and which so often had taken a
nightmarish turn, that old dream finally became a triumphant march.

We live a transitory period, but the end of History was near. Because,
according to the prophet Karl Marx, History was only the Struggle of the Classes with
all its sudden new developments: the free men against the slaves, lords against churls,
capitalists against proletariats… But the dominant classes knew their last misfortune:
capitalism. Soon, thanks to communists, the whole world would be delivered from the
yoke of capitalism; then, one after the other, the liberated countries would build a
socialist economy, this thanks to the dictatorship of the proletariat which will be
merciless towards the saboteurs, those vile flunkeys of the nasty capitalists. Those
true democracies, not the false ones like ours, the popular democracies subjected to
the enlightened dictatorship of the proletariat would give birth to the communist
society. Then, the “Struggle of the Classes” known also as History would come to an
end like a car which breaks down when there is no petrol, because there will not be
any more classes. In that world from now on without “History” a new man would rule
definitely wise and good.

My friend, you know that “the happy people don’t have any history.”

No more brigands no more crooks; the rare conflicts will be settled by means
of wisdom: the howling pains of the tortured bodies, the incurable pains of the dead
who parted prematurely, the despair of those who look to start a new life amid the
fields of ruins, all those horrors will be only terrible memories of a past history. There
will be no state again longer, imagine! Ah yes, since the state serves only to assure
the domination of a class, one would no longer need it. The sky will be often blue, the
earth will be our garden, all the world will be beautiful and will remain young for a
long time, all the world will be entitled to a refined cuisine, to the emotion of arts, to

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the pleasure of the mountains and the sea, to horse-riding, and yachting… Everybody
will be rich! And what else still?

What remains of these loves?

What has caused the fall of communism in the Soviet bloc?

So, an ideology rests on the explanation of

the universe. And it is always false, given the
inadequacy of our knowledge. She is always wrong
and however its articles of faith must be
unchangeable. How the heck break the deadlock?

Quite simple: through freedom. When free,

men can search for other ways. Some won’t fail to
use that permission and from time to time, one of
them will find a way to improve the ideology.

Now, the communists did not want this

“bourgeois freedom” because, like many others
before them, they believed to hold the definite
“truth.” In fact, they believed to hold the
scientific explanation of history, what they
called “historic materialism.” That science was
not debatable, but to be put into practice. It was
the good medicine for the pains of the people and
one had to leave the good doctors do their work.
That was what led to t he dictatorship of the
communist party.

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 We can say that the communist ideology was a
prison for the mind, just like the Church was for
a long time and that silenced Giordano Bruno,
Savonarola, Galileo and many others. We will come
back to this matter later. Let’s just say that it
was a closed ideology. To open it and allow it to
evolve, it would have needed two elements: freedom
and the opportunity fo r party ideologues to
question the dogmas without undermining them
unnecessarily, as the Chinese communists have
managed to do through their pragmatism.

To make things worse for soviet communists,

the orthodox historic materialism teaches that the
socialist economy is the best when it has produced
only generalised mediocrity, if not poverty.

The liberal economy rests heavily on the

selfishness and the socialist economy claims to be
altruistic. Knowing the big love of man for his
ego, you know why capitalism triumphs. In a
capitalist country, a company owner, normally
makes his fortune by making his employees produce
maximum wealth. Like this, by working for his dear
“Myself,” he contributes to the enrichment of the
country. In a communist country, a company owner
usually makes his fortune by pleasing the rulers,
by not vexing his employees and by embezzling the
wealth of the state. Thus even he working for his
dear “Myself,” he contributed too often to the
impoverishment of his country.

I must admit despite everything that the

socialist economy has sometimes produced

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satisfactory results, which relaunched all of the
hopes placed in it. Looking more closely, I can
see that there were certain short periods of time
when patriotism was essential for the survival of
the nation. Thus the Soviets worked very hard
during the Second World War, when they fought
virtually alone against the Nazi army: women
worked eighteen hour days at the factory. And,
after the liberation, when it was time to build a
better world on the ruins of the old, the people
of the communist countries still made great
efforts. Then, gradually, as the danger receded,
man’s favourite characteristic, selfishness,
showed that its time had come. And this is why all
of the socialist countries sank into widespread
mediocrity, with the large-scale production of
junk and scrap of all kinds.

In a communist dictatorship, the economy was

not the only thing that suffered. Still on account
of his foul preference for the “Myself-Here-Now,”
the men in power ended up by giving way to the
temptation of attributing to themselves all sorts
of privileges. It is because it is necessary to
establish an opposition.

Absence of freedom, absence of opposition,

absence of liberalism in economy: here are the
three principal causes of communist failures.

So much needless suffering for some errors!

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 “This is rather abstract, practically
unreal, you are saying.

– well, rack one’s brains, now that you know

the price of the error. When one governs the men
irrespective of how he does it, one obviously
obtains nothing. What happened to the people that
our generous actions helped to liberate? All those
people of the Soviet Empire? And the Afghans? And
those of ex-Yugoslavia? Are those happier than
those of the Chinese empire w ho still “groan”
under the communist yoke? What is your share of
responsibility in their hardship?”

Isn’t it high time to make an effort to

understand history in order to try perhaps to
control that dangerous wild horse?

Today it is evident: the framework of the big Moscow circus was shoddy.
The top has collapsed, a sorry shroud for the dead ones of the gulag and the tortures,
awaiting the judgement of history. And now that the country of the Soviets had fallen
apart on its own, without anybody touching it, like a gigantic cheese soufflé, what
remains of the marvellous project that has become a monstrous enterprise?

And those comrades whom (Jeanne and I) have loved so much, those who
have found themselves unsuspected resources, who have given all their time, their
energy, their love, as well as their life? In the communist epic, those brave men will
they become damned in History?

Certainly not! They will carry the burden of their errors, but they will carry
also the merit for having tried. In wanting to construct a world for the future, they
have set the house on fire. During that time, some of their brothers devoted
themselves exclusively to making their wealth work for them.

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 Do those who at the battle of Stalingrad have saved us from the Nazi hell,
deserve to be condemned to hell in our memories?

Honour those who rose up to save us from the quicksand. By trying we will
certainly succeed.

And what about China in this story? China, this giant that seems determined
to become the world’s greatest power, this empire that was born at the same time as
the Roman Empire but that is still standing, more bravely than ever, is still run by the
Communist Party. Whilst the Soviet Union was trying to break the deadlock by
introducing democratic freedoms amongst people that did not know how to use them,
thus speeding toward chaos, China adopted the market economy whilst trying to
control it with an iron fist. This is what it calls a “socialist market economy.” It has
managed to pull off a remarkable economic take-off. Is its Communist Party, after
abandoning the socialist economy and many other dogmas, still Marxist? By that, I
mean that I wonder if it continues to seek a materialist and scientific explanation of
history so that the Chinese can become capable of governing themselves. Is it heading
towards the type of enlightened and open ideology that I call for with all my strength
in this book? I can only hope that this is the case.

Why does an ideology need to be open?

I think that China has found the tools to

bring communism out of the deadlock that it had
fallen into in its ancient culture. I see two old
traditions at work: the open ideology, which I
advocated, and good old Chinese pragmatism.
Regarding the first, the cult of the emperor has
always accommodated other ideologies such as

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Taoism, Confucianism an d Buddhism whilst our
Christianity was hermetically sealed. Regarding
the second, it is perfectly illustrated by
Deng Xiaoping re-introducing the market economy:
“It doesn’t matter whether a cat is white or
black, as long as it catches mice.”

An open ideology has two qualities:

tolerance and the opportunity to question it.

Catholicism and the type of communism that

has developed here are two ideologies which were
very intolerant when they were in power, and there
is no evidence they have changed. They did not put
up with any competitors, which they persecuted,
sometimes with great cruelty; moreover: “What harm
could be done by rooting out evil?” In doing so,
they are prohibited from changing by the whip of
criticism, thus depriving themselves of the
improvements that other people’s knowledge could
bring them. But what ideology has a definitive
knowledge of reality? They were therefore locked
in the prison of their convictions, and their
people with them.

Is this the price to pay for making dogmas

solid? No, on the contrary, it’s foolish. It is
foolish to deny the progress that new knowledge
can bring. Thus, we have made human sacrifices,
which a re as useless as they are cruel, for
millennia. What makes it even more foolish is that
it is a straitjacket for the mind that is not
allowed to venture off the sacred trail, precisely

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 where the sources of the most fruitful discoveries
are to be found.

And I will not speak of the j oy of

explorers!

The second quality of the open ideology is

the ability to question it. But how can this be
developed without undermining the pillars of
faith, the sacred dogmas. Because, remember, no
more than a man can rebuild their house every day,
can they continuously question their faith; and
this is all the more true since, apart from
philosophers, most people have multiple
obligations that leave them little time to think.

How can this dilemma be resolved?

Quite simply. That people quietly go about

their business and keep the simple faith.
Meanwhile, intellectuals and especially
philosophers explore the universe in search of new
knowledge; they are free to venture outside of the
boundaries established by dogma.

Let’s go back to that epoch bursting with hope. Oh yes! I was a communist
and so was Jeanne, my radiant flower of the red suburbs. Wasn’t it marvellous?

We were for so different reasons, but Jeanne, subtle fly, was careful not to let
me know. She did not want to sacrifice her whole life to the “Party” anymore than I
did. Both of us, while waiting for the workers’ kingdom to come, wanted to share the
pleasure which our capitalist society was offering already and fit into its promises
which seemed within arm’s reach: earn money, travel, build our house… Besides,

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Jeanne had heard, well beneath my words of a fanatic activist, that I was a potential
turncoat and she accepted it. Didn’t we agree on the essentials, that is, on the equality
of men, the need to keep wide open the mind, the research of natural explanations for
everything. It was enough. Finally, nearly.

I was a flying seed, swept off the compost that had nourished it, in search of
new soil in which to plant its life. Born in the heart of a small Catholic peasant
family, educated by the school of the Republic, I was deeply attached to the ideal of
equality. I had arrived at the Communist Party because the explanation of the world
according to Marx had fascinated me. In particular, he believed to have made a
science of history reliable enough to draw practical applications out of it: guiding
towards a definite goal humanity towards a radiant future and I liked that a lot.

“Understand the world to transform it,” had said Marx. See how it complied
with my obsessive desire: “Understand the world to master it.”

The will to understand: when she hasn’t got like me a neurotic character, here
is what characterises the intellectuals. Nothing surprising so if, the following day of
the Second World War, there were thousands like me, the historians in front, who
became more or less communists. After, the former after the others, nearly all
withdrew, often on tiptoes, like me.

But I was still far from this disruption.

Jeanne, she was still living on her native soil and it continued to nourish her:
I have already told you, she was a flower of the “Red Suburb.”

The alleged scientific history, materialism at times dialectic and historic, did
not interest her. She had been breast-fed on communism. Besides, she had become
attached to it through all the martyrs of the family, the heroes of the Résistance, her
father above all, a victim of the decree “Night and Fog,” whose body as well as the
memory of the painful day which followed his arrest, had deliberately been lost in the
Nazi hell. “Nacht und Nebel”: that sounds very nicely for those who do not know.

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 So, she came from the “working class,” and I, from that of the poor peasants.
We were genuine children of the proletariat, we did not belong to the capitalist class
and its flunkeys. Well-born, free from stubborn vices which the bourgeoisie education
instils in their own children rendering their souls black in the new world which we
help to build up, we belonged to the new nobility, the ones which, in principle, should
exercise the “dictatorship of the proletariat.” We were the incarnation of a grand
monument in Moscow which we revered, at the time, as one of the most beautiful in
the world: “The Worker and the Kolkhozeau.” We fulfilled the union of the sickle
and the hammer.

However, our capital of nobility was already seriously chipped off: of good
birth, certainly, we had just entered into the bastard category of civil servants, and
among the least honourable, too, those who did not work with their hands. We did no
longer have the right to be called workers. To aggravate our case, we had chosen to
be intellectuals, suspects prone to heresy. But we were not conscious of that
discrimination, that had just been sketched, and we were singing at the top of our
lungs:

“Stand up my blonde, let’s sing in the wind,

Stand up my friends!
It is going towards the rising sun,
Our country.”

The worker and the Kolkhozian, the sickle and the hammer: the hammer can
serve to forge the sickle. I hadn’t thought about it yet. Ah well, I did not take long to
discover it.

I have already told you: at that period of casting off of our love, our two
experiences appeared made to complement one another like two halves of an
extremely complicated puzzle. Our harmony seemed so perfect that I was nearly
certain of having found the only woman I could love in the whole world, the one I
had been looking for a long time. The “Unique” one amidst two billion others, the
“Woman of my Life.” Ah but! How lucky!

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 What are the conditions of a great love?

There are plenty of us who feel the illusory

certainty of having finally met the “Unique.” It
is probably a trick, another one, which Mômmanh
plays on us. She must have inscribed this in our
genetic code: “If you meet a being of the opposite
sex which you like immensely, you will feel for
him from now on an attachment as strong as for
your father and mother.” Now, aren’t father and
mother quite unique in this world? No?

A long time ago, in her memory, Mômmanh

discovered the benefits of sexual reproduction.
She let it have a place of honour, very near to
her, endowing it plentifully with both desire and
pleasure at the same time.

Recently, in her human memory, Mômmanh

realised that even when it has nothing to do with
reproduction, love is beneficial. So, she
installed it in an ideal position and endowed it
as if it were the dearest of her children. She
gives the most beautiful gifts to those lovers
whose existential qualities complement each other.

What does that mean?

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 Among human beings in which they recognise
their sexual complement, humans look for the one
that will enrich their existence the most. For
example, they can look for strength, beauty,
intelligence, wealth, power, health… and more! And
more!

But, let’s suppose that the ideal being

possesses these qualities without attaching any
importance to them. Let’s suppose even, for
example, that they are rich and that money
disgusts them: they will soon lose their fortune.
Conversely, if money is a value for them, they
will do anything to gain as much as possible. We
can say the same thing about all of the qualities
of the beloved. If they do not care, if they are
not supported by values, then they could leave at
any time.

They must have, in the first place, the same

values. Otherwise, their alliance will be as
temporary as the Americans and the Taliban against
the common Soviet enemy.

The moral values come first, but there are

also others. So one couple might give a lot of
importance to culture and another to horse
breeding. These other values, even when they take
the form of passions, must remain secondary in the
name of morality, but this is not always the case.

Assuming this is to be the case, it is not

necessary that lovers have the same tastes. If

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both of them adore arts, for example, one can love
the baroque and the other the classical style, one
painting and the other music, the important thing
being to help and complement each other as best as
they can. If they both appreciate th e good
cuisine, one can like preparing the dishes and the
other washing the dishes, one can love jam and the
other cheese. It is necessary therefore that, in
their preferred roles, they complement each other
harmoniously, the way Mômmanh has conceived them:
one nourishes the future baby in her womb, the
other protects them.

And this is not all. Having agreed on their

existential desires, values and tastes, they must
also provide the resources to achieve these
desires, otherwise they will remain just painful
dreams. Candidates for love must possess all of
the qualities that it takes f or this: beauty,
intelligence, strength, courage, culture, etc.
This should not be the first condition, but it is
nevertheless the most important.

Love is like a trade. No! Not of the type

“I’m selling my ass.” A sort of exchange where,
rather than swap, one shares essential assets.
Each shows to the other what they have brought and
the two candidates negotiate for a long time: “It
is not enough. – I don’t like this at all. – Add
this and that thing…” When each one is satisfied
of the deal, love, which by then has gone to their
heads to the point of overwhelming them, begins to
strengthen the ties forged between the two. Soon

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enough these ties will become too strong that it
will be very difficult and painful to break them.

So, the time has come to proceed to the

first signature of the contract. For practical
purposes, it is better to do that in a good bed.
It is there where Mômmanh gives her present, when
the lovers feel an outburst of joy. A spray of
joyous sparks is produced inside them. It goes
reaching for the stars. They are under the
impression that they ar e delivered from their
wretched “Myself,” melted one into the other at
first, then together into the moving universe. Can
they have joined Mômmanh? Perhaps have they found
a window on which Buddhists call “nirvana”?

Love is a business, we have said, but it is

a very special trade. It is not carried out with
money as you can not buy a feeling, especially the
feeling of love. Still, money is taken into
account in the love market: those that have it
have another quality to add to their credit.

The love fair is in full swing in spring and

it lasts throughout the year.

At the love fair, men are looking for a

goddess. She must have beauty that will illuminate
his path, she must also be sexy and enjoy making
love, she must embody work, intelligence,
inspiration, motherhood, she must, she must, she
must, etc. It is his turn now. At the love fair,
the woman is looking for the God that will fulfil

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all of her desires tirelessly, nothing less. You
know that certain qualities are required by
everyone: beauty, knowledge, courage, humour, etc.

But there is no god or goddess at the love

fair, that does not exist. So the customers will
simply look for the best they can find, which
display the best existential qualities. A young
woman that is beautiful, rich, intelligent, active
and cheerful will be in high demand. From her
multitude of suitors, she will choose a young man
that is handsome, rich, strong and inspired, that
knows how to banish sadness with humour. And the
others will continue to sigh if they wish. The
most beautiful people will pair up with the
beautiful people and the pathetic ones will just
have to find their happiness with those that are
left behind. That is what they usually do.

However, to increase their chances of

pairing up with a beautiful partner, they may also
try to acquire the skills that they lack. This is
also what most people do. They understand that if
you ask for a lot in love, you must also give a
lot. And in what one offers the beloved, it is
necessary that the concern to please the other
outshines the concern of himself.

All of this brings us to the obvious fact

that you already know, of course: to have any
chance of achieving the love of your dreams, you
must surpass yourself time and again. Otherwise,
you will have to make do with the leftovers that
nobody else wanted. This is the most important

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 rule of the strategy of love, which is so
pervasive that I forgot to mention it at the
beginning.

This is how love elevates men.

At the love fair, then, nobody has found the

carnal divinity of their dreams. Amongst the
limited choices that exist, everyone must make do
with what they are capable of paying for in the
currency of love. Everyone should feel frustrated,
but this is not so because the feeling of love
works miracles.

Why is the pleasure of love inscribed in our heredity?

To increase my strength thanks to my other

half, to elevate myself through the competition
for love: here are the two perfect ways of
enriching my existence. Mômmanh knows it, and she
gives the best of her rewards to the best lovers.

What probability is there for two hearts in search of love to discover right
away that they complement each other best? None! Even you are right in thinking that
the negotiations of love will inevitably be prolonged and punctuated with crisis.
Besides, very often, they are broken off prematurely. How could I believe that we
were a chosen couple on the verge of joyfully climbing the heavens without even
stopping to take our breath?

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 Ah well, can you bear to hear for a short while this symphony of the happy
idiot?

I wanted to leave for Black Africa. Discover there another world, mysterious,
new, simple, amidst an exotic and intact nature, an admiring grateful, friendly…
world where I would bring progress in return for a very comfortable salary. Thanks to
what I learned about the benefits of education and the equality of men, we were going
to achieve remarkable feats in Africa. Ah but!

Ah well, Jeanne had the same intentions. She had waited to meet me to fulfil
them. Many years later, I learned that she had never thought of expatriating before I
talked to her about it.

We kept on knitting together our two existences: the agreement was perfect,
the more delightful the more our beings melted into a happy couple.

I had been thinking of the big rustic house we were to buy later on, in the
country, in the middle of a large park, not too far from the sea and close to a town
steeped in history, a town of reasonable size so long as its centre of culture was well
equipped with necessary facilities. There, our children would grow up harmoniously,
nurtured by nature, culture and freedom. There, at our home, our friends would be
warmly welcome thanks to my charming wife who would do the housework,
shopping, and cooking. Our material comfort being thus assured, I would devote
myself to filling the leisure of our guests generously: I would offer them games and
excursions, I would start gripping discussions on the dialectic materialism, for
example. I would direct the experience and together we would weave some
unforgettable moments. The big house in the countryside will be the estate where our
group, like the club of the Jacobins, would apply itself to rebuild a world of our
liking.

Perhaps I would also do the washing, at times.

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 Ah well! You have guessed; of course Jeanne had been dreaming of such a
country-house life without servants. It was marvellous!

Each stage of our mutual exploration this brought an unexpected revelation

and the fusion of our beings went on, sparkling like a diamond, a delight, subtle,
delicate, elegant, strong, perfumed, tonic…exquisite! in a word. Ah! The good times!

I am greedy. And I was hoping to become by dint of practice a refined and

happy gourmet. The method was simple: for years on end, I would taste and compare
the exquisite savours that I had not been able to treat myself to so far. By sheer
determination, as time went by, the sensitivity of my taste buds grew sharper. And the
moment would come when a beautiful culinary orchestration would carry me with
emotion as far as the paradise of gourmets. Thus, when your soul has finally opened
up to the music, a symphony of Mozart brings tears of joy to your eyes. Thus you will
find yourself drifting in the starlit infinite ocean like the blue seaweed. No?

That put in current language: “To have one’s head in the clouds.”

However, I did not envisage at all learning to cook, which, in my mind

nowadays, has been improper: to each his role! Heaven had just sent me the cook.
Therefore I was expecting my love to prepare tasty dishes; surely, because of her
diets she could hardly taste them, but I would tenderly praise them, and even in
public. There you are! As regards this, a childhood memory has come back to me.

My grandfather was angry at my kind grandmother and, out of the window,

he threw her evening meal into the mud of the yard: a bowlful of soup. Bread soaked
into a lard stock served with garden vegetables: it was this same peasant soup which
he used to eat twice a day; but, that evening, according to what he was saying was
certainly an exaggeration, it was revolting. Well, that would not take place in my
house.

That my loved cooked for me seemed as natural as breathing and, besides,

Jeanne showed a lot of enthusiasm at this idea. There you are! She even knew how to

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make my mouth water when describing her specialities, certainly delicious, but whose
name I have forgotten, even though its mere mention makes my mouth water.
Whereas I did not ask her for anything, she had promised to treat me to that dish
which had to be doubly delicious, because prepared with love and on wood fire.

I hope to have the opportunity one day to taste it.

She shared all my tastes, approved all my plans. I loved her more and more
until the moment when she told me: “But so, I’ll have him always breathing down my
neck!” I don’t know why, despite all my love, that perspective gave me fits of
anguish. I told Jeanne about it, and it made her laugh.

– Locked up for life, the two of us alone, in a bubble, warming ourselves by the fire
of our love? But soon there would be no more fire to burn!
– Closely knit one to the other like Siamese twins? No, love must not be a
disability.
– Oh! What horror! Tell me, Michel dear, you will never be far away from me will
you? that I can call you if I need you.
– I will do anything possible, Jeanne dear.
– Tell me, Michel, you will not take advantage to go and chase girls, hey? You
promise me that, Michel? Besides, if one of those silly geese tries to pick on my
man, I will skin her!
– Then I shall have to bring you oranges in prison, my dear…

Petanque ranked first among the activities which I wanted to practise without
Jeanne. At the time, that game was part of a series of leisure activities where the
presence of a woman was inconvenient: the bar, the sports events, the tierce well
sprayed, hunting and fishing… A “good” woman wasn’t supposed to drag in male
company, and then she had quite enough to do at home. Therefore, from time to time,
I would go for a game of petanque with friends as keen as I am. I would not fail to
report to Jeanne honestly, the good throws which I would have succeeded or missed,
as a marksman, as a checker or as a strategist: she would know how to appreciate.

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 I also contemplated going fishing. Like the intrepid hunter of the prehistoric
time, I would brave the dangers of wild nature while, in the warm hut, my staunch
companion would watch over our little ones. And I would bring home triumphantly a
basketful of wriggling fish and throw it at her feet. – On second thoughts, it seemed
to me I had better not throw it. And I would be happy therefore to just put it down. –
and while my Jeanne would be busy gutting, washing, cooking the product of my
fishing, our laboriously earned food, I would be gladdening her heart with the
exploits worthy of Ulysses, letting her know how I, “Sly Fox,” thanks to an intimate
knowledge of nature combined with a lot of slyness, I could have succeeded in
bringing back big catches. And there once again, she would know how to appreciate
it. Certainly she would not wear a collier of the teeth of my most beautiful pike, but
she would at least recognise in me a fine fisherman and a friend of nature.

I also wanted to reserve a lot of time for my intellectual research as well as,
every now and then, hours on end to walk cogitating reciprocally. You cannot have
forgotten that I had made it my mission to do the world all over again?

While I would be occupied with my personal activities, Jeanne would be able

to devote herself to hers. In the first place she would take care of her body and of her
beauty, and I approved of it unconditionally. She would like this attend various
places: the gym, the swimming pool, the hairdresser and the beauty salons, boutiques
and shops… I discovered that that daily artistic creation is time-consuming and
requires a lot of money: it is the price to pay for the evening star to go on shining and
I accepted it with all my heart, on condition that she did not encroach on the time
devoted to priority activities.

As for the rest, except, of course, for the occasional visit to a painting
exhibition, Jeanne did not have other personal passions to satisfy. While I would be
away, she would be watching over the brood and preparing a welcoming nest for my
return.

At the holiday camp, remember, she was the administrator and I the driver.
We spent a lot of time together, in the delivery van, on the mountain roads. Did the

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grand scenery inspire us? It seems so. We talked a lot, making our existences flow
one towards the other like two streams.

It is like this that some of the fields where our common tastes lay, were
explored: the trips, the cinema, reading, music, lectures, life sciences, gardening…
We did not risk boring each other! Ah yes, even gardening! If she did not like ruining
her beautiful hands by working the land, at least she would appreciate the pretty
flowers that I would be growing, and she would be delighted to peel the vegetables of
the garden.

I told her about my family, my friends and she did the same: there still, our
understanding was perfect. Our two existences fitted exactly, like two parts of a torn
portrait. It is impossible: I should have known better and be suspicious. What do you
think? I was literally ravished.

Yes. This is exactly how, from the top of my twenty five immature years, I
was living Love. And now when the excess of maturity drags me to the grave, our
love is no longer the awakening from a dream. Alas, time and again it had been
threatened, scratched, brutally hurt, but it is still alive, standing firmly on its roots like
a garden which one revived on the rubble of a battle field. There is a tomb in this
garden. The price of our mistakes is heavy: we shall never finish paying it.

You know one must not go waging war without a good preparation: ah well,
the same goes for love, especially when one must have children.

During those long breaks of those summer days we used to love climbing up
to some high mountain pasture, on the edge of a forest, along a small mountain
torrent where it formed a sparkling cascade. Here I took an icy shower that irritated
all my muscles and compelled me to run a little on the slope: thus I satisfied the
desire which overcame me and my boundless energy. Calmed down, in great shape, I
had just stretched out in the sun, in the thick grass of the pasture, close to the
marvellous peak of the flesh.

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 I learned from her pretty mouth from where only pearls and kisses could
come out – Not lies in any case! – I learned that which I had been doubting a little but
which nobody, besides my mother, went in to the trouble of telling me. I can well
repeat it here where false modesty is out of place: I am very intelligent!

That is not evident and only a subtle mind can notice it. In fact, before
speaking, I look for a long time for my words, so long that my interlocutors, run out
of patience, express themselves instead of me or change the subject. You have
understood that one rarely lets me speak. Under that deceitful guise, Jeanne had
immediately been able to perceive my immense intellectual qualities and told me so
straight forward, taking spontaneously in our couple the place which I judged as
naturally hers: she would ask for my advice as if I were a benevolent teacher and she
would wisely put into practice my enlightened opinion. Ah! A sly minx. She had
known how to discover the best in myself. How I loved her!

At the touch of her tender skin, I felt warm waves of happiness which
radiated all over my body. Some parts were more sensitive than others. She told me
that she felt the same thing and I asked her:

– Does an electric heater have the same feeling when the current is switched on?
– To know it, it is necessary to teach it to speak.” she answered smilingly.

Ah but! What a wonder? What have I done to deserve this?

She revealed yet another thing, this time, I ignored completely. Ah yes: I am
brave. I could hardly believe it. There still, it is not evident. It is a quality that one
shows in the face of danger. I was not even convinced that she was right: so much
worse, I accepted the compliment wishing never to be put to the test or, at least, not in
the presence of my queen. Alas! It is a dog’s life! I was going to be given notice to
honour uncovered cheques.

One evening at the holiday centre, one of our guests had broken a leg and it
was necessary to call an ambulance. The telephone box, amidst the chalets of the

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peasants, was watched over by two sheep dogs who were growling and baring their
frightening teeth. If I had been alone I would have jumped at the steering wheel of the
van to go down as far as the valley along the winding road which you are already
familiar with; there, in the big village of Bellua, I could have phoned in complete
safety.

But “She” was there.

So, I took a deep breath and took a step towards the threatening fate. I put on
a determined air which, however, revealed itself to be a little stumbling and I
compelled my mind to concentrate on that blasted telephone conversation. I didn’t
talk: because although the semi-darkness concealed my trembling, it would not
muffle my quavering voice. And “She” was there! “She” would have approached me,
“She” would have discovered everything! A stumbling walk, trembling hands and a
quivering voice: my count had been correct! “Farewell, my beautiful one! And you,
pathetic! Go and join that herd of creeps!”

Had that been a miracle, that evening, to help the scoundrel I was? In any
case, it is certain that, like the lions of Daniel, the two Cerberuses that had appointed
themselves guardians in the telephone box of Montchauvin lay at my feet. And the
great adventure continued. I still tremble about it.

So do I say: “Thanks my God? Perhaps… led by an old habit. Maurice, one

of my favourite uncles likes to quote. “A smile from you and I can do the
impossible!” Rather, I should have said: “Thanks, love, you who makes us perform
astonishing feats.”

With the same insight Jeanne discovered again that I was a born artist, that
my taste was most reliable, and that I possessed many other treasures that I was not
aware of: gentleness, patience, endurance, generosity, tenacity… All delivered in bulk
because we do not have the time to do a complete and detailed inventory.

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 But how could I stomach such a cramming of compliments? And in raptures,
too! You find me stinking of pretensions: ah well no, rest assured. I knew well that I
had not acquired in my short experience of a young man, all the qualities Jeanne
attributed to me. But I believed, and I believe even more firmly, that man has superior
possibilities to what one commonly admits. I was far from having embellished those
talents to embellish our existence: but, to get there, couldn’t I see life ahead of me and
the strength which Jeanne’s encouragement would give me?

In my exciting plans, I had neglected at least an important factor: time, the

short time of which we dispose. But, aren’t you there to continue your conquests?

My immense knowledge grafted on a great intelligence, my methodical,

rigorous and open mind, my moral sense enhanced by generosity, my energy and my
strong will: these treasures of my personality made of me only a guide. I would be a
revered as well as a beloved leader. We shall discuss everything, of course, but the
decision would always be up to me as well, as control of its execution. I found this
constitution of our future family empire very wise indeed. But yes! it was still like
this at that time!

However, I had studied at the Teacher’s Training College and practised

Marxism: those two schools held as natural the equality of man and woman, but it is
necessary to believe that I had not understood everything. Perhaps I have already said
to you, at the Teacher’s Training College, in the final year, I had studied in a mixed
class, which was then an exception. Competing with girls, I could notice that they
were as intelligent as boys. I still recall the conversation that seemed to me scholarly
and being all enriched in imagination, in poetry and humour. The world which took
scope beneath a new day was rich in promises. These conversations are delightful
moments.

In spite of everything, like most men up till then, I believed that a woman
should never “wear pants.” I was convinced that despite their intelligence, the girls
had a capricious character, certainly charming, but that barred them the access to high
responsibility. Therefore Jeanne would be the wise wife I have been waiting for.

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Although untidy, absent minded, impulsive, often clumsy, she committed herself
whole-heartedly not to let down her beloved husband: my sensible advises together
with the strength of our love must bring this too human a part of her being to become
worthy of me.

“And I saw that that was good.” (These words, in the Bible, are attributed to
God when he contemplates the fruits of his creation.)

Yes, you are right to laugh.

Besides, Jeanne did not take long to give me the proof of her good will. I had
an old Deudeuch which reached 85 km/h on that stretch, and even 90 or 95 with a
back strong wind blowing in the sails. I was proud and I was keen on it. I had had the
intention of turning it into a pick-up car luckily, because I did not have the means to
treat myself to another – and I was well convinced that the beauties who did not know
how to appreciate it would be immediately discarded.

I used to find that her swaying sometimes surprising were a game in full
harmony with the beautiful curves of our planet, surges of tenderness towards the
landscape of some sort. Likewise, her figure of a peasant without pretensions who
goes to the market and her modest behaviour were well designed, in my opinion, not
to offend nature. As to her nonchalance, it allowed me all the leisure to observe the
landscape without being hindered by the effort to pedal imposed by my preceding
vehicle or the extreme attention which the racing cars of today demand.

The Deudeuch took us out for a ride on holidays. But why on earth did I want
to persuade myself and convince my beauty that it was the best car of the world? Why
did I go so far as to want to ride it up the mountains?

Here we are: having gone down a jeep path into the pastures, a really very
straight path, we had flaunted our love in the mountain. The sun, the sharp air, and the
tenderness of nature had done her good: it had continued blooming. It was time to go
back. Deudeuch, in spite of all her courage, couldn’t go back up the slope. Thanks to

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Jeanne, I didn’t have any complexes. The car was an automatic clutch model: the
engine running I went into the first gear, put on the hand brake, and I told Jeanne to
sit at the wheel while I pushed behind. She did not know how to drive, but I could
carry out a few simple gestures which I showed her: accelerate all the way, release the
hand brake, hold the wheel.

The operation began well and I believed that it was going to succeed: Jeanne
accelerated thoroughly, I pushed with all my strength, and the car advanced metre by
metre, slowly up the hill. It is then that my love had an inspiration! It is necessary that
you know it: when she is overcome by it, she acts immediately. – She suddenly went
down from the car to help me push her! Deudeuch moved back quickly knocking me
over without much attention; she managed on its own a superb half-turn, then it
slalomed breathtakingly in the pasture and, without hesitating any longer, resolutely
headed for the invisible valley faster and faster before planting itself far from us in a
majestic fir tree that nodded its head as a sign of astonishment.

Then a great silence followed.

It was at that moment, in that sunlit nature which had regained its peace, that
irresistible sobs burst out watered by a torrent of tears. Some cows taken aback came
to see, then having given up understanding, went on grazing, an occupation whose
importance left no doubt.

Now that I understand how much I was lured, stricken, picked up, tied and
dragged by my Love in her lair, I know that those sobs were not part of a stratagem:
they were true!

Jeanne doubled up in the grass, careless of her beauty. Through the sobs, the
tears and the stray hairs which fell on her mouth, she belched out noisily a stream of
words which I listened to piously, like a priest of Delphi listening to Pythia. Here is
an approximately faithful translation: “It is always the same. I mess up whatever I
undertake to do. Michel! I will never have children. I will kill them, clumsy as I am!

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Oh I want to die! No. don’t touch me. You do not know anything. Leave me. I want
to die…”

Oh dear! Jeanne’s distress was too strong to penetrate my thick skinned

vanity. I who believed myself capable of controlling everything thanks to my
enlightened mind, there I did not understand anything of that apparently serious
crises. I was distraught…

Now, I think I know what scared Jeanne to such an extent. But the moment
has not yet come, I shall explain it later on.

So, my beloved one was overcome by a crisis of self-confidence, and as she

did not want to leave it up to anyone, not even myself, to manage her own affairs, it
was a tragedy. All the more so since, in order to carry out certain sinister plans
cleverly concealed in her disguise of a submissive woman, she must have the qualities
of a leader. Fortunately, with her, if the tragedies are severe, they never last long: they
are swept away by anger like wrecks by the raging waves of a tempest. This is her
natural defence to pull herself out from the dizziness of anxiety.

Is anger a hereditary characteristic?

Ah yes, whatever the demon to fight against,

Jeanne had received, in her biological heritage, a
double edged sword to defend herself with. On one
hand it is a quality, on the other hand it is a
fault which Mômmanh pours into each one of us, but
in variable doses. It is an extraordinary resource
to face up discouraging situations.

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 Ah yes, you have guessed it, it is anger
which gives us a tenfold strength but risks being
dangerous.

Jeanne has had to receive a big ladleful of

this irascible elixir and pass again in front of
the water to have a second helping of it.

But at that time, I ignored all that. As for Jeanne, she knew that the time of
anger had not yet come. Her “Man” was not sufficiently hooked for her to risk losing
him by frightening him.

What did she do that day to contain her anger? I don’t know anything, but in
any case she managed. Later on, I would regard this event as evidence of her aptitude
to control herself in case of necessity, which would be of use to us several times.

I believe she channelled that suppressed anger simply towards an increase of

tears which I had the pleasure to wipe away, all the while shamelessly displaying
hypocrite compassion. My beloved had her shortcomings (“so much the better!”) but
firmly guided by her adored master, she would from now on succeed in her life.

Willingly, Jeanne promised me that from now on, rather than yield to an
impulse like the one which had just killed Deudeuch, she would follow to the letter
my instructions. She could not forgive herself for having acted like a child. She even
promised to offer us a new car, more beautiful, so as to be forgiven. On one hand, I
refused her offer, on the other hand that the broken one could have been for us the
ideal car, and that above all I did not want one which was “more beautiful.” She
agreed.

Ah! The happy times when she always agreed!

Deudeuch had perished on the altar of our love: I accepted willingly the
sacrifice. When Jeanne’s beauty emerged from the mess and started to shine, we went

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down hand in hand towards the wreck, towards the big fir which had found again its
serenity.

Deudeuch had hugged tightly the trunk, its front wheels apart, its bonnet
blown off, its cloth torn; broken down as far as the intact steering wheel, she
embraced without modesty that majestic tranquil father. The scrap iron warm from
the mechanical effort which we had asked of her was still vibrating, doubtlessly
excited after that crazy escapade, or else terrified after our cowardly desertion.

We spent a lot of time looking for the little belongings which were hidden in
the wood, beneath the pine needles. We found some chanterelles, but these did not
make up for the loss of a pair of glasses, a bunch of keys, and a camera and other
trinklets. Then, without any regrets, we simply abandoned the shell of the Deudeuch,
dumped in its private cemetery, from now on doomed to nourish the great firs while
decomposing a mixture of oil, of plastic, of broken glass and other varying food,
whether that modern alimentation was to their liking or not.

Damaging the landscape and environmental pollution? These ideas did not
occur to our minds, and yet we were not irresponsible. The harnessing of dragons
without a coachman that is the world open market has not been yet launched in full
gallop. It was gathering speed. It was not poisoning the atmosphere with its burning
sulphurous breath; it was not tearing the earth with its claws yet; it wasn’t defecating
its mountains of poisonous waste over the children of Mômmanh, guests of the living
earth. No, it contented itself with bringing us presents which we accepted without
worrying our minds. Our tiny wreck lost in the wild immensity which the Alps were
at the time seemed to us to be no more than a fly’s dropping on the palace of
Versailles.

Deudeuch was dead: long live Deudeuch! We decided to pool our resources
and buy another one, second hand, of course. Jeanne had difficulty to make her
contribution. My love managed her budget in a funny way: while I counted my
savings she counted her debts. I wanted to play the part of the grand prince, but she

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was keen to pay her part in full. In order to do this, she borrowed once more from her
good grandmother.

The new Deudeuch was well on the way to being spoilt but like the majority
of the French at that time we were not rich. Irrespective of the fact that it was
scrawny, that didn’t prevent us from taking walks in the mountain, sometimes on the
French side, sometimes on the Swiss side, and even on the Italian slopes. With the
exception of people, everything spoke the same language, even the cows. We had to
lose the Deudeuch at Geneva, having out of negligence both of us forgotten to notice
the name of the street where we had parked it: it took us three hours of searching, on
foot of course, before we finally found it. Fortunately, it was in the middle of summer
and there was no snow to camouflage it.

It is true that we had otherwise important and exciting occupations. There

was no end to the exploration of the extent of our love. Thanks to Jeanne’s clever lies
and to my naïve inexperience, it kept growing stronger and assumed an insolent
vigour: we felt a certain pity for the poor ordinary humans, pitiful disabled who had
remained on earth.

Certainly I found it marvellous, but absolutely normal that such a love should
light up my life. I had prepared it, looked for it, waited for it. No, I was not at all
afraid of melting in that fire. In the contact with nature and men, along the routes and
mountain paths, along the edge of the torrents, at the foot of glaciers, in boutiques and
even when clearing customs, at leisure as well as at work. “SHE” was there! After
each new and welcome little secret, I could even touch her, kiss her, feel our bodies
enter into ecstatic communion. With rapture, we could go on for ever revealing
ourselves to each other. That was good: each piece added to the understanding of
each other was a note in the divine symphony which was being composed.

“This does not exist!” you are telling me?

– No, really! I am not exaggerating.”

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 With our two beings, with our two faces mirrored in each other, we formed a
new invulnerable creature, delighted to have been born, delighted to be living and
shouting it from the rooftops. There are always strangers moved by the happiness of
the young lovers who would bless them by a benign smile: that did not fail. They
were good people, those who were gladdened by the joy of others. Hail to them.

How could I guess that that new double faced creature into which I had
melted concealed, beneath skilful make-up, incompatibilities, unbearable
malformations that later on would cause a lot of suffering. I can see now that Jeanne
was right: it was worthwhile that I ignore them, before being bound by passion, I
would perhaps have run away and would have had no story to tell you. Oh yes! If that
story is not really exemplary, I believe that it could be useful to you.

When, so bouncing across the Alps the tender jerks of our peaceful
Deudeuch, our motor donkey, we had finished the inventory of our agreements, since
surely there were no discords, when we arrived at the frontiers of that exciting
exploration and we had penetrated as far as the sources of the soul the certainty that
we were made for each other, when we had understood that love had made us grow
and that it would always rescue us from the mire towards the celestial gardens, so
naturally our bodies looked out for each other to initial the contract.

It was much better than at the notary…

Besides you had already made love.” you might say. It is true, but up till
then, we had been trying to establish an agreement. This time, it was a matter of
nuptials.

Difference between love and sexuality

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 When a couple of lovers have carefully
matched their bodies and their souls, when they
imprint in their flesh the fusion of their
existences, Mômmanh gives them the present of
love: an unheard of pleasure. “Yes, I have already
told you, but believe me, it is worth repeating.”

Between having it off and that pleasure,

there is the same difference as relieving one’s
bladder and discovering America.

And yet, if she had achieved its ends, the Christian education of my
childhood would have prevented me from enjoying this gift fully. I don’t know for
which reason the Church considered the act of love as filth capable of sending us
burning in hell. She did not have a word to refer to it, except when she wanted to spit
its disgust on that unspeakable act: “lust, fornication, sin of the flesh” were still
common words. Since the Church had not found another means of conceiving
children and as it had to follow the instruction “Increase and multiply,” the odious act
became a duty within the framework of marriage, but only in that framework, and
surely when one wanted to give life.

Since the priests had covered with despicable dirt the taboo act and since a
powerful instinct, far more ancient than “Our Holy Mother the Church,” called them
to “sin,” the peasants of my village had grown to love the “dirtiness”: at threshing
feasts or at wedding parties, the salacious stories those which now you call “dirty
jokes” and which go with the dessert were quite frequently repulsive, yet everyone
revelled in them, even the women. As for the children, they organised themselves to
translate clearly the filth.

The poets had started to wash this stain off my soul. Jeanne finished the
cleaning. She managed to teach me that the act of love is beautiful, that it must be
beautiful, that it couldn’t be love when it’s filthy.

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 Therefore you who are looking for a big love, remember: the “big bang” is
only granted to true lovers.

If you want, go over a childhood memory: in the family car, you have slipped
in the driver’s seat. You stretch your too short legs in vain and your head too low:
your legs can hardly brush against the pedals and if your look can see a patch of sky
over the dashboard. Turning the wheel, handling the gear roughly, you reproduce
with skill dad’s (or mum’s) gesture. You do “Vroum! Vroumm!” and “Tuutt! Tuutt,”
you insult a stranger who does not know that the road belongs to you, you talk to your
passenger: “85 average on a national most winding road: not bad, no? – Not so fast,
my dear, look at the sunset on the blue mountains. Aaah! Watch out!” So proceed
your imaginary journey and you are in a hurry to be big enough to drive “for real.”

Ah well, you would find a similar experience if you try to make love without
love, except that you will be ashamed as you are no longer a child. As for the
moaning of pleasure, one must content himself with the sound effects.

It is because we have often been deprived of fireworks, when we were torn

apart by conflicting ideas. In that case, each time we tried to cheat the Apple of the
Garden of Eden, our distress socket takes off; our bodies were only cold and clammy
flesh, matter without soul, rather revolting.

Contrarily, it happened that a quarrel which appeared real was only purely
formal: in that case the miracle took place and we knew like this that our love was in
good health.

The best moment took place in the middle of nature, in a beautiful summer in
our mountains, on a grass carpet with small vivid flowers. Mômmanh had sent her
witnesses over: the big trees, the birds, the animals hidden, the flowers, the cascading
stream whose diamonds launched flowers of sparks, as well as the snowy tops of the
Alps from where it seemed to us that a kindly eye was observing us.

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165
5-The Great Manoeuvres

From now on I knew what the expression “to have someone under your skin”
meant. Seen from a window of “My Love,” the operation seduction had gone off
perfectly as far as the apotheosis which we had just lived. She held her man: “I have
caught you right away.” she told me.

Immediately she began, in the morning, the second phase of her plan.
Doesn’t one say “strike while the iron is hot”? Jeanne undertook to shape me to her
liking.

Come on! Let us see what brought about the first scene? After all it does not
matter: it was only the first of a long series of battles broken by some happy truces.
So much the worse if I relate without any order. But I owe you some more
explanations.

Jeanne, in order to seduce me, used the same strategy of love as Don Juan:
she had lied brazenly. Fortunately! Fortunately, her aim was not the same as that of
those tireless collectors of female trophies, those love thieves who are always “in
want.”

I know if there are any female Don Juans, but in any case, my Jeanne was no
one. Fortunately! She had lied to me, of course. But when her carnal body of a fairy,
offered to me unhesitatingly, all vibrant with sea waves, had said: “Yes! Yes!” she
could not cheat. Of course, she had embarked us on this marvellous journey as
stowaways, but she was used to buy on credit and she was convinced that we would

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later find the money to pay our trip fare. This time she was right to obey her
impatience because if we had to wait for our disagreements to fade away before
embarking, we would still be besides the quay. Or rather, our ways would have been
separate.

Well, where were we? After our nuptial in the Alps, under God’s watchful
look, nothing less! – with the snowy tops, the impetuous torrents of pure water, the
high pensive firs, the grass so green and fresh of the pastures, as witnesses,
Mômmanh embodied in wild nature blessing the love of her children, after the
mouths first, then our bodies all quivering under the divine caress had sealed the pact
of eternal union, our clasped souls excited, after we had put our clothes back as the
custom required, without knowing what we were doing, then the time of bitter
revelation and disenchantment could begin.

The first disillusion fell on me like a stone hurled in the window by a friendly
neighbour.

With my van, we had gone together to take fresh supplies to a group of

campers. We took again the way to go for about fifteen kilometres, to recognize the
site of the nearest camp. It was the moment which Jeanne chose to start what turned
out, for me, the beginning of her metamorphosis.

– I am not coming.
– What?
– I am not coming. Take me back to the Centre.
– But? But… we have promised to do this job! And what’s more, we are paid for
it!
– You! have promised. It is not my job.
– But finally, remember: haven’t you too committed yourself to this job?
– At last? At last? Ah! That is a good one! Have you gone completely deaf? Since I
am telling you: I haven’t promised anything. Ah well? Find at least the courage to
get to the bottom of it. Tell me that I am a liar!

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– Ah, really? I thought… Well, then I must be wrong. But if I first take you back to
the Centre, I am going to drive for another thirty kilometres and waste a good hour.
– You call that “wasted time”? Well thank you! I thought I deserved a minimum of
respect. Your time so precious, save it for those little brats who don’t know what
else to invent to get on our nerves. Your time, you come entirely in your
intellectual masturbations! I am not having any of that any longer!
I tumbled down. As when one is given a brutal shock, I did not feel any pain,
on the spot. Besides, since it wasn’t a physical wound, it was possible not to believe
it: I only had to close my eyes for an instant, and my Jeanne would materialise again,
the pretty flower of the suburb which I loved, the young and beautiful comrade; the
other, the vile witch, would end up by dissolving itself in the pure sky of the Alps.

This evoked the image of my mother, she who raged during many a domestic
quarrel when, to my eyes, she transformed herself in a spiteful bad-tempered witch to
torment the good man my father. I had sworn never to marry such a dragon: I’d rather
become a monk (a red monk, of course).

No! It was not possible for Jeanne to become what I abhorred. Her delightful
mouth so finely chiselled, her delicate honey mouth made for kisses could not belch
out such insane talk! That sublime door, which if need be was used for food
deliveries, that sublime door with tender red lips was made to utter soft words and
beautiful speeches, songs and laughs, burning kisses, but not those disgusting things.
Ah well, listen: the worst has not come yet!

– Are you ill, dear? In that case I will take you quickly to the Centre and I
will take you to the doctor as soon as possible.

My mother had often been seriously ill, each time for a longer period, each
time more seriously ill, till she finally died before the age assigned by nature. She was
asthmatic. Being unable to overcome the illness which deprived her of her strength,
she decided to give in to it: like this she found in it a refuge and a weapon in her
struggle against my father. But my Jeanne couldn’t be like them. In fact:

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 – I am not sick, idiot! Stop taking me for your mother will you! You are
flabby like a slug, my gosh! You need three days of reflection before you decide to
lift a little finger. It’s lucky that I am not ill because I would die before you got me
back to the doctor. But how could I let myself be seduced by such a good for
nothing? I must be blind. Turn back and take me to the Centre. You will take up your
day dreaming and your dribbling delirium afterwards. Come on! On our way! Stop
looking at me like a fried whiting.

Although I was a progressive as the communists and their sympathisers

defined themselves as such, I was not prepared to bear the breaker of the feminist
putsch. I was the less so that, in this revolution, Jeanne was at least ten years ahead.

I tell myself: “She is intelligent, certainly, but like all women, she is
whimsical, capricious, prone to follow any fantasy. This is often charming, and it is
also the source of good funny moments which enliven our existence: sometimes it
even gives us, surely, good ideas: yes, this fanciful functioning of the mind leads the
thought on to unusual tracks which she would not have been able to discover by
following the roads marked out, and it happens that some uncommon roads can be
fruitful. All right! (With myself.) But we have now played too much. Myself, the man
with sharp intelligence, I must take my responsibilities.”

– Darling, I can see that you want to go back to the Centre, probably because you
feel a bit tired. But…
– You see very well? Do you see well? How could you know what I feel with what
serves you as a brain? Besides, I forbid you to try to understand me. Take me back
at once!
– My dear, I don’t recognize you any more. In any case, this is enough. You must
understand that your tiny whim would embarrass a lot of people. We don’t have the
right to do that.
– My tiny whim! But you deserve a slap. If your mother had given you twice as
many you would have certainly been less stupid. For the last time, turn round
without overturning in the ditch, and take me back.
– No! I…

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– So, stop here: I’m getting out.
– But surely you’re not going to walk fifteen kilometres? I will be back at the
Centre long before you. Let’s see…
– Stop! Or I am jumping off!
– After all, you are entitled to it. Ah well, get off! Go on! Throw your tantrum…

And to my great surprise, she got off, slammed the door and, while she was at
it, without turning back, started her long march at a very rapid pace. My surprise
quickly turned to consternation. When I lifted my eyes up, asking myself if I was
going to call her, she had already vanished. Quickly I made half a turn and went in
pursuit of her. Alas! Alas the road was deserted.

Besides, if I had seen her, what would I have done? I believe well that I
would have taken her hand to feel her sweet warmth and check if the “current” was
still getting through. – The current? Come on, of course! You know it well! It is the
delightful quiver which runs all over the skin when two lovers touch each other. Then
I would have taken her in my arms and hugged her for a long time, delicately; I would
have caressed her and kissed her till the peace in our two bodies was reunited. Then I
would have carted her gently as far as the Centre, just as she had asked me to do
insistently.

When my tongue hanging out, alone and thirsty in the desert, she was the
spring I no longer believed to be near. She had quenched my thirst: how good that
water had been! And behold she transformed herself into a coarse pile of stinking
muddy pebbles. That was not simply possible. It was necessary to be impossible as I
could no longer do without my spring from now on.

And then, I have a confession to make: my vanity could not bear having been
so badly wronged.

Therefore, if only I had seen her, I would not have said anything, putting of
for later the delicate enterprise that consisted in “reasoning” with her so that a similar
misadventure would never happen. It was unthinkable that, in a love like ours,

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between two exceptional lovers there could be certain trails of strength. The reason
had to come to the bottom of all our disagreements.

Oh yes! As she had put it so brutally: I was a “fool.”

I had to admit that she was not along the way…

I clung to the hope of recapturing her on the way back, after having located
the site of my next camp. I had great difficulty accomplishing my work. Finally, I
could take the way back. On the passenger seat, quite close to me, there was a painful
emptiness. From time to time, I had a look, hoping to find it occupied, that the bad
dream was over.

But I had to get a grip on myself so as not to lose definitely my chances by

overturning my van in the ditch. I was driving slowly, intensely scanning the road as
well as its verges with the violent hope of discovering the gracious silhouette of my
carnal fairy and knowing relief in her arms.

I saw nobody except for a hitch-hiker: he couldn’t have known that his
presence there in such a moment was uncalled for and that he insulted me severely
when I passed by. I had an unusual reaction quite completely: I lowered my window
and stopped at a good distance to hurl a series of vile insults more or less. Then I let
out the clutch abruptly making the tyres screech. But that blind anger did not bring
me any relief.

The sun, in good shape, was playing with greyish white clouds, massive like
rocks. The golden silver platinum light, and the shadows streamed on the mountain
sides, the woods, the pastures, the rocks, cascading as far as the river buried down in
the valley. But the divine carpet dealer however can pack up again his gear with him.
Jeanne was not there, nature was dead. Besides, I don’t know why I made this picture
for you since I was in no condition to see it.

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 At the camp, I parked the van anywhere, without even closing the door, and I
ferreted everywhere discreetly as I did not want her to see me or notice my distress. It
was she who had given one stroke of axe which cut each in half! I was hoping also to
see her suffering as much as I: like this, I would be sure that she loved me. But I did
not want to do the first step and come like a beaten dog, sweeping away ground with
foul grovelling, at my mistress’s feet.

Yes, evidently she had to do the first step. On condition that she still loved
me? What a test! But I would not welcome her like a triumphant victor. No, I will not
give her a frozen look and I will not tell her: “Ah there you are! Ah well, the little
stuck up things like you do not interest me. Consider yourself lucky not to have been
slapped and go and wait for me in your tent. I will call you if I decide to continue
with you. Otherwise, you will have to find a fag: that is what you need.” No, that time
was over and, anyway, I would not have taken such a big risk. It would be enough to
make the first step, and I will welcome her with open arms. Later on, I will find other
means to assert my natural and kind authority.

On seconds thoughts, a quarter of a step will be sufficient…

While waiting, I rummaged about, but did not see her anywhere. I wanted to
see her so very much, if only in a shadow theatre, about which I started to hallucinate:
“Wasn’t that she, at the end of the road, behind the service building? Or else down
there, between the big tents of the “Red Army” and the “Resistence”?

The pain grew more intense. I decided to do the first step, for that time. Let
the one who has never loved cast the first stone.

So, renouncing to discretion, and trying hard to render my voice normal to

ask the cook, the manager, the supervisors – in brief – everyone I came across: “Have
you seen Jeanne? Have you seen Jeanne? Ah! You don’t know where is Jeanne?”
And each time the reply was: “No. No! No!” like so many club blows on my head
already afflicted with a turbulent migraine.

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 In such situations, my “demon” attacks always. He comes back in full
strength, he whom I believed to have chased away for good. Just as he does in such
cases, he presented himself as the indispensable friend who would bring a solution to
my problem. My resistance was swept aside. I was going down a steep and slippery
slope, carried away by the whirlwind of my passion, and my efforts to clutch the
bushes seemed ridiculous. I abandoned myself to my tormentor who would not take
long to suffocate me.

What happens when a desire is so strong that it becomes a high

expectation? What are the risks of spoiling the children?

You have not forgotten the strange illness

which had handicapped me to the extent of blocking
my road to love. The theory which I had pu t
together and the applications which I had derived
of it to safeguard myself are disputable, but the
sort of madness of which I suffered is not. It is
no longer a theory, it is a testimony.

Ah well, I shall take up again the

explanations which I have given you because they
deserve to be clarified and deepened. Judge them
yourself.

Let us suppose that in our childhood, when

our being is formed within the family, let us
suppose that a great pleasure is never denied to
us, not even calculated. In our existence, that
great pleasure soon becomes an essential element,

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then indispensable. Impossible to do without it.
It eclipses the others. Our nervous system learns
by heart the circuits which lead to its
fulfilment. We cover them incessantly to repeat
the pleasure demanded, like a laboratory rat
repeats indefinitely the gestures that bring it
his favourite threat. We have become dependent,
slaves.

Those circuits of the nervous system which

lead to the satisfaction of pleasure which has
become high expectation, the more complex and the
deeper their imprint is in our memory, the more
difficult it would be to avoid them. The hope of
being cured will move back.

A great pleasure that has never been denied

to the spoilt child creates a lifelong dependence,
a cancer of the existence. How many adults are
handicapped because of their parents’ faults?

Let us suppose, later on, to satisfy that

cursed high expectation, we believe to discover a
means which is not hoped for, the latter would
transform itself in a consuming passion, a hard
drug occupying the first place in our existence,
when that is not all the space. That demon becomes
our poisoned consolation: the compulsory reply to
all stress of some importance. Even if one had
victoriously fought against it, it remains lurking
in the secret place of his soul and it comes forth
as soon as a great anxiety overwhelms us, like
charlatans who extort like this every last penny
from the desperate ones.

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 To take only one example, the high
expectation in question can be that of physical
well-being. To achieve it, you have a big choice
of means: bulimia, excessive sport, any drug…
Usually, one settles on one alone.

Spoiled child, frustrated child: the same fight.

Now I am going to go over some pure theory.

Dear reader, if your experience confirms or
disproves my hypothesis, let me know and I will
update this book based on your information.

In his short story collection “Love of

Life,” Jack London tells the story of a man who
almost died not of old age, which is normal, but
of hunger, which must be excruciating. Once saved,
this unfortunate person became addicted: he
couldn’t stop stocking food everywhere even though
he was no longer likely to run out.

And therefore a child that is deprived of

what they need the most, a child that is deprived
of love, will develop the same needs as a spoiled
child. This love that has been refused to him –
throughout his life he will never feel that he has
enough. He will need everyone to be interested in
him – him, him, and him alone. He will need riches
and honours to be for him, for him more than

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anyone else. And woe be to the others if anyone or
anything resists him.

As for the spoiled child, the means used to

achieve his impossible end will depend on his
nature. This may be violence, deception,
seduction, self-pity or who knows what? The
character of Larry Flint, as presented by
Milos Forman in his film about the king of porn,
illustrates my point. He claims to defend freedom
of expression whilst defending above all his
tyrannical power and the lifestyle of a pasha in
his harem that he leads.

Before knowing the pangs of hunger,

Jack London’s protagonist did not know his
addiction. At the same time he discovered the need
not to be hungry - never, ever! And also the
inability to guarantee his supply of food. So he
panicked and started to keep reserves anywhere and
everywhere, like a squirrel. In this way, very
often, an accidental shortage of something reveals
an unexpected requirement or an addiction that
becomes a tyrannical dependence.

Allow me to make a small comparison. Imagine

a hospital where the directors are being
particularly irresponsible. The first time that an
extended power outage occurs, we note with dismay
that electricity is essential for the operating
theatre, the incubators for the maternity ward and
many other vital devices. Lots of people are
killed. We now know that not only the hospital can
not do without electricity, but that it has

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 changed its structure by adapting itself the
benefits of this new fairy. The hospital has
become “addicted” to electricity. It has developed
an addiction like our body does when it changes
its structure under the effect of certain drugs.

But back to the spoiled child and me, me,

me.

For me, my high expectation of a spoilt

child, was to want to be lord of everything, and
the drug supposed to please me was the repeated
endless attempt of understanding everything.
Behold therefore that demon which I believed dead
and which haunted me again, lord of house.

As a start, it appealed to pedagogy.

Yes, I had studied pedagogy at the Teacher’s Training College. I had not
understood much, but they managed to instil in me the belief that still persists:
developed properly, this applied science would work miracles; there would be no
more academic failure and all the delinquents as well as the deviants would be led on
the way of reason.

It was almost as if I had believed that medicine could cure all the ailments
and render man immortal. From time to time, a pedagogist sometimes self-declared,
believes to have found the magic formulas of good teaching; as a result he tries to
found a chapel of which he is the high priest. After which, beware of the unbelievers!
With that belief in a supreme pedagogy, there follows that public opinion tends to
consider the mediocre teachings responsible for the scholastic failures. In the same
way, the Jews and the lepers of the Middle Ages were accused of bringing the plague:
since God was good, he could not send that scourge without reason, it was necessary
to find some sinners responsible and they were found.

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 But let us come back to my “cunning one,” the vampire of thought. My naive
belief in Holy Pedagogy was only the mask behind which he was advancing. He did
his work. Beneath his influence, I wanted to understand perfectly this Jeanne whom I
had just met, in order to bring her back to reason. As for me, it did not take me long
to lose the little reason I had left.

The process followed its course. I started to stammer again like a drunkard, to
stumble, and to do anything irrespective of how I did it… to break down in my
weakness.

How to obtain the good dose of self-confidence which allows

you to act in the best of ways?

Yes, you know that Mômmanh appeals to our

liberated consciousness to serve her as guide out
of darkness. In other words, she relies on our
intelligence to find the appropriate answer
irrespective of the stress. If we have an
exaggerated confidence in the solutions which our
mind proposes, if therefore we suffer from an
excessive assurance, so much the worse for us,
Mômmanh believes our answers and orders their
application immediately; the accidents will be our
share. On the contrary if we do not have faith in
any of the proposed answers, Mômmanh cannot give
any coherent answers; so much the worse for us,
this time still, we are doomed to the accidents.

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 You know consequently that the incarnation
of Mômmanh in my being had assumed an errant form:
she wanted me to be God, thanks to a perfect
knowledge of everything. It is impossible, surely
that I knew it. Therefore, when my demon, that
metamorphosis of Mômmanh, was in command, no
response to stress seemed worthy of confidence to
her and he could only order faltering actions, not
to say contradictory ones. Besides, that state of
vulnerability generated fits of panic.

So if I had to talk, I stammered, if it was

a question of writing, I trembled, if I had to
walk, I stumbled, and so on.

Like Monsieur Seguin’s goat, I fought, but in the small hours, the fight was
far from over. I wanted to win at all costs, to have the chance of saving our love and
find again the way to eternity amongst the immortal stars. Jeanne had just returned to
the Centre, but I succeeded in avoiding her all day long: above all I did not want her
to see me in that state!

Alas! She found me, in the evening when I was still in a crisis. My
overpowering demon was not the well-mannered type who withdraws when he feels
indiscreet. I tried hard to suppress it with all my strength, it remained to destroy me. I
opened my mouth like a fish out of water, but I believe surely that no sound came out
of it. Jeanne came towards me, inexorably, tender, smiling and saying: “Well, my
Michel, what happened to you?” Stammering, mumbling, stuttering even a little, I
managed to emit out of my mouth an amount of gibberish of which here is an
approximate translation:

– I do not feel well. I will come to you tomorrow when things will be better.
Tomorrow! I beg of you! I shall explain to you.
– Don’t be afraid. I am there. Things are going to be all right now.

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– I am not afraid of you Jeanne. It is this nasty illness which overcomes me.
Tomorrow! We shall meet tomorrow! We shall have breakfast together. And you
will come with me to do some shopping. Can you?
– Not tomorrow. Right now. You are not ill, Michel. I have confidence in you, and
I love you. Let’s go! Pluck up courage!
– Oh! I do have courage. But sometimes it is too hard. Ah! If you knew!
– I know my dear. Well, I will soon get to know because you will relate everything
to me. I am there, and you will overcome this difficulty! Come on! Come to my
arms.

Since you are well-mannered, my friend, you know that you have to leave us
now: even the writers have a right to intimacy.

In this way, our first quarrel came to an end. I appreciated with great joy the
fact that I was loved in spite of the strange evil which was crippling me too often: that
relieved me of enormous weights. I swore to recover definitely. I was feeling my
strength tenfold by love and the “cunning one” remained lurking, prudently, at the
frontier of my consciousness, waiting for its hour.

Taken care of, consoled and encouraged, loved in the arms of my tender
nurse, I abandoned myself to happiness.

Thus, watch strong and formidable strapping fellows ruining themselves in

the bosoms of their sweethearts and becoming once again helpless little infants.
Human nature is very surprising: don’t you think so? Ah well, things were even
stranger; during those hours of my distress, the birds were silent and nature was in
mourning.

Oh yes! Believe me if you can.

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 Now that I had found my love again, the birds started to chirp again. Once
more, the fresh and crystalline water of the torrent fell in cascade and bounced amidst
the rocks. The mountain was joyous and her breath was emitting very subtle and tonic
perfumes. What magnanimous painter, what genius of nature was painting all day
long those landscapes which were telling us: “Don’t look for heaven: it’s here.” The
divine symphony orchestrated by Mômmanh was welcoming us again and, once
more, we were feeling our hearts beating together bosom against bosom.

Nowhere near the oppressive heads of department, the jealous colleagues

which give you a trip-up, far from the forms in quadruplicate, the hierarchic way and
the internal regulation, far away from the noise of the pneumatic drill, the traffic
jams, the bills to pay, the flu, the toothaches, without counting hunger in the world
and the threats of war…

So I was not being over fussy! Therefore, I did not ask for any explanations
from Jeanne about our quarrel. Besides, since I was temporarily broken down, I
would have been incapable of giving her the advice which she needed very badly.

However, I knew that the happy days were only a truce. I had to leave soon
the Garden of Eden to take up my human adventure; so much so that I had to leave
the bosom of my beloved one to become again head of the family, because I was
convinced that it was up to me to take up the reins of the household. I was
overcoming my mental handicap and I was making use of pedagogy to lead Jeanne to
follow the right way, that which I would have traced after having heard her opinion.

You understand that I could not envisage acting otherwise. According to the
convictions I had then, the roots of which had developed during centuries and
centuries, it would have been a great cowardice to obey my beloved one. Not only
would I have lost my freedom, but I would have placed my love in danger of
extinction. I could not leave the reins of our household to Jeanne, in as much as the
pilot of a plane cannot abandon the commands of his plane to his favourite hostess.

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 Thus we started again to weave the happiness underneath the slight wound. I
was hoping that we were going to stay for some more weeks on our cosy cloud; I was
counting on it all the more because our real holidays were approaching and we were
going to spend them together in Austria. Do you find me quite naive? Ah yes. A
brutal landing was preparing itself.

The day came when our bawling youngsters, a tear in their eye for some of
them, made their way again to Paris, accompanied by their group leaders. When, with
the other comrades, we had folded our tents and placed all the material in the only
building of the camp, we bid farewell to all, friends and not, and we went up into our
pumpkin transformed into a car looking more like a horse-drawn coach. We had
about fifteen days left to discover some new places, and we did not want to lose not
even a fraction.

What happened afterwards?

Indeed, although I now remember that period vaguely, I will never be able to
talk about it, my memories being so confused. I could not understand anything there!

That started like this.

The seats of the old Deudeuch being dirty and even torn out of sheer use, I
had wrapped up with travelling rugs of very bright colours, worthy of my princess.
Now Jeanne had taken off one of her overcoats to cover her shoulders with it.
Moreover, she had ruffled hair and she dressed carelessly, and this gave her the air of
a neglected gypsy. Such a metamorphosis would have been enough to prevent me
from seeing the landscape, but there was more there: in no time at all, the decaying
fairy had spread all her belongings and part of mine anywhere in the car and she had
already covered everything with some papers, depressing sight enhanced by the skin
of a clean banana.

– My dear, why don’t you tidy your belongings? This mess is lousy. And then, why
are you dressed up like this? One would say that you look like an old witch half

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asleep, who has just left her straw mattress. I prefer you when you are happy. Hey,
love?”

She spent the rest of the day without opening her mouth. And when at last
she consented to talk, it was to send me a shower of abuses. I spent a first sleepless
night. Before she woke up, having found nothing better to do, I decided to delay
matters. Besides, Jeanne made herself attractive and loving again. But the disorder
had worsened: she was therefore the mess.

This first truce was quite short. Apparently, my temporary surrender was to
no avail. The annoyances, the quarrels, the anger had to follow a very rapid rhythm.
Therefore, don’t be surprised if I do not speak of Austria: I have not seen much of it.

During most of the day, I was too busy looking for our love which did not
stop slipping through our hands to vanish in certain inaccessible places. In order to
have a chance of finding it again, I had to accomplish certain acrobatics some of
which some seemed against nature, that is to say that many were against my
convictions which neither I, nor anybody had ever pointed out, and much less
contested, since they seemed so obvious to form part of the laws of nature, in as much
as breathing, nourishing oneself, blowing one’s nose, refusing the insults, express
myself freely… Thus, not only I had to accept that our things were spread everywhere
in a permanent disorder, but equally, that my opinions were squashed by contempt
and bad faith, that our itinerary which had been prepared for a long time had been
brutally changed to follow “a small secondary road on the map” and that half of my
savings vanished in one single night in a luxury hotel, and what else still? The
unbearable annoyances followed, giving rise to never ending quarrels during which
we hurt ourselves always more deeply.

What sorrow do two Siamese twins feel when they cannot put up with each
other any longer!

I make one, then two, then three concessions, then an unlimited amount of
renunciations to important aspects of myself, I sometimes go as far as betraying my

183
duties, such was the price to pay to have a chance to recapture our escaping love. And
when by chance we would find it, quickly we would shut the door of our intimacy, so
airtight like an eggshell.

Alas! Very soon we would start to tear ourselves apart in our empty shell.

Love, even that of crooks nourishes itself on beautiful and good substances:
ours had to treat itself, increase and strengthen itself because Austria was offering it
delicious meals. Instead of that, being sick, it was refusing the food and it was
declining from day to day. We would not have had to choose a sumptuous setting for
that episode of our life. It was a mess. We should have gone to another part to be torn
apart: a field of beetroots, or even a waste land filled with rubbish would have suited
us. Besides, we would soon have to do this wasted voyage again.

Luckily, it rained heavily during our journey: that took away a little part of
responsibility.

In fact, I did not understand anything there. So, you must not expect me to
enlighten you! I have nothing to propose to you except to do yourself that which I
was compelled to do during that hazy period: to struggle obstinately in the fog, pulled
by the hope that by means of light, the remedies to heal my painful ailments would be
found.

I did not understand anything there but Jeanne had changed into another
person, whom, very often, I hated. But for some moments, she was becoming the
wonderful fairy with whom I wanted to set forth for eternity. So we were in love.
However, those holidays of the Garden of Eden had been granted to us in an
increasingly tight-fisted manner.

So much the worse. The important thing wasn’t that the miracle became
rarer, and rarer, but that it was still happening. It was a sign: since love sometimes
was succeeding in taking the upper hand, it was always alive.

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Why is the orgasm of love a product of the natural selection?

I have said all too well “Miracle” and I

maintain it, above all if you find that I am
exaggerating. In the act of love, when the flesh
finds itself and then the bodies give themselves
to each other, at the moment where fusion of
bodies takes place in a sparkling flame of love,
it’s there when the miracle takes place.

Do you know about the mother of life,

Mômmanh who watches over and quivers all along the
space and in infinite time, as well as amongst the
billions and billions of stars and in the
slightest grain of pollen or in the most trivial
molecule of water? Do you know our tireless
Mômmanh, she who always watches over, who never
dozes off, she who wants to see the toad, the doe
and the lotus live eternally? Ah well, when she
perceives this duo of sincere love, she recognizes
the powerful father of life and of existence whom
she loves so much. So, amidst the waves of
happiness which she has felt at the great moments
of her conquest over existence, she chooses the
best and she sends them to us: the birth of the
stars, the opening of life, it’s blooming in the
ocean…

That is the ecstasy, the “Miracle.”

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 Don’t you believe me? Try and you will know… What? I have already said it
to you? … It is true, but it is worthwhile to repeat.

Therefore, when once again, the “Great Voyage” had been granted to us, I
was seeing the sign that our love was once more escaping from a nightmare: we had
not “screwed up,” we had “made love.”

Why is the deceived lover the last one to perceive it?

Yet, the moments of ecstasy could have well

been nothing else but false. Oh yes! Jeanne who
had seduced me could have been nothing but a
swindler. In the personality of a good red fairy
that I loved, could it be that she had nothing
real other than beauty, youth and the feminine
sex? And her love for me, because at the time of
the meeting of the body, Mômmanh no longer allows
women to cheat: if the lover is just a little bit
in tune with the beloved, they can distinguish the
pleasure from simulation.

I could have asked that question: “The true

Jeanne, isn’t she simply the woman, loving for
sure, but for me hateful, who poisons my
existence?” But I never asked myself this
question. At least, not yet: it takes much more
for me to lose my faith.

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 Let us suppose that a man, having
consecrated all his life to win one of the best
places in heaven, arrives at the last moment of
his last hour, nailed to his dead-bed, and that
the last breath of his conscience reveals to him
that horror: there is neither hell nor paradise!
For his soul and his body, everything is over…
Does he go, in a supreme spasm, to vomit all that
to which he has consecrated the best part of his
life?

Most probably the answer is no.

Every time that he feels stressed, man

entrusts his intelligence to find him an
appropriate answer. It is almost the same: that’s
life.

There happens that stress is a desire at the

same time important and very strong: desire of
love, desire of a child, desire of glory, desire
of eternal love… In this case, led by Mômmanh, my
ego orders a profound research: “What sort of
means approximately sure was my environment
offering me to allow me to satisfy my desire?”
Intelligence must find him the best answers
possible and their reliability to a vital
importance.

This search could last for some years and

cost some very great efforts. Also, when she has
arrived to her time limit, it is difficult to
conceive that she starts it over again. Therefore,

187
 her answers are recorded like articles of faith,
like an ideology, except that, this time, the
phenomenon is not collective.

Here is explained why the deceived husband

is always the last to discover the infidelity of
his beloved spouse, and reciprocally.

The origin of a great deal of consuming passions or vices: the

game, avarice, jealousy.

The process is upset when the desire is so

strong that it becomes a demand. I have evoked
that insanity in a moment while talking of spoilt
children and of my own madness. There are also
other demands even disabling, which do not attract
spoilt children, even if education has given them
birth. Certain parents, for example, instil in
their child the absolute need to succeed
brilliantly in his studies, going sometimes as far
as driving them to suicide. Will you say that
those unlucky children are spoiled?

Here are some more examples. Do you know a

sure method to assure your immortality? To
guarantee your health? Or your fortune? Or your
love’s fidelity? No, surely: in any undertaking
there are always some risks of failure. So, the
unhappy one who refuses his risks becomes a slave

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 of his demands. He can never acquire the serenity
which gives him reasonable self confidence, since
nothing can bring him such confidence. He is
condemned to look always for more reliable means
to calm his insatiable thirst, his passion which
will destroy him.

Never enjoying peace, never enjoying

freedom: always in anguish, day and night.

Does he demand fortune? He is a miser. Is it

the luxury he cannot do without? It’s probably a
big-time gambler.

Does he want to have all the love of his

better half? And behold a jealous person. His
existence has become unbearable. He can renounce
to it, or proceed towards madness. Luckily, I had
seen my mother’s life transformed into hell
because of this slavery and I did the impossible
to avoid it.

How far is the Buddhists’ control of desire healthy?

Here is how Buddhism, which has the “control

of desire” as its primary objective, helps men to
live: it relieves them of their demands.

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 I realised that we had left a dying person
at the doors of paradise, some paragraphs above.
We now can set him free. If his faith answers the
desire to live for ever and if it rests on solid
rational principles, our dying person will take
his last step believing he is entering paradise.
But if instead of a simple desire, he has a
demand, doubt will have tormented him all through
his life and this torment will redouble itself at
the moment of death. It is only later that he will
finally experience peace.

I came across a situation comparable to mine; I still had the time to correct
my mistake and to reshape my life which, in spite of everything, toned down
markedly the pressing character of my desire. I was hooked so strongly to the love of
my dreams, to my fairy of peaks that the reality of the new Jeanne did not manage to
impose itself on me.

The exquisite naivety about which I have spoken to you at the very beginning
strengthened my blindness. Since a beautiful girl was a fairy, a perfect being, she
could not be neither silly, nor crafty, nor naughty, nor sick. Not even mortal.

Luckily enough, Jeanne could not refrain herself from exaggerating as she
normally did.

On her request, I had lovingly and for a long time prepared the itinerary of
our journey: she threw it in the dustbin and drove us at the will of her fantasy, “free,
she said, and no longer chained like bloody fools to a stupid programme.”

During our wandering, she suddenly vanished for a whole afternoon, without
warning: she came back in the evening at the camp site where I was walking in the
rain, together with a handsome young man who invited us to dinner. During the
whole meal, she gave him sweet looks, then she did not withdraw her hand for a long

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time when he took it in his, and finally, she said that she would follow him whilst I
went to put away the tent, but seeing my expression, she changed her mind.

I could not close an eye all night long, while she slept peacefully, huddled up
against me. The heat of the waves emitted by her body could have told me that she
still loved me, but I did not know yet how to translate that language. The following
day, when I had told her what was tormenting me; she accused me of being a jealous
pervert. The scene lasted all day and however, in the evening, love was still holding
me chained.

Then Jeanne started to treat me as if I was her bastard dog and she was a
sadistic teacher. All right, she did not beat me with a stick on my nose: what she did
was worse. For whole days I had to follow her as if she held me on the lead, and I
didn’t know what the plan was, supposing that there was one. If I dared to ask what
she needed me for, she shouted at me furiously: “Poor coward, look at you far away
from your niche! You are scared stiff and that gives you the impression that you are
walking on nails, you wretched person! Well, I am free! You just have to follow me,
as long I still put up with you. Come on! Wake up and go ahead. And then close your
mouth; otherwise you are going to swallow some flies.”

The episodes were linked to a mind numbing rhythm, all the more tiresome
the ones as well as the others.

– Jeanne, the tank is dry. I am going to top it up.

– Poor idiot! If, instead of mentally masturbating you tried to be a little more
efficient, the tank would be full. You are going to run out of petrol in the middle of
a deserted forest, smart as you are. But what made me set out with such a half-
witted person?

One evening when she had gone to sleep without warning me, as usual, I
found the tent shut from the inside. I dared to call her and ask her very politely to
open for me: “Ah! There you are! And you have the nerve to wake me up just when I
was dreaming of Gérard Philippe. Instead of my handsome knight, it’s the head of a

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nightmare that comes to harass me once again. Well no! It’s my night of rest. Go to
sleep in your car, man…”

It had been another sleepless night. I spent it tearing away the rope which
was still tying me to Jeanne. At the beginning the image of the sweet fairy that had
taken me in her arms and offered me her body emitting lights from its pores was
imposing itself very frequently. That vision towards which I was stretching my arms
while sighing was being over imposed by another vision, that of a virago who had
just chucked me out.

What exceptional resources do we have to face the immediate

dangers?

Since I did not understand anything there,

my demon of which you know, did not fail to come
and propose his services kindly, but I crushed his
mouth with a blow of my heel. When my existence is
in immediate danger, my Mômmanh mobilises all
unsuspected forces to send it back to its niche.

Little by little, I became capable of telling myself: “The true Jeanne is that
witch that is a hundred times worse than your mother. Forget the other one. Since you
could light up the love of one beautiful girl, you will soon find another. There are at
least two billion of them on earth. Do you think that you will not find the one that you
are looking for? Come on then! Rather ten times not one! Open your eyes well in
order not to miss her. And try to read well in her eyes the call of the ocean if it’s
found there.”

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 The used seats of the Deudeuch together with the humidity of a rainy night
had broken my body and my bones. In the early morning, it was painful to stretch
myself. It was still raining. I understood the expression “not to feel well” in a new
way: my senses perceived the surroundings with an unusual acuteness, but it seemed
to me that the messages which they were sending me had a strange taste, as if a
different body and not mine had sent them. “I was no longer feeling (my own body)
well”: it would have been wise of me to rest a little before taking up the road again. I
glued my ear to the tent and I listened: Jeanne was sleeping peacefully. Despite my
resentment, I was careful not to wake up the dragon. Since I was not suffering any
longer after my decision had been taken, I considered it useless to provoke a new fit
of anger.

I managed to find a youth hostel that was already open whose sweet warmth
together with a copious breakfast cheered me up. I went to look for Jeanne. When we
were seated, I said to her.

– How come you slept so well? Don’t our fights make you suffer?
– I am not like you, a masochist that tortures his brains. Me, I am free. If you
poison my life, I can take back my freedom at any time. I will never be attached…
– I thought that you loved me.
– For a while, yes. But now, what are you giving me to love? Nothing! It’s never
won, you know: you have to deserve me and you are getting further and further
away from that.
– Further than you think.
– Ah well?
– I am leaving you.
– Oh my goodness! What a big boy! Oh well… anyway it was nice of you to warn
me. Are you going to take me back home? Or do I have to walk back?
– I will take you to Paris. We leave.

She finished her breakfast and left quickly. I did not even notice that she was
pale, really pale! She spent an excessively long time on her personal hygiene and I
didn’t realise that she needed to be on her own to cry. Afterwards she started to sort

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out her belongings frenetically, something which she had hardly ever done before.
Therefore, I was not surprised that she had done that work in a very illogical way,
mixing the dry with the wet, the dirty with the clean, and her things with mine. She
packed the luggage three times, always with the same ardour which resembled rage.

I felt like a prisoner that had just been completely relieved of his shackles. It
was necessary for me to learn again how to move freely. I did not hate Jeanne any
more, because you have to love someone in order to hate them. So tell me, how on
earth could I be aware of the suffering she was concealing in such a staunch manner?

It is much later that I understood. At the holiday camp in Montchauvin, the

red fairy of the suburbs had given me everything that could make me a mad lover;
little did she care whether it was true or false. Later, when she thought that I was
completely attached, she started the taming: it was necessary for me to submit myself
to her will. But, in keeping with her character, my fairy having removed her make-up,
did not do things by halves: with big buckets of ice water, she carried out the
schooling excessively enough to sober up any man that is drunk with love.

Then, as Jeanne, swept away by her own momentum, had made herself so
repulsive that she had nearly snuffed out my love for her and it was not too painful
for me to bid her farewell after our arrival. However, she quickly became charming
again. I feared falling again into her trap. I wasn’t going to visit her family or her
glorious and proletarian red suburban city: Vieuvy-sur-Seine.

After having left her and her luggage at the door of her apartment block, I set
out back on my way. These idiotic lines came back to me:

“Parisian,
Dog’s head,
Parigot,
Calf’s head.”

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 They were crying out to me. I started to shout them out at the top of my
voice. That did me a world of good.

In spite of a strong tempest which was pouring bucketfuls of water on my

windscreen and which left me guessing now and then the route, I drove Nouvelle
Deudeuch as far as my house, at the heart of the hedged farmland.

195
196
 6-The Marriage.

What did she do to obtain two weeks holidays? I quite believe that she
underwent surgery. It seems to me that it was some kind of fashion at that time,
amongst the well informed young girls: to avoid all risks of appendicitis which could
have thwarted a pregnancy, they used to have their appendix removed. The fact is that
she arrived at my house, without warning, on a beautiful evening of the month of
October.

A primary school teacher, I “was teaching” at a school in the countryside, in

a big village with sweet hedged farmland to the West: Landory. I had rented a little
house at the edge of the fields, near a little wood dominating a charming valley, rich
in pastures, with extensive fertile lands, of cheerfulness, of scents and of fruits. Its
branches have just started to blaze the reddish colours of autumn.

Buried in this flourishing countryside, concealed beneath the hotch potch of

greenery; I often harboured the illusion that the evil ones would not come to look for
me there. On this planet which sometimes seemed to me too vast, sometimes too
little, Landory was my intimate refuge. But I also had the recollection that this shelter
had been ripped open during the carnages of the last World War. Thus, if I was well
here, at my house, I was thinking that I had to leave, for plenty of reasons, the most
pressing was this: the destiny of this little world which I loved so much was a gamble
elsewhere, and I wanted “to see.”

What is the field of active existence?

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 I call “the field of active existence” that
in which we can act. Oh well, you can notice that
the field of our active existence has become
worldwide. Doesn’t our Mômmanh request that we try
to come out in the best way from that big
planetarian mess? She even asks us to go and look
beyond.

Because, as the Ameridians before the conquest used to ignore the surprise
which the unknown ocean could bring to them, we do not know what the intersidereal
space is reserving for us.

And if it contains the same surprise as that of the Ameridians: whatever it

takes to destroy us?

My teaching day being over, I used to go home. I had “done my teaching”

three hours in the morning and three hours in the afternoon: during the breaks, I had
strolled to and fro the courtyard, chatting with my colleagues; I had assured the
supervision of the canteen at noon, in exchange for my meal, I had kept my grown-
ups an hour longer, for the evening study, to perfect their preparation for the
examinations, by making them swallow a supplementary problem and a dictation; I
had finally prepared my chart for the following day as well as my lessons. Ah! I was
going to forget to correct the copybooks. It was an ordinary day which ended well and
I was beginning to enjoy the two or three hours of freedom which were ahead of me.

I had the senior class, and naturally, they were all boys. The co-educational
system in our schools was still an exception: therefore the girls were in another
school. That is why all my students were boys. The inhabitants of the village, who
could be considered as important, all little “bourgeois,” sent their children to study in
the city, to the elementary, then to the secondary. AND that is why nearly all my
students were peasants. They were between eleven to fifteen years of age. Some of

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them were preparing for their entrance examination to the sixth class, some others the
famous “Certificate,” the Certificate of the Primary Studies, the test that these sons of
the working class had well acquired the “instruction” sufficient for that period of
time. In fact, the initiation of the young peasants was marked by two tests: the
“Certificate,” and the revision council, republican tests in which one had to be
successful to be a real man.

The “Certificate” was the crowning of the primary level studies. One had to
do it at the age of fourteen, the end of compulsory schooling, and whoever obtained a
pass mark in it was very proud: “Ah! Good God!” For the occasion, they had the right
to some brandy, a “Man’s” drink, and there was some in excess.

The Revision Council was an examination of good physical and mental

health for which it was necessary to present oneself naked in front of the Mayor and
plenty of “sirs.” The “sirs” were people who in all circumstances spoke correct
French and who, everyday, wore shoes, a suit, a tie, and were “intelligent,” that is to
say cultured and consequently destined to managerial posts. The young peasant, the
conscript who had passed successfully in front of the Revision Council was classified
“Suitable for military service,” that is to say that he would soon have the honour to
serve in the French army. “Suitable for the army, In the Name of God”: with this
declaration which they declaimed proudly for whoever wanted to hear it, the happy
chosen ones finally felt fully fledged men; they were so expected to celebrate in the
company of the “conscripts,” and to wash down copiously, with plenty of rounds, the
happy event.

But History was not trotting: she had already started galloping. She was
relegating rapidly in the folklore and in the museums that way of living which my
youth had kneaded. As a little ordinary peasant, I had known school in clogs, the trips
in the cart, the common room of the little farm with its two big beds, its big chimney
and its beaten earth floor, lit by an oil lamp, the water which we used to bring up from
the shafts, the poultry which pecked and shook themselves in the yard and on the
stony path… And now, you see where we are! The speed and the nature of the

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changes which have appeared on the menu of these last thirty years are such that I
suffer from a permanent indigestion. Slow down, please! But, as the song goes:

“It’s not you who are leading the train, it’s the train which is leading you…”

However, as regards the changes, I formed part of those who wanted some of
them in big numbers! When you will know the original meaning of the expression
“All the time and at every opportunity,” you will know what sort of world I wanted.

While the peasant complained “all the time and in every opportunity,” the
factory worker did the same thing “all along the chain”: this last expression which I
have just imagined is the equivalent of the first. You know how the factory worker
complained, he who all day long, of the week, of the year, and even of the very same
life sometimes, in his noisy factory, he remained tied to a manufacturing chain or to
the assembly line, the body and the mind totally absorbed in repeating indefinitely the
two or three precise actions for which there were still no robots.

Oh yes! Man, that dear child of Mômmanh, so gifted, and who does not know
yet the limit of his capabilities, compelled to be nothing else but a living part of the
mechanical chain of the factory: it was the last dated of his broken hopes and all those
promises of fertile lives once more thrown as food to the business sharks.

The factory worker evaded that slavery at the end of each week, during the
two precious days of the weekend; he escaped from them once more in the occasion
of numerous public holidays, sometimes stretched by the extended weekends; he
finally got to know the total escape during the plentiful weeks of the paid holidays.
The less known condition of the peasants, at the same time, was worse.

Most of the time, the peasant was busy working a field, strip by strip, his big
clogs weighing down by the sticky land, progressing painfully from one end to the
other of the land, coming back in the same way and doing this till all the surface had
been entirely done, in the same way the labourer advanced heavily furrow after
furrow. This boredom was increased by the physical effort, sometimes painful, which

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rendered the body heavier still. Having arrived at the end of the field, the peasant was
highly tempted to stop to “have a sip,” or simply to rest, or still go back home saying:
“I shall continue tomorrow, considering that I’m not in good shape.” from which the
expression: “All the time at every opportunity”: one could not “drink all the time and
at every opportunity,” nor idle about, much less have a nap or go to see his beautiful
one at the end of the field!

And it is because, although the cities are more and more distant from the
countryside, one hears nevertheless reflections of this type: “Refrain from asking me
the time all the time and at every opportunity!”, “One must not sound one’s horn all
the time and at every opportunity!” and even, with a great depth, “One cannot make
love all the time at every opportunity.”

Ah well, for me, this expression has kept all the strength of its origins. When
I hear it, it always attracts in full light, towards the eye of my conscience, some
enduring and painful recollections of my youth as a peasant. Yes, I still see that
blasted field and its end often worked till the brink of despair. After having grunted
for an hour to hoe and earth up a row of potatoes, I finally reached the end of the
field; the only perspective was to grunt all along another row and so on and so forth
till the end of the day, then till the end of the week, and start again for all the other
heavy manual jobs such as the spreading of the manure, the hoeing, the reaping… till
the end of the year, till the end of life.

And do you know that it was not the only sorrow of the peasant? It was not
enough to deprive him of the slightest real chance to start a surprising voyage towards
the infinities of space and of time, to start to weave his existence in a cloak of stars
covered by millions of springs; it was not enough that he had been nailed to the soil,
condemned for his whole life, not to have any horizon but the end of his field, it was
also necessary for him to suffer and that his body in pain had been disfigured, dirty,
worn out prematurely by that work which was too hard. When compared to his great-
grandchildren, the youngsters of our time, the peasant of that time was short because
his slavery did not allow him enough time to grow up, and he was doomed to a
premature death, worn out by an exhausting job. If you do not truly understand what I

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have wanted to say, take a good spade like ours, solid, quite heavy, and dedicate a
little time to turn over the soil of the garden: well ahead of the falling of the night, my
message will be inscribed in your flesh.

The Church used to ban work on a Sunday, except when necessary otherwise
it was necessary to ask the permission of the Parish Priest. It was the Day of the Lord
and also the only day of rest of the week. Ah well, do you know how it was spent? It
was necessary to wash oneself – Yes! – in a cauldron of hot water, to go to mass; it
was necessary to milk the cows, clean the cowshed and the stable, feed quite
frequently during the day all the animals: cows, calves, bulls, horses, pigs, chickens,
rabbits… which did not exempt him at all from preparing the meals for the human
beings. Guess how much free time did he have left to widen his horizon?

It is because, on reaching the end of our potato or beetroot field, many a time
I happened to have a fit of despair. It is because school had become so important to
me, after that day of my infancy when I had gone there out of sheer curiosity:
Mrs Dorisse, the infants’ teacher, had kindly invited me to look in her magic lantern.
It was like a box into which one could look through a hole. One could see photos
which for me were marvellous: mountains, rivers, black people, cities, and Chinese…
a glimpse of the vast world, inaccessible after the prison which my village stood for.
After which, Mrs Dorisse had crammed my pocket with biscuits and had sent me
back home because I was too young.

Guess what I am thinking of.

From my school, I was expecting my freedom and, since I was not

completely selfish, that of my young peasant friends. I hated the slavery of the fields;
I refused that pseudo-existence of a mole or an ant. I wanted to see with my own eyes
the vast world, and I did not want to be happy with the stories which they related to
us. I wanted to taste with my own mouth the amazing flavours: the mere evocation
did not give me satisfaction. I wanted to contribute to the development of the
machines and expertise, a progress which was already well-committed and which
would bring well-being and leisure to the peasants. And even if I had, with my own

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eyes, to discover that the universe was not turning as it should, I quite had the
intention to contribute to rectify its function.

Finally I reckoned that school pulled me out of the slavery of the fields that it
led me to a vast world to taste the new pleasures I caught a glimpse of in the books,
and finally she rendered me master of my existence. Besides, the expression “to be
master of” was part of my peasant language and when I used to tell my father:

– I am quite free to do what I want, anyway!

– My little boy, you are master of your soup when it is eaten.” he answered me.

The immense call for freedom which, for me, made itself heard at school and
encouraged me to study, and I was far from thinking that it would have led me so far
away, on tracks which sometimes were difficult and dangerous. For all that, I have
never given up: when I believe to have the permission to rest for a long time, it does
not take me long before I am spared to get back on the saddle. But does knowledge
truly render a person free? What do you think?

In which way is knowledge a liberator? In which way is

ignorance a prison?

I asked the question to Mômmanh. Quite

often, her answer was confused. I believe that she
wanted to say this.

“Knowledge, is the freedom which is no

longer blindfolded. Let us see, I have created you
so that you’d be my liberated consciousness, my

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 clear perspective on the universe. Do you want to
deprive me of this so, so precious consciousness?

– Surely no.

– Without this knowledge of the world which

I beg you to bring to me, my wish for existence
cannot find ways to realize itself. It is not free
to do what it wants. The chains and the prisons
are not the only shackles: ignorance too.”

It is because my return to my native land, as an instructor, was only

temporary. I was preparing a new take-off to discover the world. I dedicated a good
part of my spare time to inform myself about the possibilities of a career abroad. Was
it that perhaps I had to leave alone, without my beloved one? “Ah well, so much the
worst!” Since I had finally succeeded to seduce a beautiful girl, I should hope truly, to
find another one whose behaviour was not totally disconcerting, where my road led
me. Was I dreaming of the Polynesian girls? It seemed to me that it was so. Luckily,
“My Love” had not renounced to her prey: I therefore did not have the opportunity to
follow to a bitter disillusion this mirage of a beautiful exotic virgin kissing, my
majestic feet of a great white sachem, after having washed them.

While waiting, not having the slightest suspicion of the new turn which
destiny was going to play on me, I returned peacefully to my house, on a sumptuous
autumn evening, dreaming that the mushrooms would become rare but that the time
of the chestnuts was nearly there. The air was lively: there would be the dew the
following morning, and perhaps even some fog. Behind the little wood with red
foliage, the sun was on the verge of setting. It was embracing the sky with an
immense firework, with an orgy of colours which moved me. Who was the generous
leader of the orchestra? And where? Whoever he was, a thousand thanks!

Was it for that reason that there was an apparition on the threshold of my
house? Yes, I know: you are not at all surprised, since you knew it before my arrival.

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 But for me, it was more than a surprise and I was quite close, that evening, to believe
again in the supernatural.

She was sitting on the granite doorstep of my house, indifferent to the

freshness of the air, although she was sensitive to the cold. In fact, I realised soon that
she was shivering, and I know now why she exposed herself to the freshness of the
evening: it was “to be better warmed up, my child!”

God! How beautiful she was!

How the theory of the struggle for existence is still nothing

but a hypothesis.

Don’t worry, if notwithstanding the fact

that I had become a materialistic atheist, I
address God just the same. Be assured, there is no
sign of madness. When beauty is soon given to me
suddenly, fulfilling with one stroke my desires
beyond all the hope, that I exclaim: “Yes! I will
follow you everywhere. I will never forget.” when
it is so strong that I will fall on my knees if
the fear of being ridiculed will not hold me back,
if it is not God, whom therefore do you want me to
take as witness? Mômmanh? Surely no! I would be
showing off, to invoke a hypothesis.

“What? Well, I agree! I continue my “story.”

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 She embraced me lovingly as if the tearing apart of our couple had never
taken place. With one stroke I was conquered again. No, I was not feeling like a net
which fell on me and paralysed my movements: on the contrary, I was feeling a
sensation of great freedom, even of release. I warmed her with my body, then I lit the
fire in the fireplace and we celebrated our reunion as lovers.

Although we carefully respected the loving ritual which our young

experience had taught us, we could not know that evening, ecstatic union of the
bodies and the souls. A little disappointed, and vaguely worried, we tried to sleep just
the same. Later, we discovered that such a partial failure followed nearly always an
extended separation. It was necessary that our two beings would discover themselves,
assess themselves again; re-adjust themselves one to the other so that our bodies
could in their own way enter in harmony and so they would enjoy the inspiration of a
beautiful concert of love.

What is the negative stress? What is the positive stress? What

is anxiety?

Reconciliation follows the fight. It is

then; a friend said to me, that one finds the
pleasure of making love.

Is it necessary therefore to provoke some

fights to get to know the best of love? That will
be enough to drive you up the wall “because that
does so much good when it stops.” But, in what
concerns us you could have realised that it is not
at all necessary to provoke artificial conflicts.
Let’s make the best therefore of this opportunity.

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And as for you, there is a less painful technique
which you will know well how to discover.

Mômmanh has put in us two types of stress:

the pain when we lose the existence and the
happiness when we gain some of it. Two types of
anxieties correspond to it: the fear of losing
something acquired, which we call “fear,” and the
hope of gaining new existence, otherwise called
the “desire.” Fear gives us the chances of
avoiding the catastrophe and the desire helps us
to construct happiness.

We enjoy a moment of happiness when stress

is over.

Having said that, is it better to have to

celebrate the armistice of 1918?… of the
discoveries of Pasteur? It is because we classify
as “negatives” the first type of stress, related
to sorrow and as “positive” the second, linked to
happiness.

That does not prevent the negative stress

from serving existence: they reveal their
weaknesses. But it is better that they produce
themselves under the form of anxiety, before the
catastrophe. In other words it is better to be
afraid of the accident before taking the wheel
than when arriving at the morgue.

The outcome of a lovers’ fight when it

solves itself happily, puts therefore an end to

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 the weakness of their love. It was one more step
ahead.

If the peace which was hard to achieve is

true, if we make love at that very moment, if we
know well how to do it and, finally, if we are
rather generous for the right thing to do,
therefore our confused flesh must sing a new air,
an exquisite music that we have never known yet.
We will feel like hearing it.

Do you want an example? Here it is.

My well-beloved Jeanne declared: “If I am going to say “yes”-, if one day our
children will have better chances of succeeding in their studies at the catholic school,
I will send them without hesitation to the priests, between the woolly demagogy of
the laymen and the success of my children, my choice is done.”

She did it, one more time. There followed a long period of discussions which,
too often, led to violent disputes. They ended sometimes with break-ups which I did
not know if they were definite and that hurt me.

Finally the day of reconciliation arrives.

This time, it’s a true progress. Each one of us has shown himself capable of
improving his point of view to do something more reasonable, that is to say a better
perception of reality in order to build a better existence for us.

The secular’s ideal is a priority, because, without it, our children as well as
the future humanity will be in danger: such is the new conviction of my beloved one.
The scholastic success is another priority and the bad management which reigns in
certain schools does not allow them to reach it: here is the new opinion which I owe
to that crisis. We have at least agreed.

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 A glowing kiss seals the new found peace. This peace seems solid, because it
is good, good… We feel the pressing desire to go further in this way.

We chatted while we caressed each other all over.

– If, in their school, the proportion of the dropouts becomes such that it is
not possible to follow completely the course, what shall we do?
– We shall look for another secular school for their own good, and that, will
not be too far away from us. We will find a means to enrol our children.
– Yes, but what if they refuse to enrol them under the pretext that we do not
live in the area of that school?
– We shall find surely a means. Others will follow…

The conversation continued peacefully accompanied by caresses which were

more and fierier. Soon I remained silent to enjoy attentively the pleasure, especially
the one I was giving because it guided my caresses: this way, it does not matter; here
and there it is hot; here and there, it’s exquisitely burning. Oh my my!

We found ourselves naked on the bed.

While our souls have given themselves again to each other, our bodies were
talking. While feeling each other, they found the best ways to communicate to fulfil
their fusion. These contacts are hot, sweet, sources of waves which go flowing like a
stream, like a river, like the sea. Electric? I don’t know anything about it. Exquisite
these waves, in any case. Much better than my grandma’s apple pie. I understand now
the expression “I have it in my skin.”

Jeanne too is listening to my pleasure. She adjusts her caresses consequently

and creates an excitement in certain parts of my body which I did not know to be
so… so… much?

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 – Erogenous, you might say. Perhaps, but it’s a word which does not speak.
Let us say that they are the doors to paradise. Yes, dear reader, what else do you wish
to know?
– Is it truly necessary that each of the two partners looks for the pleasure of
the other?

Making love can be compared to a voyage in space. By means of caresses,

the two lovers lead to the fusion of the two bodies which provokes a concentration of
energy. When that concentration is sufficient, it is enough to stimulate the two
detonators so that they explode at the same time, provoking the setting-off of the
rocket and its take-off. These explosions are called orgasms. The vagina, the vulva,
the clitoris and the penis, surely, can act as detonators.

I will now try to answer your question.

One can, in fact, love a selfish person. It is necessary however for the selfish
person, when he feels the surge of the explosion of pleasure, to be able to bring the
altruist into his cockpit. Otherwise, he will explode alone and his rocket will remain
on the ground. His altruist lover must be able to find the very sensitive spot from
where the explosion will take place and know how to caress it properly.

– And what if one of them can not take off?

I think that for each to go up to heaven one at a time is impossible. However,

it is possible to reach the end of the road as long as your partner encourages you. Here
is a recipe that gave us satisfaction.

The lover has made use of all of this talents as an expert lover – he has tried
everything and the beautiful girl has still not got off. It can no longer wait. The rocket
will go off alone. Then, his love says:

– Go on, my darling. Continue without me. Today, I can’t do it.

– Are you sure? What a shame!

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– You can do me the favour another time. Besides, I will still enjoy your happiness.
I am with you. Go on! Do it!

Because she invites him to, he can take off. Even if her heart is with him, this
exquisite journey does not have the same unrivalled taste of the great journey made
together. But if he goes on alone without the prompting of his darling, it is not even
really a handjob.

How can selfishness kill love?

Therefore, not a grand trip in the company

of a totally selfish person: Mômmanh grants the
last reward to the capable lovers, to enrich
themselves, to go and draw elsewhere and not in
their ego. By this means, she pushes us to enlarge
our existential field.

Well done, Mômmanh.

And now, let’s get back to the path of the stars.

We stretched ourselves naked, entwined on our bed. Our flesh was caressing
ardently. We lay in the bed on the side, me behind her. That position offers plenty of
advantages. She puts in contact the greater part of our body: our burning flesh,
electrified, exchanging delightful messages. Now I know why women’s bums
undulate and invite us to follow them: they have something to offer.

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 When I am in contact with them I feel a sweet warmth which is not like that
of the radiator, and exquisite surges of electricity take place that EDF (the French
electricity company) could never provide.

This non commercial electricity accompanied by an exquisite warmth is what

I call the real body language. An argument, another one, that ends with: “You filthy
bastard. I never want to see you again. I must have had sh.. in my eyes when I loved
you! You’re not only a little Hitler, you’re also a good for nothing.” When a quarrel
has ended at the gates of despair, it is in bed that I know whether I need to take the
words said by the mouth seriously or not.

If Jeanne’s buttocks are as cold as the rest of her body and if the power is off,
then yes, it’s serious. But if the buttocks spread their sweet warmth along whilst the
electric waves tickle me deliciously, if the buttocks say “YES, YES,” then all is well.
These are words that Jeanne’s mouth is not allowed to pronounce, usually because
she has to save face, show her independence and thus her strength. Fortunately, even
when the mouth is shut, her buttocks still have something to say. The other areas of
skin known as “erogenous” zones are in tune. But to help save face, to go from hell to
heaven, it is the warm words of the buttocks that I prefer to listen to.

Yes, they play an important role in the merger of lovers’ bodies and souls.
This large and soft skin surface offers an exquisite contact with the lover’s belly and
thighs. Through burning caresses, he exchanges waves of pleasure with his darling’s
body. He listens to the responses of her body which sometimes exhales with cries and
sighs. He answers as best he can in the same language, mainly by moving his caresses
to where demand is urgent.

These caresses of the buttocks, around the “beautiful ass,” are perhaps after
all a survival instinct that is inscribed in human genes from the times of “animal”
mating. It was done from behind by our distant animal ancestors! Perhaps such a
large area of skin also promotes the production of a large amount of electricity, which
merges the two beings. In this regard, do scientists ever take the appropriate

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measuring devices such as voltmeters, ammeters and so on when they are in bed with
their darlings? If so, what are the results?

Anyway, the conversation with Jeanne’s ass is an almost essential step

towards the act of carnal love. It leads our bodies to the exalted desire to go further,
higher, better, much better.

In this position, I can also feel with my whole hands the breasts of my
beloved one, kiss her mouth at the price of some wriggling, and caress her half open
sex with mine.

The fusion of our bodies has started. I penetrate tenderly my dear Jeanne, the
beautiful one in which I want to be lost and reborn, the good fairy who has at last
agreed with me. Her welcome is so sweet, so warm, so quivering that I feared I could
not wait for the signal to start.

In a technical language, that is called precocious ejaculation. How do you

avoid that miserable failure?

Now, I know how. I practice a technique to fight addictions and other desires
that are so compelling that they almost become basic needs and make us their slaves,
like drugs. To begin, I use my willpower. Then I find a harmless substitute for these
drugs. Finally, I focus my attention on a positive action which should give me a great
deal of satisfaction.

Therefore, faced with the desire to ejaculate, I imagine that my impatience

reflects a need: to release my seed. It is enough therefore that I have the strength to
renounce to it. Then, I say to myself: “No man, you must not go alone. Don’t do it! In
order that it would not be too heroic, I said to myself that I could often, in case of
necessity, evacuate my sperm “with my hand,” later on surely. But the craving for
ejaculation cannot be forgotten so easily. I need another ally. On the rubble of this
frustrated need, I must quickly install a healthy desire. Easy: I just have to concentrate
on the calls of my darling, by saying to myself: “Let her enjoy! Oh yes, let her go up

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 to heaven!” Thus relieved, I can continue to accompany Jeanne in her pleasure, until
the moment when she will be ready to take off.

With my sex, with my hands, and with my whole body, I look for the
caresses which spark off in her waves of pleasure and flood us too with exquisite
warmth.

The longed for moment arrived. Thank God, I could wait for it.

We two explode for a long time, again and again. Our bodies are carried
away in a whirlwind of mad embraces which lead us far away, far away…

Two have become one. This two in one is calm, serene, happy. Shall I dare
say that it spreads out to the dimensions of the universe? This will be literally a
pretension without boundaries. Ah well, I said all the same, because it is that which I
feel again.

Time is abolished. Invulnerable, we sail two in One… both of us in a moment

of triumphant eternity.

Is this what the Buddhists call nirvana?

This grand voyage succeeded after the reshaping of the souls until the fusion
of the bodies, in all my life, I have never known anything better. But it could not be
granted to us that evening. It was necessary first to clean ourselves well from the
nasty quarrel which had separated us.

What are the differences between screwing up and making love?

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 Oh yes! Love is not a joke, because it is
impossible to cheat. Admire, once more, the wisdom
of nature. The old blind teacher wants to guide us
well while feeling our way towards happiness and
ecstasy, provided that our thought would be enough
to accept the necessary minimum of humbleness, but
it would be in vain to want to cheat in th e
pleasures of love… She will not grant that one
except to those who have won it.

“What? What are you saying? How? Thinking of

stealing the pleasures of love, it’s really a
funny idea. But why do it?” My poor friend, it
however quite simple: one will make use of the act
of carnal love like a drug. One will connect the
complementary sexual organs like one plugs in an
electrical appliance, the male plugs fitted
together in the female plugs, and then one will
experience the supreme happiness. One can do it,
for example, after having in an inebriated state,
crushed some bicycles and their drivers; one can
do it after having lost his job through idleness,
or still after having sold his house to pay the
gambling debts; one can do it to forget, and let
life carry on with its open wounds. What the
lovers do will not be in the best of cases,
anything but a fine champagne of excellent quality
and one can buy it not at the grocer’s, but in a
hotel in the red district zone.

No! What they sell in brothels is a totally

different thing. Here, in this regard, it reminds
me of an old story that I was told in Ouagadougou
by an old colonial folkloric colonel that liked to

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drink a bit too much. Lovesick, he had gone to see
a beautiful prostitute. He liked to believe that
she was attracted to the man that he had become,
an uninteresting man that was starting to get old.
He always believed this whilst he “made love” to
her. But the beautiful woman made some very
strange sounds, such as chewing and sucking
noises. Was this her way of expressing her
pleasure? At the end of his story, the man said:
“Well, you’ll never guess what it was! The bitch
was sucking on a mango!”

As I have said before – what does it matter

if ramble on! – Love bursts out when two beings of
complementary sexes enrich mutually their
existence to such a point that they yearn to
copulate. Those there, only will receive the
supreme reward because, throughout the dark times,
Mômmanh has known that it was good f or her
majestic desire of EXISTENCE: whoever overtakes in
order to gain love will be like a crook, having
done at least one step in that direction. So, to
whoever cheats, his Mômmanh who knows him well is
not going to give the ecstasy. At best, he will
feel a bitter pleasure made up of regrets of what
he has lost while cheating.

Moreover, the waves which irradiate the

bodies of the lovers at the moment of the orgasm,
and which transport us without a spaceship or a
parachute across the stars, the waves unlike
anything else are cries of joy which our Mother of
the Remotest Ages keeps for us: Mômmanh in person.
To one of them she asks:

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 “So, have you finally found the mother of
your children?”

And he answers her sincerely

“Yes, my Mômmanh.”

To the other, she says:

“And you, my pretty one, have you finally

met the father of your children?”

So, like the burst of an echo a triumphant

“yes!” Mômmanh opens her great heart of stars and
of ferns.

“Little does it matter to what type of

children you are going to dedicate your life: some
small children full of promises, a farm of horses,
the struggle against sickness, the restoration of
the hungry bodies and of the tired souls, the
creation of beauties which carry us away towards
happy tomorrows, the tapestry, the cheese shop,
the embroidery, the tripe shop… little does it
matter to me! Granted that you have chosen them
together and that, you love them, you have enough
heart to love yourselves as well. Come, my
children, so that I embrace you.”

So, a breathtaking kiss brings to an end the

discussion.

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 How love requires a minimum of altruism

And if two lovers are interested strictly in

themselves? Theoretically, such a case is
impossible because we are tied to the six aspects
of the existence; the three altruistic like the
three selfish ones.

So be it. But people that only ever think of

themselves should not fall in love with their
mirror image. Instead, surely what they need is a
generous partner that satisfies their desires? Ah
well, no. This love partner should first of all
share the same values: selfish values. Otherwise
they will always be a potential enemy. Tell me:
can a dedicated union activist and a rich drug
trafficker love each other?

Well. So, if two lovers practice only the

minimum of altruism and a maximum of selfishness,
will they have the blessing of Mômmanh just the
same?

We have seen that, this blessing does not

come unless the two bodies have given themselves
to each other. Therefore, even the most selfish
person must seek the pleasure of their lover.

First of all, before getting there, they

have to seduce them, i.e. give his “myself-here-
now” to the other “myself-here-now,” for example,

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 “my house, my garden, my servants, my sumptuously
laid table, my prestige…” must be compatible with
corresponding wishes of the partner.

And before seducing them, they must make

themselves attractive by decorating their wedding
presents with good bait: assets, a well paid and
prestigious job, skills, relationships, health and
physical strength. They must make themselves “good
match.” He has had to tear away from the “now” and
work hard for the future.

In brief, even for the selfish person, the

search for love imposes a certain renouncement to
the “myself-here-now,” a minimum dose of altruism.

Why has the natural selection given to man selfishness and

altruism?

But the true question is not there. Why is

it that Mômmanh will only bless altruistic love?
Through us, it is necessary to say it again; she
searches for the six forms of human existence and
the three selfish ones form part of it.

Through man, on our little planet, Mômmanh

reaches a field of the consciousness infinitely
vast compared to those which she had known until
then, that it was through the things or through

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the human beings. And remember, my friend reader,
the way in which she gets there: through the
tunnel which constitutes each one amongst us,
6 billion human beings, 6 billion distinct and
necessarily different liberated consciences,
obeying each one to that little bit of Mômmanh.
And each of these tiny plots carried the need for
the existence of the whole, which is at work in
all nature. Each “I” wants to exist throughout the
whole of the universe. Nothing less than that.

I chose myself as example, myself, among the

6 billion, because it is the only one which I have
in my hand.

The tiny bit of Mômmanh who commands me uses

my liberated conscience to realise her wish for
existence. She has brought me the memory of the
tastes of all my ancestors as from the mineral
age, the memory of all that pleased them. My
existence consists in repeating those pleasures as
much as possible and to invent others like them,
even better, more close to the fulfilment, which
is perhaps nothing but the control of the infinite
in the space of time.

Locked up like this in the interior of my

liberated conscience, the biggest of all the
prisons, my Mômmanh appreciates above all the
existence which she can feel through my senses,
concrete therefore, sure, and which at the same
time satisfy her own tastes. In one word, my
Mômmanh prefers the selfish existence, so close to
her. And you, what pleasures do you feel best?

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 Your own? Or those which perhaps your great-grand
children will know?

So, do you think that Mômmanh is going to

forbid the selfish from loving?

However, her old experience has taught her

that selfishness is death. She will therefore
grant t he priority to altruism. The existence
closest to her will be blessed as long as the
existence will seem assured far away from her, in
space and in time: preferably for the myself-here-
now, priority to the other-elsewhere-always.

Therefore, that night, we had not been happy lovers. Frustration woke us up
early the following day at the small hours. Our embraced bodies were rather cold
when they should have warmed each other mutually. Since the air was very fresh, I lit
the fire in the chimney. During that time, Jeanne made the coffee. I took out a round
loaf of peasant bread, slices of smoked bacon and some Reinette apples, small and
quite miserable but which stung strongly our mouth and forced it to appreciate them.
There was also some quite creamy milk of the neighbouring farm and some salted
butter. Jeanne had invited herself by surprise, and I could not buy her favourite food
which eliminates the fat well before stifling the beauty. She therefore gave herself the
exceptional pleasure to devour the same breakfast as myself. The good mood settled
in.

You know the extraordinary glues of our time, magic potions which lead
back to life the broken porcelains, and which render intact the broken objects, more
solid at the glued places than they were before: could a love be patched up that way? I
did not believe it. I asked Jeanne about our break up and she answered.

– Which break up?

– You have already forgotten all those painful never ending scenes and without

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outcome, after our departure for Austria. And the decision we had to take to part?
– I do not know what you want to talk about. Is it truly important? Do you love
me? Here is what matters. Say! Do you love me?
– If I love you? Oh by Jove!
– So, why don’t you say it?
– Because I prefer to prove it.
– One does not prevent the other. I said it to you well, I! Michel, I will love you all
my life.
– I love you, Jeanne! And I will always love you! Whatever happens.
– Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! It is not frequent but when it gets you, you become funnily
strong!

And naturally, our two bodies met again, each one finding besides the other
the spot he had often looked for. His spot! Since our bodies are made of temporarily
alive matter, a wise combination of atoms and of molecules, I started to ask the
following question: when some hydrogen atoms and those of oxygen precipitate in
the arms of one and the other forming water, with such a violence that one hears a
great “bang!” do they feel a happiness as big as ours?” Oh yes! My madness, my mad
need to understand everything was capable of spoiling the best moments. I was
leaning to push her out of the way; at the same time, Jeanne carried me away
resolutely on the way to happiness. She had come back; she had always been there,
my well-beloved witch.

A thousand times more sure than the words which came out of her mouth,
her delightful body of a fairy, in its whole entity, was saying: “I love you! Ah! I love
you so much!” Lightning thoughts were crossing my mind:
– In order that she will never cease to love me like this, I will go as far as to
walk on all fours and bark like a dog.
– Hey there! Aren’t you ashamed? If, as it has already happened, you must
mutilate your dignity to nourish the hope of being loved, send your lovely one to the
devil and without beating around the bush. There are thousands of others.
– But finally, blasted kill-joy, I realise: since her arrival, she has not insulted
you even once! It is perhaps the Jeanne of the strolls in the Alps who has come back

222
for good. She has chased away the other, the virago of the holidays in Austria, like
one drives away a nightmare after a painful awakening.

I had a violent yearning to believe that that last thought was expressing the
truth: also without seeing that aspect of fairy tales which she had, I considered her as
true.

Suddenly, the beginning of the worries which had aroused in me the curious
forgetfulness of my exquisite promise was very easily forgotten. Her body had the
taste of chestnuts and it evoked the opera which is played in the autumn sky.

So, we loved each other.

Is it quite reasonable?

The incident which followed our new nuptials should have made me
suspicious, but it passed nearly unobserved.

I prepared myself to go to work. So, the virago, the one I had known in
Austria, pointed again her wicked chin.

– Where are you going my love?

– To work.
– Well there you are! You have not wasted any time to take up your old grimy
habits! Now that you have screwed up well, you let me fall like an old sock! What
a bastard!
– But, my dear, let’s see! What happened to you? I have not “screwed up”: we have
made love and it was marvellous. So why are you all so upset now? It is just as if
we had constructed a beautiful house for us two, and that you destroyed it even
before we have lived in it.
– Stop my dear. It is not worth tiring yourself. I don’t know what has come over me
suddenly. Perhaps the fear of being pregnant. Forget all that do you want to?

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 And the great strangeness was erased by a tender kiss.

I left Jeanne at the house, all busy taking hold of the situation, and I went to
visit my young friends, for a school day.

The children, lined up in front of the entrance of the class, showed me their
hands stretched forth, a face then another: I could conclude that they were properly
washed. I felt they were devoured by curiosity, but they kept silent and disciplined
and none of them would have dared ask me the slightest of questions which were
burning their lips.

At that time, the peasants saw the teacher as a superior person, a “Mister”
who came down from his coach to come amongst them in the middle of the dung of
the cows and tried to teach them, if not them for whom it was too late, at least their
children. Although the French Revolution had happened ages ago, sowing across all
the countryside the belief that all men are by nature, at all cost, equal, in spite of the
praiseworthy effort followed for two centuries, the majority of the peasants,
themselves, remained convinced of being by nature inferior men to whom the lottery
of inheritance had unluckily given a limited intelligence.

That idea held on to the wrong interpretation of a fact: if they had not
“learned well at school,” according to them, it was inevitably because they were not
“gifted.” In that logic, those who had shown themselves capable of studying in the
colleges and in the secondary schools of the city, those about whom one said with
respect that they had gone to “The Big Schools,” those were “intelligent.” And the
peasants believed that the majority of their children had not received the gift of
intelligence since, in spite of all their efforts combined with those of the teacher and
the remonstrance of the parents, they did not learn much.

But they were keen on this practical knowledge, authenticated by the famous
Certificate of Primary Studies because it contributed a great deal to the improvement
of their life. Furthermore, the primary school was also a lottery from where a big hit

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came out from time to time: an exceptional child, gifted for studies. One came to an
arrangement then “to push” him into the “big schools.” Such had been my case.

Therefore, the teacher was supposed to have a superior intelligence. He gave

the precious “primary instructions” which the peasants appreciated a great deal and,
by doing so, he could from time to time, like a happy fisherman sometimes pull out of
the water a legendary pike, arouse a beautiful thought of the great class, a Leonardo
da Vinci who lay dormant, hidden behind the hedged bushes, at the end of the muddy
road. I suppose that all these reasons had contributed to the setting up of the precious
rule: one had to respect absolutely the “school teachers.” Happy times for the
teachers… But this is another story.

To my young brothers, the peasants, my students, I was yearning to give this

pleasure which would not have cost me anything: announce that Jeanne was my
fiancée who had come from Paris especially to see us, me and my Landoriens, before
our imminent marriage. But, after a good moment, my “guardian angel” pulled me by
my sleeve into my blind consciousness. I listened finally to him because he is often a
good adviser.

What is the purpose of dreams? Do we have a guardian angel?

But I have not yet introduced my guardian

angel. It is no use envying me, because, you have
one as well. Mine is called Dionysus.

When I am awake, my Mômmanh is very busy

controlling what am I going to do; at the same
time, she must supervise the surroundings. She
gets important information that she has no time to

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deal with: so, she stocks it up. At night, when I
sleep, she “goes over” them and she integrates
into my existence what she judges useful, the most
frequent true dreams. The result is sent to my
conscience which accepts only a part, the
unacceptable is suppressed.

It is often when I awake that Dionysus talks

to me, but he can do it even later. That was the
case on that day. He called me with insistence
like an irritating alarm clock.

“So? You see well that one must not disturb

me now! But what do you want from me, at the end?
– You are going to do a great stupidity. Besides,
you have already started it. It is not the moment
to speak to them about the girl who slept at your
house. Certainly no! – Ah! And why then? –
Because you are not married, hare-brained fellow!
– That is a good one, I like that! – Are you
mucking about with me? – Oh sorry what an
imbecile I am! – Ah! You see: vanity makes you
lose your head. – Yes, you have the right to show
off. Without you, I will be in a mess. It is even
possible that I would have lost my Jeanne. But no:
by putting all those problems on my back I could
see well if she was keen on me. – In order to
know it, you definitely don’t need to set her to
trial… Life will continue to take care of her
freely. In any case, one must not provoke a
lynching by prolonging that impracticable
situation. – Still once more, you are right.
Thanks for having warned me. I will get even with
you. – I ask myself well how! While waiting you

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 would do better to start the lessons: your
students are beginning to fidget.”

Dionysos, then, had just reminded me that,

according to circumstances, Landory was sometimes
an oasis of human warmth where one had better take
up his strength, sometimes a hunting place for
man.

By facing the brave Landoriens, Jeanne had placed us in a dangerous

situation. And I, who should have known it, had committed us headlong in that
trap which not going to take long to close. Does love render one stupid?

How an isolated village is a closed field of existence, an

existential prison.

At that time, the country communes were

still quite often bubbles where the existences of
their inhabitants were shut up. The long epoch
during which each village was an existential space
completely closed, was not too far. The majority
of the people, having nothing but their feet to
move about, never went beyond the nearby villages.
Apart from the dreams, the part of the existence
linked to others could fulfil themselves only
there, naked under the look of the villagers who
knew each other and who saw everything. Therefore,
it was dangerous to infringe the rules of the
lives of the little existential local bubble.

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 The modern means of communication, the car especially, and the increase of
free time makes it possible now to escape from that trap. But in those times, these two
liberators produced very limited effects.

At the village of Landory, the unexpected arrival of Jeanne did not fail to set
in motion the process of recognition of a foreign body, or the more so, since that body
not only was young and beautiful, but seemed closely linked to that of a teacher, an
important member of the tribe of the village.

Did I make believe that I was probably making love to my fiancée? At that
time, the people of the countryside considered that that was not decent at all. On the
contrary, it was allowed to go to a prostitute, on condition that one was discreet; in
return for that reservation, it was also considered as a test of virility, therefore
honourable. And this is how the villagers reconciled the puritan and the old religious
convictions with the excessively pressing needs of sexual nature.

Furthermore, according to their definition, she who accepted to give herself

before marriage was a whore. And if, unfortunately, a child was born then that poor
child, would be a scum of the human community, a wretched “son of a bitch.”
Besides, the people who grew up in the Islamic tradition still have, quite often, the
same convictions, because their religious culture of the past has remained more
enduring than ours: their moral rules entrenched have not yet undergone the powerful
erosion which modern freedom provokes.

By passing the night at my house, Jeanne had put us in danger. Because what
was not decent for a simple villager became intolerable when it was a “school
teacher,” who had to show a good example to the children. Brought up in a city where
one can do pretty much all that he wants, putting aside walking naked in the road,
Jeanne could not guess the dangers of the situation. I should have warned her the day
before her arrival, and we should have looked together for another shelter for her for
the night.

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 I believed that Jeanne was going to criticise me quite justifiably. Not only did
she not do anything, but she did not believe that the danger was real. How was I to
convince her, that “stubborn” one ‘?

Now, the gossipers were on the verge of beating their brand tom-tom of the
village.

– Do you know the news, Mrs Tabirou?

– How is that, Mrs Jordane?
– The young lady who arrived by bus, yesterday evening?
– The young lady, as you say, dressed up as they do in the cities, made up, with red
lipstick on her lips, red on the nails and perhaps even elsewhere, which she shows
to the chaps with whom she sleeps.
– Oh lady, I do not know if she has a lot of them. In any case, she has spent the
night with Monsieur Dufour.
– Isn’t it possible? Well that is so!
– So true that I said it to you, my dear young mothers.
– And you, Reverend parish priest, what do you think of it? She is setting the
example, what? What will they become, the young students in there, I ask you?
– My good ladies, how often have I said it? When there is no religion left,
everything is allowed: there are no morals left. Didn’t I say it to you as well, that
that school is the “School of the Devil”? There they are fornicating now, and in
public! The Good God cannot allow that to happen: he will send us a terrible
punishment, in other times he has destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah because they
were living in sin.
– Look here, Reverend, not everybody can live like a saint.
– Listen, Monsieur Morvan, you must try just the same. Think of all the
explanations that you must give on the Day of the Last Judgement!
– I think about it, Reverend, I think about it! But when you speak of the “School of
the Devil,” you exaggerate a lot, just the same. I would call it rather the “School of
Progress.” Our good peasants are sharper and they live much better since there has
been this school. You will not tell me that it is the work of the devil?
– Oh! It is rather crafty! It is for this reason that we call him “the cunning one.”

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 – Personally, I find that that school teaches them well. And after that, they can go
to the catechism and to church whenever they want: religion can find there its
explanation… But, after all, the girl who has slept at Monsieur Dufour’s, could she
be perhaps his sister? Or his fiancée? And who can tell you that they slept in the
same bed?
– At that age, one is hot blooded. I can bet on whatever you want that they slept
together, saying to themselves to warm each other.
– Ah! Mother Christmas, how can you know those things? It has been such a long
time… You have surely forgotten how it is done, and even what it tasted like.
– Say then, Monsieur Morvan, does it suit you to show off! I do not want to bother
the Reverend, otherwise I will remind you of some recollections which will make
you blush, old crook!
– Ah well? Good heavens! You must come to confess both of you. And then,
Monsieur Morvan, I believe that your ideas about school are not too catholic. One
cannot be a Christian on Sunday, and an unbeliever the rest of the week.

In what is the isolated village alienating itself? In what is

the city a liberator? In what does the closed village favour
the sclerosis and the city the progress?

The tom-tom of the village plays the same

role as the national media: it dissects and
spreads the news. Then, to incorporate that manna
to the collective existence, one waits for the
opinion of the wise men of the country known by
the inhabitants. These teachers bring a judgement
which conforms to that expected by the existential
appetites born, brought up, and educated in that
place, the “myself” of the village. It is over: no

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more people can shy away from the standard news
unless they face some pressures which can go as
far as the unbearable.

Because, in order to assure the collective

part of the existence, the one which is linked to
the others, requires some common rules. Those
which are imperative under the penalty of serious
sanctions regard the dominant ideology. The
others, linked to the activities, to traditions,
to the fashion… constitute the local culture: here
they love the fife and the bouillabaisse;
elsewhere it is the accordion and the sausage
pancake.

Therefore, in the village of the past where

one found himself closed through the lack of
transport, it was impossible to escape the eyes of
the others, especially to those of the gossipers.
In the cities, on the contrary, those of today
like those of other times, one would have had to
be mad to try to get to know each of the thousands
and thousands of inhabitants. Outside his
district, each one escapes the look of the others,
and consequently, to their existential pressure.
In return for some precautions, one can do what he
likes.

So the city renders one free. This freedom

has two faces: if it favours a crime, it allows
also creativity to realise itself. It is a result
of progress.

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 Like this, the process towards infamy had already started. If Jeanne spent one
more night at my house, the whole village would have started to reject us. My
beloved one did not take long to understand some allusions so much so that she
believed to have misunderstood them: “Hold on! The whore has not woken up early
this morning. The lady! One cannot work by day and by night.” Soon, my students
would cease to look at me in the face; whispering behind my back, always louder,
they would stop to greet me, in the village streets, before starting to hurl insults or
apple cores across my way, both of them anonymous. Anonymous even the stones
which would break our window panes and certain letters which the postman would
put, mockingly.

The day would come when one had to leave, hunted by that big family which
I loved. I surely wanted to go away, but not in that manner. I wanted the village to
accompany us with its wishes that we could come back one day, loaded with the
indispensable novelties which we were going to fetch.

It was Mr Morvan who showed us how to make up for our false step.

Mr Morvan, the old watchmaker of Landory treated me like the son whom he
had lost. The latter, after succeeding brilliantly in his studies, did not want to extend
the reprieve which would have allowed him to wait for the end of the War in Algiers.
He had left risking his life, like his comrades: he had come back in a coffin.

I do not know where Mr Morvan had learnt that wisdom not to take anything
for granted, not even his life, neither that of his son or of his beloved one. It is what
allowed him to continue to live in spite of everything, and to employ to the best the
extra years which a robust health had given him. To make his sorrow flow back,
instead of invoking death, he chose to fight her by giving strength to the living ones,
by means of wise advice and the help he gave them. So if I was proud to receive the
support that he would have given to his son, at the same time, I feared the
responsibility that there was to carry the intentions of such a wonderful soul. And, do
you know it? Not to deceive Mr Morvan: that duty that nothing ever imposed on me,
which I still feel always.

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 It was a Wednesday. Now, at that time, the students were on holidays on
Thursday, from where the expression which made millions dream between
themselves: “A four Thursday week.” Since I had a holiday on the following day, I
would have had ample time to prepare my lessons: I could then go back to my house
early. As soon as, the class was over, my students were freed, scattered happily like
loose horses in a meadow on a spring day, I went to join my beautiful one.

Hardly had I closed the door of my house that Mr Morvan asked to come in. I
knew that he had watched out for my return and I also guessed the aim of his visit. I
was happy to have his help: we two, we would have to convince Jeanne.

The “stubborn one” willingly accepted, and even with gratitude, the advice of
Mr Morvan: she had perceived right away the painful wisdom of the old man.

To the leaders of the landorianne opinion, we would introduce her for what
she was: my fiancée.

– She has spent a night at my house, without fear!

– Let us see! It was a case which couldn’t be helped.

Coming from Paris, she could not know that the country peasants still
enforced some rather strict rules; as far as I am concerned I had learned them during
my infancy, all the years spent in the city had nearly made me forget them; and then,
our meeting had taken place quite late, on the threshold of my house, after a long
working day for me and a tiring trip for Jeanne who, moreover, was convalescing. In
those conditions, we decided to wait, till the following day to dispose of all the time
which a good moving into a hotel required: this choice seemed reasonable to them,
even more because they themselves were horrified of sudden actions.

“It may be, but during that unfortunate night that we had spent the two of us
under the same roof, and without fear! Hasn’t my fiancée’s virtue suffered? – Oh!
Come on! It is necessary that the Landoriens have confidence in their school teachers!

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Without which, where will they go? So, one should have accused the Reverend Parish
Priest of sleeping with his maid? Oh!”

The cart being nearly out of the ditch where we had emptied it, the three of us
went to book a room at the Hôtel des Voyageurs where we had dinner.

Mrs Pigeon, the owner, was a superior woman with an opulent built, which
did not prevent her from being lively and firmly planted on her solid legs. Her look
was benevolent. She acted equally as the village newspaper and this out of pure
generosity: the news which she spread in abundance were entirely free and, above all,
they were never inspired by malice.

Naturally, we made use of that good press to diffuse the image which the
villagers had to have of those through whom the scandal could arrive: a quite pleasant
and promising engaged couple very much attached to Landory. An expert,
Mrs Pigeon did her utmost to discover our secrets. Mr Morvan took the floor every
time that we risked committing a blunder. Who was the manipulator? Who was the
manipulated? Little does it matter, since the ones like the others, we had only good
intentions.

So, like a skilful head of state diffuses on television the image that the people
are going to have of him, we let the Landoriens know what they had to think.
Mrs Pigeon approved that we had not gone on the eve to settle Jeanne in her hotel: at
such a late hour, she could not have received my fiancée properly, even more because
she was busy with the preparations of a wedding.

Jeanne was not only a Parisian, she was a school psychologist.

– Ah, really? And what does a school psychologist do? Does she cure the
mad ones?
– But no, Madame Pigeon. Besides, Monsieur Dufour does not need that type of care.
– I hope so!
– No, I don’t take care of the mad. My work consists in searching how the brain of

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the children works to try and make good students out of them. And also so that they
prosper, surely…
– Oh well! Here is a sacred job! You are not close to see the end of it. And where are
you going to perform that beautiful job, Miss Jeanne? Not amongst us, I honestly
hope, in your interest. Here, the people are still a bit backwards, you know: it would
terrify them if one would go rummaging about in their kids’ head.
– You are right! Since we do not know big things about the human mind, it is
dangerous to want to rummage about it. But quite correctly, because they have a
scientific formation, the psychologists are well warned about that danger. It is
because one can trust them. Whatever the case, I will not harm your children because
I am here on holidays, for two weeks only. But to be quite at ease, one only has to say
that I am a nurse.
– Oh no! Jeanne! One must not lie to them: I am a teacher, just the same! And they
trust me!
– Monsieur Dufour is right, miss, one must not lie to them. Isn’t it so,
Madame Pigeon?
– Miss Jeanne was saying that for a just cause. Lies pay a high price, even when one
pays only later for them: if you pass for a nurse, one would ask you to cure all the
pains of Landory, real and imaginary, and that will only be the beginning of your
troubles. No! Definitely not a nurse!
– So. What must one tell them?
– The truth, my dear. Is it so complicated to behave in a simple manner?
– Oh! My goodness!
– But yes, surely. You are a school psychologist who does not risk bewitching their
children, nobody else, except me, because you do not act ruthlessly in this village…
And while continuing like this, we spread a story, in order to account, quite
closely to the truth. After her operation, my fiancée had come to me for two weeks of
convalescence. Without which the date was stopped, we had to marry in a very near
future. Jeanne would spend her nights at the hotel. She would dedicate her days
looking after my home, to do the shopping, to prepare our dinner: in brief, take care
of me. The following day, a holiday, we would go together to the city where she
would buy some books.

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 Afterwards, her activities would lead her naturally to meet again plenty of
Landoriens: she would take up conversation with them all, even those whose head
seemed turned away. Thanks to her talents of a psychologist, she would be so subtle
as to shock nobody, whether it was by word or behaviour badly matched with the
sweet countryside. Like this, everybody will say that the school teacher had a good
chance of marrying such a good girl, “and a pretty one as well!”

Dinner was excellent: a wedding banquet had taken place in the big hall and
the guests of the hotel benefited from it. Alas! Jeanne had to follow her slimming
diet, if she did not want to find a kilo of fat which she had tried so hard to eliminate.
But, could she upset our generous hostess?

– A diet? To make yourself ill? Ah! Believe me: if there had been many good
things in my plate when I was young, I would have treated myself heartily.
– Surely! But…
– You don’t find that good, I bet? Accustomed as you must be to eat confetti
salads, haven’t you surely lost your appetite?
– Oh! Madame Pigeon, but it is delicious! I would like to ask you even for the
recipe, if it’s not a secret.
– Ah! You are not completely broken down. I will give you my recipe tomorrow.
You could teach your starving Parisians to eat, because one could consider them as
cases of tuberculosis.

Mrs Pigeon had found herself a vocation of a foster mother: it was like this
that she gave her contribution to the blooming of humanity. The plump flesh and the
red dye which her rich and mouth-watering food gave were according to her, sign of
good health.

At our times, such a mistress would affectionately be called Eugénie, or “La

Génie.” But, as a humble servant doing all sorts of jobs, she had worked hard to
become a lady. Calling her “Madame,” was simply a question of rendering homage to
her courage, her intelligence and her big hearth. It was therefore, with respect and
affection: “Madame Pigeon.”

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 She took Jeanne under her wings and decided to mother her till her departure,
so that she would go back to Paris in good shape. Unfortunately, she could not obtain
the full success which her efforts deserved, because Jeanne dined, or rather fasted,
nearly every evening at my house, in my company.

Those who offered the wedding party, the parents of the bride and the
bridegroom invited us to have a “toast” with them and to dance.

It was the blacksmith who was giving in marriage his daughter Yvonne to the
young boy Marcel, his chief-worker. He almost did not have any more horses to shoe
since the new ones, vulgarly called tractors, were mounted on tyres. So, Marcel
assured the re-conversion of the forge into a mechanical agricultural workshop.
Marcel and Yvonne got married for life. But yes, it’s true! Authorised by the law,
forbidden by the Church, divorce was still in every way a taboo in the hearts. If one
had chosen wrongly his partner, it could happen, in the worst of cases that love
changed into hatred. All during the lifetime, the hearth was a place of suffering, even
for the children and madness would prowl around in the blasted house.

It is because the wedding was a big feast shaded in red. The guests were the
parents, the friends who, later on, would remind the married couple: “I was at your
wedding. Ah! Good grief! It was a beautiful wedding!” And perhaps that would be
enough to make them leave the sorrowful path of hatred in order to take up again their
painful path of love.

Jeanne did not need me to explain that to her. In the middle of the general
happiness, she knew how to encourage the young married couple to love each other
well. We danced, we sang, we were wild till the late hours of the night, until the
moment when my convalescing fiancée said:

– Oh! I am exhausted. I am going to sleep.

– It is all right, my dear. What a party, eh?
– Oh yes! It suits us well! In Paris, one cannot afford that. Oh well, my dear! But
where are you going?

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– We’re going home, of course! Funny question.
– Are you drunk? You will come with me to the door of my room, and then you
will wisely sleep in your cold bachelor’s bed. Do you want to cause a big scandal?
– Dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! It is true! Blast the devout Catholics! Blast the churchy
old man!
– Aren’t you ashamed of insulting these good people, our friends? It is very
honourable, besides, to sleep in separate rooms. Don’t the nobles sleep like this?
Good night, my dear.
– So, good night! my beautiful girl…I will find you here for breakfast.

Jeanne was appreciated by the Landoriens. It is not surprising because she

struggled hard to give them the image they made of an ideal fiancée for their young
school teacher. She excels in that art.

She had to play then the role of a complex character, a sweet Parisian in love
with an enlightened peasant ready for all the efforts to be worthy of him. According
to me she pushed the traits a bit too far, by going as far as the uncertain limit where
her interlocutor risked telling her: “Are you kidding? Do you want to take the piss out
of me, or what? Do I look so stupid?” she didn’t play the following scene in the
honour of the vainest of peasant teachers of Landory! That took place in the presence
of a cow of which one will never know whether she was coughing or she was choking
with laughter.

Jeanne dared ask how the precious animal managed to make out the
commands which were given to her: milk, butter, cheese, fresh cream… and that,
while breastfeeding her calf. The cock (or rather the dupe) of the village was over
joyous and he answered her.

– A good well-trained cow does that easily. There where it hurts her most, is there
to produce ice-cream in full summer.
– There you are, Mr Hubert, you are making fun of me. I can very well be a
Parisian, but I am not as stupid as that no matter what!
– You mustn’t get me wrong, young lady. It is necessary to laugh a little as long as

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one is alive, because, when one dies, it will be too late. That’s it! Tell me, isn’t it
true? What, am I not right?
– Certainly, you are right, Mr Hubert.

So, Jeanne was adopted by the peasants of Landory. Many expressed their
sincere regrets when she had to reach Paris. Shamelessly, she promised to come back
in a matter of time and forever. She was soon, announcing, that we were getting
married at Landory, would have a big wedding and we would settle there for good.
Why did she do promises to them which we did not want to keep? She knew well,
however, that I was toying with the idea of leaving to teach in Black Africa which, at
that time, was an easy dream to realise. I was hoping to start my career abroad after
the next return to school. That misunderstanding was the cause of a little cloud which
came back from time to time to spur on our love.

You have seen her, to please our fellow friends; Jeanne does not hesitate to
be funny and to invent pleasant stories. She excels in that game, but at the same time
she contrasts strongly my obsessive desire of knowledge. You imagine how much
that can irritate me. I am still happy that I am not quick tempered.

Therefore, I shared with her a part of my annoyance.

– Let us see, my dear, don’t you see that we do this for laughing?
– Well? Not truly, no.
– Don’t you have the sense of humour?
– Oh, I had it, a long time ago. But the demon which you know took it away from
me. I would love to find it again, because it was strangely good. Moreover, I would
know that I have found again a good mental health. But it will be long, you know.
– Ah well; to start with, try to appreciate my little explorations of mystifications.
– Well. Since it is just to laugh.

A little too easily, I let myself be persuaded that it was an innocent game: to
laugh, like humour.

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What is humour? What is the purpose of humour?

In fact, Mômmanh gave us the game and humour

to relieve our existential anxiety, principally
when she becomes uselessly unbearable.

When, through thought, through action, one

does his best to reach an objective, if the result
is in spite of everything all a flop while the
existential consequences are not serious, one says
to himself: “What was the point?” and we start
laughing.

For example, the clown adjusts his costume,

checks his knotted butterfly and introduces
himself, all smiling, a magnificent bouquet in his
hands; he says: “Happy birthday, my dear-dear,
happy… birth…day!” And he receives a household
bucket of water on his face. We have had the
illusion, a moment, that it is useless to worry a
lot in order to succeed his existence since, in
every way the result risks escaping us. But it is
not necessary that the consequences of the failure
be tragic. In the example of the clown, the
disappointment of the lovers are minor, even so
because it is not I who has to put up with them.

Since it is not necessary that that means:

“In all manners, there is nothing to do about it.”

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It will be desperate instead of being hilarious.
Suppose that our clown, failing in an acrobatic
number, instead of remaining hanging to the
trapezium by the bottom of the trousers, misses
truly his chance and crushes on the ring. The
comedy which failed has changed to tragedy.

Anxiety encourages us to look for the best

ways to reach our objectives. But there is a
moment when that search must stop because it will
give nothing else. At that stage, we have to
accept the risk of failure. It is to help us get
over that step that Mômmanh has given us humour.
The failure of a well prepared action without
seriousness tells me: “It is better not to demand
to master the situation, since there is often the
risk of failure.”

Don’t demand!

So, thanks to a little bit of humour, I do

not demand to succeed, I do not demand anything
else, which does not mean at all that I renounce:
on the contrary, freed from the anxiety, my will
is only stronger about it. I accept, laughingly,
the risk of failure, and here I am relaxed,
prepared for another efficient action.

And in what concerns me, the demon who lives

in me had taken away the gift of Mômmanh that
safeguard: I had lost the sense of humour. Faced
with any stress, my reply was: “I demand! I

241
demand! I demand to master the situation.” Well, I
did not manage to “loosen up.”

I remembered how good it was to laugh, but

that pleasure had been denied to me . The
possibility of laughing still existed, but it was
contrasted by the barrier which held it back. When
something funny happened that, despite everything,
triggered the reflex which should have been a
relief, I did laugh… but it wasn’t pleasant: I had
tears in my eyes, acute pains hurt my sides, I
felt like I was suffocating and about to black
out. The only laughter which I knew from then on,
the laughter which forced my stiff resistance, was
a torture, a fiery torrent that tore my oppressed
chest.

Today I know that my ability to laugh when

humour comes is the best barometer of my recovery.
When I hear a good word, I often want to repeat
what I’m doing here: to try to understand the
humour in it. And, at once, the spell is broken,
my laughter is choked and I am invaded by worries.

“O great simpleton, you are so stupid!”

Humour tells you that it is futile to look
further, yet you do exactly the opposite. So let
laughter purge your sick mind!

Humour is in intimate contact with the

struggle for existence. It has to show the failure
of the attempts of existence, without necessarily
discouraging the actors, by destroying the true or

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the good. He has to cut to the bone of th e
existence without hurting it, like a gardener
prunes the rose bush. The comic does not have the
right to show himself stupid: he must, on the
contrary, be a particularly subtle guide. This is
why humour is doubtlessly the most difficult of
the arts. The clown-acrobat is a good
representative of it. He must realise some
acrobatic numbers which go from one fiasco to the
other, but he must not hurt himself in the
slightest way: it is necessary that he is the best
of acrobats.

Do not forget, either, the effect of

surprise. It seems almost essential to me. And the
bigger the surprise, the more the comic takes away
your worries. Laughter takes you away and your
soul is washed.

Therefore, it is good that he knows how to

provoke laughter. Like this, to whoever seems so,
the English humour will contribute to eliminate
the panic and to prepare their victory, when the
Germans were drinking to the health of their human
brothers of the bombs. Once more it is necessary
that it is truly humour.

To testify that deceased apprentice.

The workers of a garage pretended to amuse

themselves by sending compressed air, which served
ordinarily, to inflate the tyres, in the arse hole
of an apprentice. They expected to transform him

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 in a Bibendum, that fat simple good natured bloke
made up of tyres which is the emblem of th e
Michelin firm. Since the patient hardly had any
sense of humour, he shouted cries of terror. The
other apprentice had the sense of humour. “Look,
fellows! I am Bibendum.” laughing like a mad
person, he lent his own buttocks for the hilarious
experience. “Ah well? You would tell me. – He died
of laughter.”

What does a game serve for?

The game, which is a blank exercise, had the

following in common with humour: it is “to laugh.”
Both of them, by eliminating the obligation of
success, release us from the fear which inhibits
us when the stress is too heavy. Besides its
function as a relaxant, the game can be used to
practice the existence by simulation. The children
dedicate a lot of the time to it when they play
firemen, Superman, mother and father…

Let us come back to Jeanne, the annoying one. In order not to lose the
delights of the peace recently rediscovered, I wanted to admit that the lies which she
related to the Landoriens were innocent jokes, “to laugh.” Afterwards, I was obliged
to see that it was neither a question of games nor a question of humour. I appreciated
the comedy which she played to please our fellow friends for such a long time that it
could pass for an amusing game. But it happened quite often that she exceeded the
limits and that her lies were loaded with unfortunate risks.

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 In order to please our fellow friends, a lot and quickly, she had taken the
habit of deceiving them. Since she had practised that art for such a long time, she
succeeded in it quite well. She was capable of passing for a musician, a chess player,
a philosopher, a horticulture expert… She let the people believe that they interested
her immensely which generally pleased them a great deal; besides, she would have
the pleasure to receive them frequently. “Yes, yes, yes! You must visit us.” How
many invitations did she distribute without any follow-up! She gave our fellow
friends whatever could please them and led them to say: “Oh my my! What a
wonderful girl!” That stratagem cost us, besides some invitations which Jeanne
accepted willingly and which she forgot to return. But, besides the fact that it was
dishonest, it compelled us to change often the relations, depriving ourselves also of
true friends.

I wished that in the others’ hearts, our existence was true. Those false
purchases done in a fraudulent manner repelled me. Luckily, afterwards, Jeanne
granted me a minimum of concessions in that domain.

Later on, I tried to understand that behaviour. I discovered that Jeanne had
developed an excessive attachment to the “appearance” which overwhelmed the
“being.” With those results, I was hardly more advanced. Why? Why was my beloved
acting like this?

She did not know anything about it herself. It was a made-up vice hidden in
the subconscious. We had to advance as far as the irreparable so that we could accede
to the secret drawer of her soul and evacuate the stench.

During those happy days at Landory, except for the misunderstanding that I
am going to evoke, there were no quarrels between Jeanne and myself. Those two
weeks passed like an enchantment.

During the day, while I was in class, she looked after the house, she washed
our linen, and she prepared the evening meal. We would go together to do the
shopping. Sometimes, I found that she had done much more than her share of the

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work, even though she was convalescing, don’t forget that. Like this, one evening, I
observed that she had polished all my boots, cleaned my car from top to bottom, and
even polished the car body, cleaned all the window panes of the house… She seemed
quite tired, her hands were reddish, her hair in disorder and her make-up in a mess
like the very old paint of certain kitchens. Therefore where had her beauty gone?

– You must not work so hard, my dear, look in what state you are. It is enough that
you do your part.
– I do not ask for anything better, my dear. So what is my part?
– As you are not working at the moment…
– And what I do at home, what is that called?
– Work, surely, very much of it and too heavy. So I correct that error in our current
language: because you stay at home, you must do more work there than normal but,
since you are convalescing…
– Since I am convalescing, my share of housework will be the same as in ordinary
times, when I go to work.
– Is that quite true? You speak as if we are going “to get married again.” Isn’t it
only a fable to deceive the Landoriens?
– I will tell you soon what it is. For the time being, let us do like… Do you mind?
– How do you know that I will accept to marry you?
– I know it: that’s all. Am I not right?
– Yes, you are right. You have trapped me once again in your net.
– Ah! Men. If you knew how easy it is to deceive you? I have only to snap my
fingers and there are fifty of them who follow me.
– Aren’t you being a bit pretentious?
– Not in this field. But it’s you I love, my little country bumpkin.
– Thank you for calling me a country bumpkin.
– You are my little piece of deep countryside: honest, calm and level-headed. I trust
you. You come from a world where nature, houses and families last for centuries,
whilst my suburb changes like the waves on the water. That permanence is worth at
least a little bit of boredom…
– Is it true that you came to explore my country, before the accident happened?
– It is true: I came to spend a week in your area and I quite liked the natives,
especially the Normaliens.

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– So then, you have made some effort to choose me.
– Perhaps, but don’t consider yourself indispensable. Well! I will tell you soon if I
want to marry you. Whilst we’re waiting, let’s pretend we are married. Do you
want to do that? If… if I were your wife and if I had to carry out my eight hours of
work every day, what would my share of the housework be?
– If we were married, normally you would do the cooking, the housework, the
washing up, the washing and the ironing…
– And you?
– We would share the shopping and I will help you sometimes with the housework.
It is I who will assure the maintenance of the appliances…as well as the odd jobs. I
would look after the car, alone. I will manage our budget and I will take care of all
the paperwork. I will do all the work in the garden when we shall have one.
– I would love to do some gardening too, sometimes.
– Ah well, you can give me a helping hand when you feel like it.
– And can I plant what I like?
– Probably: we will discuss it and we will come to an agreement.
– And when I will be too tired, will you help me do my part?
– As far as it is possible, yes. There you are! Since you are quite weary this
evening, rest. It is I who will do the crockery. Besides… I will do it often.
– Promise?
– Promise.
– Let us see! Will you not kiss me, ugly as I am?
– But yes. When you are worn out and black like a chimney sweeper, I love you
just the same.
– I am ugly. Don’t kiss me, I beg of you. Take me rather in your arms.

It seems, now, that those two weeks passed quickly. It is because there were
not any outstanding events, before the big final decision. There were some rainy days
during which I made the sun go down in the hearth under the form of happy blazing
fire of beech. The sky granted us some baroque operas of autumn. Since it did not
rain much, we could sometimes explore the wooded hedges and the hollow tracks in
search of mushrooms or chestnuts. The Lake of the Roche Dure was inhabited by
moving reflections, reddish and bluish, wavy under the stormy strokes of the comb: it

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seemed to contain, quite some curious stories which one had to refrain from hearing
before the winter fossilised itself completely in a shroud of ice.

In the evening, we read a little and we talked: we had so many projects!

Virtual projects, because we continued to “act as if it were yes”: as if our deep
disagreements had not been placed temporarily in parenthesis.

Like a butterfly after the metamorphosis, a third Jeanne was revealing itself.

The first, that of love at first sight in the mountain: she had captured me by
making me believe that I was her god, and then she controlled my state of dependence
by throwing me over the Olympus. The second had hardly anything in common with
the first except for the name and the identity card: she had shown herself so odious
that I did not suffer much to leave her. Finally, there was the third Jeanne who
seemed to do with me the apprenticeship of life in common.

Was one of the three the true one? Not sure: a fourth could come out from the
box of mischief.

There is near Landory, a modest and very old chapel where, it seems, that the
pilgrims of the Middle Ages stopped to pray. Its granite stones having acquired a
sheen throughout the years, welcomed throughout the long time the moss and the
lichens. An enclosure of grass surrounds it, itself being belted by beech trees and
oaks. One can see there an old one still green, a hawthorn so old that it has the same
height as a tree: one could say that she saw the last Roman soldiers of our region.
Below, in the meadows, the little streamlet murmurs and it hollows out here its bed
for thousands and thousands of years, creating obstinately its green ribbon of nature
in the armoricaine rocks.

It’s there where Jeanne led me the day of her departure. When I knew why, I
found out that her choice was good: in that place, Mômmanh has seen passing such a
big number of human beings and of events that it was a place inhabited by wisdom, a
good place for important decisions.

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 She had adorned herself with an exquisite simplicity which highlighted the
expressions of her face. At that time, there I read the one who had released the love at
first sight: the air of being at times surprises, amused, and ravished by enjoying life
wholeheartedly. I was a captive. I then sat next to her. Her expression changed as she
had done so often, to such a point that I had the impression that I had somebody else
by my side. So, with excessive seriousness, which changed her beauty, she
announced: “Michel, I feel well with you. Moreover, listen to me well, because I felt
bad till I arrived there: let us cease to act “as if yes,” let us get married.”

Carried away by I don’t know which stupid joy, I decided to marry Jeanne as
soon as possible and to sow in her tummy my contribution to the little man who
Mômmanh would have entrusted us with soon. The life which beforehand had
appeared of a terrifying complexity, froth with hunting traps had become quite
simple.

How the subconscious which sometimes governs us is not always

bad.

What sort of faith encouraged me to charge

along in the fog? You have not forgotten Dionysus,
my very precious guardian angel, but who, all the
same, is mistaken sometimes: ah well, it is
perhaps him who led me in that road without
return.

What an adventure!

Afterwards, everything proceeded quickly. In the heart of winter, we were

married.

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 After we did what was necessary to do for
that, our Mômmanh placed in my Loved One’s tummy
the unknown which would become our first child.

It wasn’t a matter to boast about, because it was truly very easy, even for
Jeanne who had to carry it. But, during two or three decades, helping that child to
become a man of his times, that is to say, a man of the future, behold that it could be
sometimes heavy to carry.

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251
 7-The Cost of the War

The Hundred Years War, our war: it would have lasted just the same about
fifteen years and it was still lasting on, if the death of an infant hadn’t brutally put an
end to it. Of course, to detach ourselves from our ego inflated like a big stuffed belly,
it took some vicious backwards kicking. But not that torture!

In spite of everything, I hope in your indulgence for the “absurdities” that we

have done. Could we avoid them, or at least part of them? In what concerns us, the
question is unwelcome: it is too late! Luckily, you are there, dear reader, and since
you did us the pleasure to accompany us up till here, you can finally render yourself
useful. No. Not by calling SAMU: our health is good, thanks.

That strong sorrow which from time to time haunted us, which, in the middle
of a successful party makes us emit a sob, that blasted and holy sorrow which will
accompany us till the last day is simply the reminder of a message from the other
world which I must transmit to you: before taking the responsibility of having a child,
be assured that your love is the type which authorises the continuation of life. Like
this, you will perhaps have the chance to have children healthy in body and soul,
beautiful children at the same time happy and impatient to continue the conquests of
man. And living! Oh Good God!

Yes, I have invited you to the wedding and here I am leading you to the
cemetery. You will abandon me there because you refuse to think about death, isn’t it
so? “It is too sad! You’d say in all ways, we cannot do anything about it.” So, you
will die. As far as we are concerned, my Love and I, after our daughter’s death, we
did not have the right to die: because there are three of us.

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 Yes, you have well understood: we two are three persons. Just a little bit of
patience still, and you will understand everything.”

Very simply, at the bottom of our common distress, there appeared to us

quite a feeble light at the beginning, but strong. Having followed it, here is what we
saw: that road so fragile and so dear, broken by death and by our mistake, it was
possible to extend it so that it would not have been in vain. Not only we could, but we
had to. So, we took a triple commitment.

How can existence transcend death?

The first consists in keeping the promise

made to our dear Estelle.

The other two came with the concern to

surpass the form to get to that sacred promise.

The one orders us to relate that story to

you without looking for our misplaced vanity, that
to release our theory of the “Struggle for
Existence” which Estelle liked so much. If it will
happen that it is more of a fairy tale, so she can
perhaps offer us all the hope to discover and to
open up some promising pathways, other than those
of eternity, at least some enduring gardens:
perspectives of a more certain future than the
thick contemporary fog which hides our horizon.

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 The third commitment imposes on us the
association of the memories of Estelle to all the
important events of our lives; in such a way that
the best part of her should continues to live. And
therefore why would one refuse to invite the dead
ones to the banquet of the living? If, like us
two, my Jeanne and I, you don’t believe in heaven,
neither in the resurrection of the souls, much
less in that of the bodies, which best way do you
know so that he who must not die continues to
live? Besides, that carries a name which you know
well now: it is THE EXISTENCE, which can extend
itself indefinitely even if life has ceased. So?

This is our way of making our dear Estelle

live beyond her death. You see: we are not afraid
of this word any more.

Now, let’s go find Estelle, and allow me to insist, since you don’t seem
convinced. No, there are not three place settings at our table, since we are two. No,
we do not believe in ghosts. No, we never had the idea to communicate with the dead
by means of an intermediary of one who calls himself medium. No, you have
understood it, we are materialists: we have the conviction that it is matter which has
given birth to thought. Like a computer, our body is made of matter and, in the same
way the electronic intelligence dies with its material support, our soul is extinguished
when life abandons the body which has generated it and nourished it. And don’t make
me say that the computers have a soul, so much so that they will not start to sigh, to
suffer, to love and to experience orgasm. But then a totally new story would start.

So! Since the soul dies at the same time as the body, how can we, who are no
witches, how can we hope to keep alive that of our deceased little girl? We cannot
manage, evidently! If we have that pretension of reviving the dead ones, our place
will not be any longer amongst you, but in an asylum for mad people.

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“So? So? You would shout at me. – Some more patience still, please: I am coming
to it.”

Effectively, at first, in order not to face the unacceptable which would have
caused us despairing wailing, our thought bent, choosing not to see what appeared to
us as the destruction of the world.

If it had been enough to vomit that, so that she would cease existing, our
Estelle would come back from the inexistent place where the evil tongued considered
her lost: a tomb! Do you realise that? She would have been there as usual, without us
having noticed her arrival. The shine of her red hair would have attracted our look.
With her hand, she would have spread the rotten stray lock of hair and she would
have called us with her sweet eyes sometimes surprised, questioningly, smiling and
worried. Life would have been simply normal, the way it should be, and the terrifying
moments which I related to you would have found their only nature acceptable: that
of a frightening nightmare as ephemeral as a text written with chalk on the class
board, bitter reminder that a strong ray of sunshine will cancel easily.

But that death and that tomb of delirium occupied too well their place in
reality.

However, they could not come into our consciousness. Every time that those
burning facts started to impose themselves, our soul, disgusted, chased them away. So
our look turned away from reality and we entered the region of the mad.

How far did we go in that way? For how long? I cannot tell you because our
memories of that period are really too vague. It seemed that, both of us have
continued to act in all respects as if our gentle Estelle, our little living fairy was
always by our side. We have done her bed, prepared her breakfast, put her place
setting, we have talked to her, we have even gone, it seems, as far as taking her to
school and return to look for her, sometimes one, sometimes the other, as usual. And,
often following what they told us, when the bothered teachers managed to stammer

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“Estelle? No, I have not seen her…,” we answered: “Ah well. She has already gone
home.”

It seemed also that in certain evenings, before going to sleep in our true
bedroom out of reality, we had a conversation which must resemble this.

– Jeanne, are you asleep?

– You see well that I am not.
– It seems to me that Estelle did not come to kiss us. In any case, I do not
remember it.
– But since it is us who did it! Come on Michel, are you losing your wits?
– Oh yes, I remember it. She was dragging on to delay the moment of sleep, and
we had to help her a little. I narrated a story to her and she fell asleep. But from
where is that drop coming? Jeanne, are you crying?
– Definitely, you are completely mad. Stop irritating me! My eye hurts me, quite
simple.

There you are and you no longer believe me! You wear me out, my dear
friend… Ah well, you are right, because you must believe me.

Which must be the role of truth in art?

Haven’t I already spoken of that essential

faculty which for us was chosen by Mômmanh: the
power to make appear quite well the horrible as
well as the beautiful, a power which manifests
itself in the dream as in artistic creation. You
have not forgotten the beautiful face of a

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sensible manner which we desire and the horrible,
which we fear.

My friend, make sure that you internalise

these preliminary definitions well if you wish to
understand later.

What nourishes human existence is the right

and the good, as opposed to bad and evil. Their
representations are partly beautiful, partly ugly
and all of the varieties of horrible. They
correspond to the aspirations and rejections of
the need for existence. We can not see them in
their pure state: only in the objects in which
they are embodied. Sometimes an artist, inventing
existence, discovers an unknown aspiration and,
therefore, a new beauty. No computer can feel
that, at least whilst they are free of the need to
exist.

To avoid horror and to attain beauty: this

lives in the state of dreams for such a long time
that the artist (or more often an ordinary
creator) does not show us how to make it real.
These means are the elements chosen in our
universe which will serve to build the objects
that contain dream, suddenly making it real. Thus,
the desire to move easily in space is achieved by
the domestication of the horse and the invention
of the bicycle, train, boat, car, plane etc. The
desire for lasting love as it is expressed in
Romeo and Juliet will be satisfied by the
invention of the marriage of love, which is
replacing the marriage of convenience.

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 Let’s leave aside monsters and other
ugliness because I know that you do not want to
create it: long live beauty.

But let’s get back to the work of the

artist, which is not required to sh ow us
achievable dreams nor, even less, to realize them.
It is still necessary to give them a body, looking
in the real, or just in the imagination, for
elements that contain these existential dreams,
like a flower contains harmony. Of course, they
must ensure that you can recognize these elements,
whether beautiful or ugly, if you come across them
in real life. Therefore they must be painted in a
way that shows the likeness. However, this should
not be an optical illusion, because you would risk
confusing the imaginary and the real, and people
would shout: “You’re crazy!”

On the other hand, they are not part of the

real objects that we can see around us: what would
be the point of showing us what we already know,
such as tables or cows, for example?

No, the artist is a visionary, he extracts

specific objects from what does not yet exist,
like the happiness of moving through the universe
on an interstellar journey, for example. He can do
what Picasso did and put a breast here and an eye
there to evoke love. He may also prefer figurative
art: a woman’s portrait where Picasso’s breast and
eye are revealed.

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 Here is why I am constructing that story
with real bricks as far as one can do so. If I
ever lie to you, it is just “to have a laugh,” and
I will let you know.

But do not try to find out which character

is real: none is. From the life that surrounded
me, I chose a character trait over here, an action
over there: only the elements I needed to imagine
another life.

So? You do not believe that two mad people can be closed in a common
delirium, even if they have been husband and wife for a long time, are their
existences closely tangled up? Oh well, it is however true! And this is how it
happened.

Unbearable for me, the catastrophe which had just happened lay hidden,
buried in a thick fog of unreality. From that enormous cotton tampon sometimes
came out a lightening hand which came out to dig my flesh: a pale face on which the
lid of a coffin fell down. Had I yelled? In any case, the lightening hand stopped
tapping my flesh and she retreated. During that flash of lucidity, I had had the time to
think: “Jeanne cannot bear such a pain. Perhaps she will die of it. As long as she will
carry that open wound, I must let her believe that everything is like before. Down
there, I found it reasonable, even I, to send the unbearable event in the den, at the
very bottom of the cotton fog.

Surely, I often happened to call death. Myself, I would have been delivered,
and the world would have well continued its way without me. Wasn’t I right? Then, a
sweet voice I knew so well came back to murmur in my ear:

You’re not a coward aren’t you, dad? Will you tell me?
– But no, my dear, I am not a coward. Why do you say that? I am very, very tired:
that is all.

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– Tired, my foot! You let us fall down, yes. Courage, dad! Go there dad! Go there
dad!
– I am all right, Estelle my dear. But do not say anymore that I am a coward.

So, since my little girl had opened her ways to immortality, and since she
needed me to continue them, I sent throughout my whole body the will to live and I
set off again for the assault of suffering.

Later on, Jeanne told me that she lived her torments like me, and like me, she
had judged well not to impose the unbearable suffering on me. It is like this that both
of us wandered in similar labyrinths on the verge of madness, neither dead nor alive,
misled, for those who loved us, in that refuge which we had imagined: a false world,
where the claws of reality only reach rarely to hollow out away as far as our violent
soul. Perhaps then, slowly, slowly… the latter could succeed to heal up the gaping
wound.

It was not necessary, however, that that virtual labyrinth became a trap where
our roads ended uselessly. We had to find the strength to open our eyes on the vision
of our Estelle who was decomposing herself in the cold ground of the cemetery. Only
after, having accepted the unacceptable, we can turn our eyes towards the living and
dedicate to them our strengths. But we risk letting ourselves be taken in like this on
the verge of madness. Our guardian angel had taken charge of the memory of Estelle,
and he kept an eye on us. Moreover, weren’t there the two of us?

However, despite all the efforts given by Denise, Gaston, Pablo, Thomas, and
in spite of all that our boys, the family and the friends did not refrain from
undertaking to get us out of that isolating bubble where we risked being mummified,
the madness was prolonging itself in a worrying manner.

It was a dream which pulled us out of that rut. Roughly at the same time,
each one of us received a message from his guardian angel. Here is what Jeanne’s
was about.

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 Estelle in person came back to visit her in a dream. A great pain
overwhelmed her. She told her only: “Like this, you have forgotten your promise…
Do you therefore want me to die a second time? Farewell mum.” So, she vanished in
the light and Jeanne never ever saw her again.

To suffer again the look of that terrible messenger? Never! Then we found
the will to push back the sweet madness where we had looked for refuge. We let the
promise made to our little daughter come out from the darkness where we had hidden
it.

But where, so young and so naïve, could she find such a deep wisdom?

Is it possible to conquer death?

On her death bed, she had told us:

– Stop lying to me, both of you. I no longer have the time. Me, I know well that I
would leave before the end of that night. I am cold. Nothing else but cold.
Everything black! Everything cold! I am afraid! Leave me, ugly beast. I don’t want
to! Go away! Oh! How I hate death! Dad, Mum! You love me very much, don’t
you? Don’t you?
– Come on Estelle! Where are you searching for those terrifying black ideas? The
doctors will cure you…
– Oh no! No more now! You must not lie to me now! No, nasty beast, you will not
carry me away because I am stronger than you. So, dear Dad, adorable Mum, listen
to me well… Listen!
– We are listening, Estelle dear.
– Dad, did you say that the living carry the life of the dead? It is quite like a relay

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race.
– Yes, but.
– Be quiet. He who refuses to pass the stick dies twice: is that good?
– But…
– Besides, I don’t care. I want to pass the stick. Help me.
– But…
– Listen well.
– When I would have left, don’t cry for me for a long time, and don’t call me
especially because I will not come anymore ever, never… The dead are truly
completely dead; besides, you know well since it is you who said it to me.
– Oh no! No! Estelle, my dear…
– Please! Hurry up. Do you hear who is approaching? Oh no, I beg of you, listen
well!
– We listen to you…
– Primarily, I want you to give everything! Everything! All my things to some
children: you only have to start from my good friends; my violin will be for
Geraldine: she plays well, you know.
– It is understood. Your brothers and also your great friend Geraldine will help us
to do the division. OK. What else?
– So watch out, be careful! Watch out! And above all! Above all! I want you to
have another baby. Do you understand well? A boy or a girl, it is the same, but it is
necessary to have a baby. Please Mum! Please Dad! It is necessary. It is necessary!
So, is it promised?
– I can never replace you, my dear Estelle, never…
– Me neither. We can never love another child in your place…
– No! But no, not in my place dear Dad, adorable Mother! Why are you being
silly? Not in my place! Please! Promise me…

On the spot, we have not truly understood the necessity of her demand. But
we could not refuse her anything and, both of us, we have promised, with quite
solemn seriousness. However she was not at all satisfied. And we felt well that death
had already taken her by the throat, and was on the verge of strangling her. Luckily, it
seemed to us that our little good girl had managed to loosen up the horrible embrace.

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But at what price those efforts! Let’s go! It was necessary to understand what she
wanted. And quickly!

– My dear Estelle, explain again.

– Liars! Terrible liars! It is not necessary to promise that! You promise, but you
have not understood anything. It is however well that you have understood me! I
am no longer a child: I see everything. So, listen!

Why is it necessary that the student surpasses the teacher?

In fact, it happens that the child

understands better than the teacher. And that is
good! The teacher’s thought is often hindered by
some old practices acquired in his infancy, so
that nothing prevents the virgin thought of the
infant to assimilate integrally the news given. As
for our part, in what concerns the means of which
we dispose to send our existence beyond death, we
have learned in our youth to look for principally
the individual survivor, whether it is by an entry
ticket to heaven, or resurrection of the body, or
still, by the conquest of the posthumous glory.

Much more lately, when those means lost all

their reliability in my eyes, the meanders of my
anguished thought, I had exhumed Mômmanh and I
presented her to all my family. In spite of my
will not to make a belief out of it – Above all! –
Estelle had nested it in her heart as her good

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fairy. Very soon she talked to Mômmanh like other
children have a conversation with the “Virgin
Mary” and the “Little Jesus” and Jeanne blamed me
for having accomplished the work of a false guru
on my own children.

It was, as you know, quite contrary to my

intentions but, now, I understand that in our
times when faith does not find any more branches
to cling to, a child gave in to the temptation. In
his soul impatient to blossom, the theory has
become a fairy story. And then, she changed into a
belief. Luckily, when Estelle was on the verge of
leaving us, her juvenile faith did not prevent her
from making some choices completely rational and
generous.

If Estelle had lived, she would not have

been prevented from probably becoming the apostle
of a new ideology inspired by my theory of the
“Struggle for Existence.” This would have made me
happy and however I would never have followed my
dear young daughter in that way.

That would have rejoiced me because we

needed an ideology and that would have pleased me,
even more because it would have been open,
therefore liable to perfection. The setting up of
footbridges between our two worlds would have been
facilitated: that of research and that of action.

But I could not follow my little dear in

that way because the ideology and the scientific

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 research do not tally with each other. The apostle
prevents one from calling into question the
pillars of its faith, be it in the name of
scientific truth. The researcher does not put up
with the fact that some taboos can hinder its
researches be it in the name of the sacred
principles. Therefore, it is good that each one
remains free to act in his domain.

And here is where the enchainment of ideas leads. Can you tell me where we
had arrived? Ah! There we are: the student has surpassed his teacher.

Estelle had clearly understood the necessity of human freedom, as well as all
its implications. When we die, the coming generations will do what they want of our
memory, because they are free and it’s a lucky thing. Therefore, it is useless to
demand that they continue our personal memory, that they practice our values that
they continue what we had started. They are free and they will not do it unless they
judge it worthwhile.

In order to encourage them in spite of everything, to continue our job, I see

only one way: leave them as heritage of beautiful and good things, those which will
contribute to establish the existence, that of Mômmanh and even that of our derisory
ego contained within its limits. Let us leave them some champagne, the Taj Mahal,
“freedom-equality-fraternity,” the Theory of Relativity… rather than ruins and debts.
And let us trust them for the aptitude to appreciate the beautiful, the good and what is
well: we have no choice.

Now, it is time to find Estelle again.

– Dad, Mum, it is necessary to understand before promising.

– We are listening.
– The child who will be coming, my little brother or little sister, it is important to
tell him everything, but only when he is grown up…

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– So! He will understand that he is replacing you…
– Oh! It is so difficult to explain: it is quite true that he will replace me, and it is
true also that he does not replace me. He is free! He is free. Free! Do you
understand well?
– Not so well, no.
– It is like you and I. Dad, Mum, you have given me life…
– And we have taken it…
– Listen to me, please, mum. You tell my child that he is replacing me. Well! He
has to do everything like me: but he cannot, you know well. He cannot be me: it is
like a straight jacket. So, he is unhappy, my child. Perhaps he will become mad.
No! No! I want him to be free, my “baby.”

Estelle feared that, by the intervention of the child who was to be born, we
would only try to realise what would be at the same time impossible and bad: to
resuscitate our dear little girl, escaping like this from the unbearable sorrow. The poor
child who is replacing her has to torture his being to incarnate the person of Estelle
and has to commit himself to play that role throughout his whole life. Without going
as far as that, there is a good number of children who are not loved for themselves,
but above all for what their parents want them to become: a soldier like dad, or the
brilliant lawyer that he would have liked to be, or the engineer which mum would
have become if she hadn’t been compelled to stop her studies… These children whom
one has forced to fit into a role made for another, they have felt themselves in spite of
everything, a little loved. And even if they still retain a strong and old sense of regret,
they will be able to forgive. However, it is true that their existence is spoilt.

Selfishness being the best divided of all the virtues, there exists a plethora of
adults, of good parents, who waste like this their precious lives which Mômmanh has
entrusted to them and they are numerous in believing that they act like this for the
good of their children. So, one more time, was I surprised that our little girl could
guess what adults could not see in the mature thought? Very often it happens that the
cause of life has been well forbidden by our young champion. The black monster
which rushed to swallow a feeble child, a delicate flower hardly opened up in the

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form of a promise of immortality, the nothingness black and frozen had to wait well
and see its prey drawing out between his claws.

(Before continuing, I owe you a confession. I have never had a girl. I have never had the
opportunity to observe a nine year old daughter. Whatever concerns Estelle’s death is a
creation of my thought, with all the risks of error which that entails. In the hope of doing it as
true as possible, I went to look for some information in the works of a “psy” of a sound
reputation, Ginette Raimbault. Ginette Raimbault has observed and accompanied some sick
children at the end of their life in a hospital. I have consulted her book “The child and death”
as well as the conference which she did about the subject at the University of Tous les Savoirs
in 2000.

Her fears confirm what I suppose. The illness and its series of sufferings compel the child to
die before his age. As regards that, Ginette Raimbault speaks of wisdom. Those who are no
longer babies will discover that they are going to die. While the people surrounding them do
everything to hide the truth, they have to struggle alone to face the test of their imminent
death.

Of all the words reported, I will only quote these. A five year old child has said: “I know quite
well that I am going to die. But one must not say it, because mum, who already goes to the
cemetery twice weekly, would be there all the time and she would look more after my father”

Ginette Raimbault said as well: “… it is not unusual, that the young lonely adolescents, see
associated, in the same way as the adult, the lucidity of the absence of a future and the desire
of a creation which would be a gift to the world they are about to leave.”)

– It is a promise, Estelle my dear, we will not tell him that he replaces you.
– Not so much when he is young, but when he grows up: yes.
– Explain to us, my dear.
– When he will grow up, my boy – or my girl – you will tell him that his first
mother was a little girl… rather gentle…and who was called Estelle. You will tell
him everything. Perhaps he will love me a little. But only if he likes it! When he
has the feeling that he is going to do a great stupidity, and he will no longer have
the courage… so… perhaps although he will say: “Oh no! I cannot do that to my
little young mum Estelle.” So there! That is when I will be happy, I!

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How does the field of existence cover all the past and all the
future.

Since man follows his conquest of eternal

existence not only in the future, what Estelle
tried so hard, but also in the past when, for
example he looks for some models among the heroes
of history. With them, in the same manner as with
a line of noble ancestors, he forms an existential
chain which came from the past and plunges in the
future: it is like this that he stretches his
existence in time.

If he betrays a hero of the past, he breaks

the existential chain before it plunges in the
future. He carries a heavy responsibility as
regards some ancestors: the period of their
existence risks stopping. He has not taken away
life from them because they are already dead. He
has perhaps done worse: to cut them back from
their existence in the span of time.

If his existence does not offer to its

descendants anything which they judge worthy to be
continued, he risks depriving them of an existence
in the past, of the roots, as one says.

– I see, dear Estelle. It is a promise.

– You also, dad?

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– I am close by. I am going to reflect, and I will understand everything. It is a
promise, dear Estelle.
– Sacred father, you are always reflecting. It is necessary to bring up my baby well
so that he becomes great, great, very great like Victor Hugo, or Mrs Délude. Do
you see? Mum?

(Mrs Délude is a neighbour, a retired farmer at whose house Estelle loved to

go attracted not only by her numerous little kids, but above all by the warm and
creative personality of the old lady.)

– Yes my precious treasure. I have understood. Rest, now.

– Dad?
– I am beginning to see, Estelle, it’s coming. Your mother and I will discuss and
will reflect until everything is clear.
– So, could it be that your promise is good? But no! Ah! No, no, no!

A mask of anxiety appeared on her waxen face.

– Don’t be afraid, dear Estelle, dad and mum are there.

– You love me too much, too much!
– Yes, my darling, it’s never too much.
– My baby will hate us. It will do him good if you don’t love him. So, he will be
evil. Ah but stop! Stop loving me that way!

In truth, without wanting it, she exaggerated a lot: I could hardly see anything
but a child nourished by hatred who gives to the whole universe the evil with which
one had welcomed him. In reply to his surges of love, those which awakened him up
to life, his vile parents, brought him nothing but evil. Now, it is through his parents
that the little man discovers the world: no? So, since he sees nothing but evil, he has
no other choice but to bury his useless love in the deepest part of his being and to
dedicate to that world which he believes desperately bad all the hatred that he owes it.

No: it is not that type of monster we risk giving birth to.

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 Nevertheless, Estelle’s fears had solid foundations. It was necessary for us to
love that child for himself, and we were not ready for it. Now, you know well that
you can’t command love. So, how can you make a feeble promise in those
conditions? And one had to act quickly.

Hurry!

You are right, Estelle. We will bring forth that child only after having accepted
your…
– Death. Say it, don’t be afraid. Come on!
– We will have that child when we would have accepted your death.
– Dad, mum, I love you.

Our Estelle seemed exhausted. A frozen shroud fell on her. No! No! Not
already! It is not fair! Her eyes were closed. Was she breathing? Neither Jeanne nor I
dared to check it. Then her breathing became again perceptible. On that magnificent
promise of life still not completely disowned, on that face so dear, so shiny, whose
beauty was not yet frozen for eternity, on her white waxen face, a touch of red rushed
again to her cheekbones.

And if life were to come back?

– Poor mad one! Let us let her rest.

Estelle had another burst of energy. Her voice was barely audible, and we had to
look close to her lips to hear her. Our little girl was dying, it was unbearable. It
made us want to scream. We somehow managed to deliver ourselves from despair
and to listen to her last words.

– If my baby has something wrong – it happens, you know! – You will love it
anyway, won’t you?
– Yes. Oh yes, you have our word.
– So I give my life to the Good Genies, too.
– Yes, our dear Estelle.

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– Goodbye. I will be with the Good Genies. And I will watch over you. Goodbye.
Goodbye mother, fa…

Our little girl had really paid attention to

my lessons. Our individualistic and scientific
society leaves us speechless when we face death.
We have no way to overcome it. There is at least
one, yet very simple way. Simply say: “I will die,
of course. But, after I am gone, good people will
continue for centuries and centuries to look for
ways to preserve human existence and even
universal existence. Through their efforts, they
will surely advance further in this direction.
They will find ways to conquer the stars and
overcome entropy. “Having made this reflection, I
entrust my life to these brave people who will
live after us, those Estelle called the “Good
Genies.” And it doesn’t matter that this is done
anonymously. Do we know the artists that created
the Taj Mahal? Yet they exist and they continue to
live in our fascinated eyes.

We stayed for a long time motionless and silent, allowing the branding iron
to impress itself on our disfigured souls the last portrait of our girl. Ordinarily, the
memory does not keep, the funeral masks, of their beloved dead ones, doubtlessly,
because it does not bring much to the living, if that is not the severe warning: “Don’t
forget that you will die. Don’t forget that each one must die.” We prefer to keep the
memories of those who illustrate our life with shadows and lights, exemplary
moments where the late lamented will make us laugh, surprise us, and at the same
time frighten us.

But, it happened that our Estelle was surprised by a death which was not
announced when her life was bubbling in the effervescence of her blossoming. Since

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she did not want to accept her defeat, it was necessary to mobilise all her hidden
strengths and to use them to throw an arch above the abyss of death. Like this, the last
moments of our good child were exemplary. Like this the face which had been only
until then a juvenile sketch, beautiful with rich promises, found itself transfigured by
a generous beauty, triumphant, and implacable. Like this, that beautiful face of
triumphant youth – Yes! Triumphant… – that beautiful face is still engraved for ever
in our memories.

There flowed a certain amount of time which I would not know how to define
with precision, since, for us, the time in question had stopped. Then Estelle opened
her eyes and, again, she spoke.

“Where is Mistinguette? I want to play.”

Mistinguette was still a frivolous and carefree young lady, a young cat which
our daughter had adopted. When we had placed her four legged friend on the bed,
Estelle wanted to caress her, but her hands did not move accordingly. I approached
the beautiful animal to her face, and Jeanne took her hands to put them on the sweet
fur. Mistinguette, our distant cousin, started to purr while our child talked to her.

– You are still playing in the willow, isn’t it so? Will teach me to climb, tell
me? But you must not eat the little birds. Do you understand? You know, dad and
mum are going to have a baby for me… Yes, it’s true! She will be called Jeanne…
And my baby boy, he will be called Jacques… You also will have kittens…

We were glued to our chairs, near Estelle’s bed, two stubborn fools waiting
for an impossible miracle. Our little girl seemed to slumber peacefully. Then she
spoke again in a very, very weak voice that we had never heard before.

– Goodbye dad, goodbye mum, goodbye Pablo, goodbye Thomas, goodbye my

dear Jacques, my dear… dear…

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 That was all. In the impossible silence that followed, we began to howl more
wildly than dogs when they feel death.

– And leave me in peace, good God! Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Give
me Estelle or I’ll kill you, you bastard!

Yes, it is at that moment that we sank into madness, Jeanne and I. We

remained there for some weeks, until the moment when our guardian angel, in a
dream, sent us her messenger: Estelle in person.

I thank you, dear friend, for understanding our sorrow, but it is not that which
will bring her back to us. Stop crying and listen to her message. No, I am not trying to
make you believe that our children must be our teachers: that will be as stupid as to
want the downstream river to flow towards its source. However it can happen, here
and there, that a little boy or a little girl gives a lesson to an adult. That was the case.

Therefore, one morning, during breakfast, while madness still held a grip on
us, Jeanne said to me:

– So remove that third place setting! You know very well that nobody is going to
sit there.
– But?
– I had a dream last night. She came to see me.
– Wait then! Even I: she spoke to me.
– You as well, her “adorable father”? Of course! So? Are you going to decide? It is
high time not to think about yourself, myself, about our misfortune of which we are
survivors. It is about time to pull ourselves out of it. And what did she tell you?
– For a long time, she did not pronounce a word… Without making any noise or
the slightest movement, she went forward along the streets of Fûtaie, and I
followed her without being able to touch her or speak to her. Having arrived in
front of her school, she suddenly turned and she spoke. But I did not hear anything.
Then she started walking again. A strange mist, like black sprayed ink, invaded
little by little the space, dissolving everything. I could still distinguish very

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vaguely, what remained visible of Estelle, taking what should have been the street
of our house. And, rapidly, everything melted in a black thickness of ink.
Only, then, I have heard the words which she had pronounced. She said, in her
sweet voice…
– Please! What did she say?
– “Why do you let me die a second time?”
– Oh! And so, how did you understand that message?
– We have to keep our promise. We must have another baby.
– Have another baby! For you it’s very easy… Oh! Sorry! What am I thinking of?
It is not the time to let myself go. What did your dream say?
– It was another dream, but the message was the same.
You know, at my age, the risks of having a handicapped baby have increased. What
shall we do if we have a downs baby?
– Even if the risks have increased, they remain minimal. We start taking risks when
we come to this world, and we cease after our death…
– All of the world’s wisdom consists in choosing the best risks: I know! And if you
must fall along the way, it is not serious, because some others will continue the
way! I know! I know! After some time, I have learned the lesson well, dear
Teacher. But that folly touches us too much so that I will not be satisfied with the
dull grey theoretical statements, by way of a guarantee.
Michel, if, after having carried the baby for nine months, I delivered a downs baby,
what shall we do?
– We will keep him, evidently. Why do you ask me that question?
– You know me. You know well that at a certain period of time, I will not be any
longer able to bear him: you know very well, that in those moments, I will be
odious… So?
– I will help you to overcome the hurdle, as I have learned to. Those horrible and
stupid battles which we had led against each other will have been useful just the
same. Well… If we had a downs baby and if, in spite of all our efforts, there are
some moments when you cannot bear it any longer, we will trust him to some
reliable people for short periods, enough time for us to go on a beautiful trip.
– There are lots of people who trust even their dogs my dear to a kennel, for the
duration of the holidays.
– And so? In all respects, it is not to a dog kennel that our baby will be entrusted.

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– And nothing can tell us that it will be a downs baby. It’s good: I am ready… And
then no! There is still something which I do not understand.
– What?
– I am not sure if I have understood well what Estelle is asking of us.
– She is asking us to succeed with a new baby what we have not damned done with
her.
– I am not such a fool, just the same! It’s the rest which seems confusing.
– You have certainly understood the essential. And then, faced with danger, there
are two of us now.
– If we manage to stop that damned war.
– Jeanne, my dear, I don’t want to be the head of the family.
– My dear Michel, it is a big sacrifice! Oh well, me too, I renounce to the stripes of
a leader. You can put them away definitely in the loft, with the bad memories.
– Why not directly in the dustbin?
– Because one deserves to remember such a waste.
– If we keep that commitment, I believe that the most difficult part will be over. In
the meantime, we have to invent the conjugal democracy.
– It is not so easy. With one vote against one, how can one establish a majority?
Not by weight, I hope! Neither by seniority!
– Others have practiced it before us, the couple’s republic. With Estelle’s help and
our will, we shall manage.
– Will you help me when I let myself be carried away by my demon? Will you help
me, tell me my dear Michel?
– Yes, my dear, and you will pay me back with my own coin when my personal
demon will grasp me by the head.
– Like this, we will be like two monkeys delousing each other mutually…

While taking up that discussion, day after day, we arrived at the third
commitment of which I spoke to you at the beginning of the chapter: keep the
promise made to Estelle, associate her memory to all the important events of our life,
relate to you honestly the story.

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 How to defeat death?

For several months, we continued to reflect

on this important question, which has haunted man
since his expanded consciousness emerged from the
faraway haze, revealing his implacable curse, the
insatiable ogre that has taken away our beautiful
Estelle, so full of life and promise: “Remember
that you are dust and you shall return to dust.”

After all of our cogitations, we have only

consolidated what I’ve already said: there are two
ways to overcome death. And so what if I repeat
myself: there is more than considerations of style
at stake.

The first way is to not turn your back on

it, as is done in our time; nor to live with it:
as this can not be done! No, it is simply to leave
a legacy to those that will live after us.

This does not mean to leave them money,

although this may be useful, but rather to
contribute to a beautiful project that future men
will want to continue: a scientific project, a
physical project, a work of art, a project that
helps us to advance along the path of EXISTENCE,
following the example of Pasteur, Thomas Edison,
Leonardo, etc., within our own means, of course,

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as modest as they may be: the farmer who does his
job with love and bequeathes to his descendants a
farm that is more beautiful that he received has
won his paradise amongst the generations to come.
The miner that brings up coal from the bowels of
the earth, both to feed his children and to supply
industry – this soot covered person also helps to
advance the project of life.

Thanks to our creative action, however

modest it may be, we will be present in the life
to come that we will have helped to create,
invisible but present, like those anonymous
artists who have given us the wonders of ancient
Egypt: all of the sculptors, painters, scribes
and, above all, armies of workers and slaves,
their wives, their children and all of the small
people of Egypt who have contributed something
towards this great project are alive in the
sphinx, in the frescoes of the tombs and in the
eternal temples.

And the second?

It is less glorious and closer to the

beloved ego. It is to be loved by largest number
of people possible so that, after death, we are
remembered for a long time: by our family, by our
friends, in the city and throughout the world; we
may be mentioned as an example or perhaps our name
will be given to a street. And why not a statue,
for that matter? Of course, again, to each
according to his means.

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 It is the famous dead who have combined both
ways to survive. How many scholars like Socrates,
Darwin, and even Einstein, have generously
contributed to the progress of science, whilst
leading a life that serves as an example for
future generations: their work is immortal and the
memory of their person remains alive.

It is the humblest dead whose relatives try

to perpetuate their memory, as illustrated by one
of the Roman stelae erected alongside a road:

“In eternal memory of Clodia Euporia, 40 years and 28 days

old, a modest and sober, talented woman of a happy nature,
not envious of others, with balanced judgement, respectful
of the bond of marriage and pious, caring for her daughter
and servants and obedient to those who deserved it. All of
her contemporaries loved her. She lives here, having left her
country and ravished by a disastrous fate.”
But this second way of escaping death is
rather futile. Could she succeed if her existence
stopped due to a lack of craftsmen to continue it?
It is just a small outgrowth of the ego, like a
wart on the living body of the active generations.

But as the ego is so powerful in man, why

not “make do” as in the capitalist economy. The
tradition of the nobility, as we mentioned, may
serve as an example, except that this time
everyone can be a noble. Within the family, all
those with honourable conduct will be recognized
by their descendants, and the others, that are
unworthy, will not be entitled to posterity. One
can even envisage portrait galleries on the

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 artisans of Existence appear. Thus the command
“noblesse obliges” would apply to everyone.

We have had that child: a boy, a third son, Jacques. In his fifteenth year, at
the age when one calls into question seriously the familiar roles to choose himself and
decide what to do with his own life, there’s a storm beneath the skull and in the
surroundings of the youth which one calls “crisis of adolescence.” Right in the thick
of that difficult period so, we spoke to him of his other mother not like the others.
Now, he knows well Estelle. He cherishes her memory and, above all, he was grateful
to her for making him a particular being. Not only we are not jealous of that
attachment but, on the contrary, that pleases us. Having said that, he has preferred to
call her “godmother” rather than “big sister” or “mum.”

It is like this that the survivors of the shipwreck take back to the sea for a
new world loaded with promises. But this is another story. Let us come back to the
“Hundred Years War,” at the right moment where we had left her, just when the first
skirmishes were about to start, well before the tragedy.

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8-The First Signs of the War

Jeanne was ravished to be pregnant. Her gracious silhouette of a dancer

developed an excessive roundness which stretched the skin of the tummy which
ended up resembling an enormous balloon. She became like a pumpkin with a small
head attached and her sweet legs of a dancer seemed then too fragile to carry such a
weight. You know how caring she is to render herself beautiful at any time: oh well,
until the birth of our baby, she accepted without the slightest regret the temporary
sacrifice of her beauty.

After some months of pregnancy, her tummy started getting round just right
but, as usual, it was necessary to go ahead with the events.

– I am pregnant up to my eyes, she said. Do you realise that I chose you to be the
father of my child?
– Surely! That I realise. The reciprocity is true, don’t forget it: I have chosen you as
the mother of my children.
– Are you quite sure that you have chosen? You are so much in a hurry to sow your
half-seed that you would have placed it in any open flower. You are lucky that
“Myself,” I chose you. Try to remain at the same level… Oh! He has kicked me
with his feet, the little rascal. There you are my dear, feel it, my dear, put your hand
there… Not here, no, there! Do you feel how he moves?
– Oh yes! I have felt it. But let us come to what you have just said. You have
chosen me. I have chosen you. In order to avoid the repetition, why not admit that
we have recognised each other mutually? Don’t you think?
– Man begs for, the woman disposes. All the men, at least all those who are not
ignoble and stupid brutes, nearly all men, therefore, beg for the permission to make
love to all the women whom they meet, no matter how little they are “screwable.”
They even go as far as paying for it! Women, no: they want to meet, among all

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those thirsty ones, the one they love. And then, they invite him to make love
seriously. This is what you are like, you men, slaves of your ridiculous tip of flesh
which does not deserve not even the nickname of willy.
– How? To start with, I am not “the men”; I am Michel, your adorable spouse.
– My dear, let us not waste time to discuss the angels’ sex. We have a baby on the
way. Oh! Provided he is normal!
– Again! One can say that that fear is obsessing you. But finally, why the devil
would he be abnormal? I have never had such an idea.
– Ah! You are a man! If sometimes you thought of other things rather than
yourself, you would have discovered a long time ago that abnormal babies, are
born just the same here, there, and it is necessary to bring them up.
– If he is an abnormal child, we will bring him up as best as we can. And then, I
will always be with you, whatever happens.
– Oh well! If you say so, you who are so prudent usually! At last will you be gentle
with me, tell me? Even when the baby will be born, will you remain gentle? Oh!
Yes, you will be. You are a kind man, you… I chose you because of that… And for
other reasons, naturally.
– Ah! You have chosen me? Truly, you are keen! But! Surely that I will remain
kind after the birth as I am now! Why must I change?
– Because a lot of men are like this. When their “Little Bird” is quite satisfied, they
neglect the beautiful one who imprudently has given herself. She finds herself with
a ghost of a lover, a memory, a child whom she must bring up on her own.
– You really have funny ideas… Besides, even I surely, I chose you. What a waste
if it had been differently. These months of ember and ice which we have lived
together, we have dedicated them, you and I, I and you, to transplant together our
existences, like flesh which is too often torn up. Was that to make it seem better so
that you fall in my plate, well done, like an exquisite lobster, my love?
And you remember how I drooled in Austria?
– Oh? And me, then?
– Well. Oh well, in spite of that, I chose you for life, and even beyond that. And if
we have to drool again, I shall continue to fight so that we can finally manage to
understand each other.
– You know, the dirty tricks played by men, there have been many and many that I
feel very disgusted. And still, I fear that I am not enough. A man can quite well

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marry a girl for the little comfort she gives him, he tells her he loves her, and once
she is his domestic slave closed in the cage, courts the other beauties, his true
loves, like in the good old times when the legitimate bride was called “Little
housewife.”
– Even at the times when that caricature of married life was tolerated, she existed
more often in the jokes than in reality. In any case, if you doubt me to that extent,
why did you marry me?
– Because you are all the same: even if, on the big day, your appearance is angelic,
in the shadow, your subconscious of dominating evil prepares his wicked attacks.
– Dear! Oh dear! Dear! If you negotiate directly with my subconscious, me, I am
forcibly excluded from the discussion. You cannot come to an agreement to lead it
in full light, so that I can finally settle my explanation with that cheating.
– Difficult! You know it. But I will do whatever possible.
– Thank you, my dear. Tell me, even women have a subconscious! The faults
which you see in mine are perhaps concealed in yours. It is perhaps you who are
playing the comedy of love “to exploit me better, my child.”
– Impossible!
– How is that?
– Because a woman is not made like a man.
– Because you are no longer our equal?
– Equality does not mean identity: did I marry an idiot?
– I hope not! Well, I agree: I have made a mistake. So, can you explain?
– She can make love without love, and if in that game she does not risk a
pregnancy, it will only be a deception without importance. In that case, she puts her
body at the disposition of a lover like whores do, and she simulates, more or less,
the pleasure. In reality, she does not feel anything, if it is not a certain boredom or
rather some disgust.
If she were a man, she would find pleasure just the same. Only, she is a woman,
and that gift is denied to her.
– Here is a good moment which I learned, thanks to you. And then?

Which are the specificities of the feminine sexuality?

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 Here, I must make you swallow a little
theory. “Come on! A spoon for dad. A spoon for
mum. A spoon for Little Jesus.”

Consider what follows.

Rapists are almost always men. The clients

of prostitution are practically always men. The
old rich men who marry a “young girl” are mostly
always men.

How do you explain these facts? I think that

I know.

We must first consider that there are two

kinds of orgasm. One is mechanical, resulting from
the excitement of the clitoris or the vagina, or
the penis. It can be obtained through
masturbation. It is just a drug which gives the
illusion of pleasure, not the real pleasure that
is given to those that have climbed the mountain.

Most women do not experience true orgasm in

the absence of shared love. So they cannot
therefore steal or buy the pleasures of love.

There are degrees of this love, and

generally the pleasure grows the more the steps
are climbed. Higher, ever higher, up to the sky!

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 The first degree is that of mutual
attraction. Then comes fleeting love. And so on,
up to the great love of Romeo and Juliet. The
illusion of love that the woman has when she tells
herself a beautiful story whilst masturbating or
paying a gigolo is different. This is an illusion,
the equivalent of a drug. Now, you can not replace
real life with drugs: Mômmanh does not let us do
it. However, these illusions make it possible to
have rather pitiful orgasms that leave a
disappointing taste.

Most men do not need to love in order to

“fuck.” They just need the woman to be “fuckable,”
i.e. that she is not disgusting and she has at
least some sex appeal. Whether they masturbate or
they pay a prostitute, they do not need to create
the illusion of love. They temporarily relieve
themselves and that’s that.

I once heard an experienced and disappointed

woman stating this truth. Instead of saying that a
man makes love to his lover, she always said: “He
uses her.”

Do you understand that there are different

grades of orgasms, from the “mechanical orgasm”
that reduces the sexual tension for a while whilst
leaving a bitter taste and the feeling of being
robbed, to the supreme orgasm that gives you the
feeling of finally having arrived, to have
expanded to the size of the universe, to the
positive nirvana which concludes the conquest of a
great love.

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 Women can not have a real orgasm without at
least some love. Men, however, can. What is the
origin of these strange sexual abilities?

Let’s assume that very, very long ago,

perhaps even before Modern Man made his appearance
about 200,000 years ago, these behaviours provided
existential benefits to the human race…

For this new naked monkey, the risk of death

was almost daily. The man who spreads his seed as
widely as possible increases his chances of
reproducing. Therefore he will survive.

As for a woman, someone must provide her

protection and assistance so that she can feed
herself throughout the period of pregnancy and
lactation. Under these conditions, a man must not
only inspire love by promising a beautiful,
strong, brave, intelligent child like his father.
He must also prove that he can help the mother if
necessary.

But this was not enough because, until very

recently, as there was no effective means of birth
control such as the “pill,” there was a great risk
of the woman becoming pregnant without wanting to.
These unwanted pregnancies often ended in
disasters worse than death.

Modern sexuality has to be invented.

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 Times have changed, but the behaviours from
our past remain, inscribed in red letters in our
genes, as Mômmanh intended. They will have to
prove their unhealthy effects time and time again
until she finally decides to replace them with new
practices, inspired by love.

That probably helps to explain the strange

sexual behaviour common in our time, especially
amongst males. The basic man usually wants to
fuck, even if they have to pay for it and, in
extreme cases, without the consent of his partner.
Love, in this quest, is often secondary or
superfluous if not simply annoying.

In this regard, it is a seduction tool used

by many women that can have perverse and even
dangerous effects. Knowing men’s appetite for sex,
they use it as bait. They wear miniskirts that
show the upper thighs and the path to the cave of
Venus, both in front and behind. The route is
signposted. A sign announces: “Come this way for
good soup.”

Who can believe that this is the true path

of love?

But, getting back to the topic.

It is important to understand that love is

not always for life. And besides, how do you know

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 how long it will last when it starts? There are
other loves, both for the man and for the woman.

The important thing is this: the man must

conquer his woman and the woman must seduce her
man. To do this, they must both excel on the path
of human existence and be applauded by Mômmanh
with both hands.

So, along the course of her obstinate walk

towards existence, a conquest which we call
evolution, Mômmanh has selected four gifts of the
woman: to be able to recognise men of a certain
standing, show them the way with her beauty, give
them children and, finally, being unable to taste
the supreme reward unless love appears to be to
them present.

And now, let us find our lovers.

– When we make love you are very attentive to my pleasure, and it is because we
have had the right, very often, to the grand trip. But if we happen to remain
systematically on the border, for a long period, you will ask me what happened to
me. So? If I were no longer loving, you will not fail to notice it: my body will not
answer any longer to yours, neither to the warmth nor to the shuddering waves of
happiness which we confuse, and much less through the final fusion in the form of
fireworks. My body will be nearly as lifeless as an inflatable doll. Here is the reason
why my love cannot be a deception.
– How can you be certain that I will be aware of it?
– I am sure because that has already happened. It has happened to me that I gave

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myself to you without being loving and you have asked me why I was elsewhere.
– Maybe… And is the reciprocity not true?
– Since you are a man, you can take your pleasure with me without loving me. So,
by which signs can I know if you love me?
– It is more difficult, I admit. But do you show yourself so suspicious that you
hardly risk deceiving yourself? But tell me, I have not understood well in what
consists that feminine particularity…
– Don’t be even more stupid than usual. After all, perhaps do you want a
demonstration?
– Oh yes! With pleasure.
– With pleasure: at least, I hope… So? You must well admit that men are pigs!
– If you want, but it is necessary to believe in my love because I am at a loss what
to say.
– Is it quite true? Horrible liar whom I adore. Oh well, I believe you… Hold on!
Here you are for the pain that I have inflicted upon you!

Why did Mômmanh entrust the key to paradise to women?

Men have the desire to inject their seed

into any female receptacle provided that its owner
agrees. If she says “yes,” they will have a small
chance of entering heaven.

Only a small chance. For it is not enough

that the woman is in love enough to say “Yes” to
the man. To ascend to heaven, she must see in her
partner more than: “Oh, that guy, I wouldn’t mind
doing it with him!” She must feel “in love.” What
if she doesn’t? Well, if she doesn’t, the pleasure

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will be mechanical and frustrating, the same as
the false pleasure of masturbation when one has
only succeeded in loving oneself.

And can a man, in this case, experience a

real orgasm? That depends on his generosity. If,
feeling that his partner is elsewhere, he can not
enjoy himself selfishly, any orgasm will be
mechanical. This will, temporarily perhaps, be an
act of frustrated love.

Oh yes: Mômmanh has entrusted to women the

key to paradise. Perhaps she had some good reasons
for that.

That said, when we believe that women can

not enjoy themselves if they do no feel a shared
love, we are mistaken. At the very least, we are
exaggerating. There was often an inability to
experience pleasure when they made love without
feeling intensely loved, but it was the conditions
of our time as much as their female nature that
prohibited orgasms.

Firstly, there were some deeply ingrained

old-fashioned beliefs, especially amongst men.
Girls that gave themselves away without being very
romantic, just because they liked a guy, were
considered “sluts.” If they changed lovers often,
if they were “easy” without really being
debauched, then people thought they were
nymphomaniacs: poor sick creatures haunted by a
craving to have sex with any man that presented

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himself. Nymphomaniacs were a man’s wet dream. It
was a good business: they offered an opportunity
to inject his seed into a suitable receptacle. And
for free, on top of that! Needless to say I have
never met a nymphomaniac.

But above all, women were afraid of getting

pregnant, of carrying a little bastard in their
belly, a cursed child that would make their lives
a nightmare. Because “single mothers” were
despised, persecuted and exploited. Life was often
hell for them and their little “bastard.” How many
pregnant girls suffered mutilation or died from
having an abortion carried out with a knitting
needle or some other dangerous procedure?

Since that time, women got the pill and many

other ways of preventing unwanted pregnancies. And
then there was 1968, which swept away achaisms
hidden in routine. It brought new freedoms to
women and in the area of sexuality in general.
Freed from the fear of catastrophic pregnancies
and from reproach, lovers were able to experiment
with pleasures that were hitherto prohibited. And
those who didn’t know it discovered that women can
also have orgasms in fleeting encounters, making
love without a lifetime commitment. They just have
to like their lover enough, i.e. a lot: his
beauty, his youth, his humour, his prestige, his
power, his intelligence, his talent as a
taxidermist… And what else? Who knows? And, what’s
more, if they are disfigured by an unbearable
arrogance, extreme stupidity, bad taste, vulgarity
or a terrifying ideology… well who cares?: for one

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night, he will at least provide some pleasure.
There is a limit, however: the temporary lover
must not even suggest that the woman is just
useful to him for “emptying his balls” but rather
that he has a very strong desire for her and he
wants to make her happy. In short, the woman has
to feel loved, even if it is only for one night.

And for most men, it is completely

different. For a man, there are millions and
millions of “fuckable” women, which in no way
means that he is likely to fall in love with them.
They ar e like prostitutes that those that ar e
“frustrated” go to see: they are useful just for
“getting laid.” Would any of these many “fuckable”
women drop their knickers and offer themselves to
the male… (you know the rest). On the other hand,
would the male drop his pants and offer his erect
penis to any of these “fuckable” women… (you know
the rest).

And if one day, helped by a sexual

revolution, all fuckable women become available to
all of the fuckable men that they come across,
would humanity spend all of its time “fucking”?
Who would look after the cows? Who would knead
bread? Who would run the factories? And would
there still be love in this immense “fuckodrome”?

In fact, it is time to get back to that

subject, which is another matter completely. Let’s
not forget that in order to be loved, we must move
forward earnestly along the path of life. This is
worth repeating: love lifts us up.

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 And yet, a fleeting love can still be hot
and leave an unforgettable memory.

One thing is certain: apart from the love of

your life, there may also be other short-lived
loves. The problem is that at the beginning of a
new love, no one knows for certain what it will
become. A good memory? Or everlasting love? The
fear of seeing his woman or her man taken away by
a competitor is therefore valid. But it must not
turn into jealousy. You must simply remember that
love is a battle that continues every day, that
you must constantly grow and grow again to win
your share of paradise. And, as at the casino, you
must be able to deal with your losses.

The new woman was born along with

contraception and the liberation of ’68. She has
existed for just forty years, which is nothing
compared to the millions of years that have gone
before. Throughout human evolution, the woman, so
vulnerable throughout these millions of years,
this obstinate woman on which ours are modelled,
must have been haunted by two concerns:

- to find protection against her weakness;

- to bear and raise children that are

beautiful, intelligent, strong, and so on.

She therefore had to find a man (or several)

that we re capable of meeting these needs. She
could n ot let herself be impregnated by just

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anyone, and she did her best to avoid men whose
only concern was to spread their seed. Thus
Mômmanh had to inscribe this, in letters of fire,
in the DNA of a great many women: “You shall not
see sexual paradise until you are sure that your
lover loves you.”

And why then did our wise Mômmanh give men

the need to spread their seed everywhere, with or
without love? Probably because at the time it was
a good way of promoting the survival of humanity.
Now, with the huge crowds of humans that trample
and plunder and devastate the planet, it is time
to invent a new sexuality.

The pleasures of liberated love are on trial

right now. Time will tell which ones are best.
This is beyond us, Jeanne and I. We are too old.
However, I think that we have experienced the
basics: when an orgasm is shared by two lovers,
sealing the declaration of a great love, it is
divine. Alleluia! This is what the youth of today
say: making love when you are really in love is
much better.

Thank you, Mômmanh! So I think, knowing you,

what you’re going to do is to give men the
characteristic that women have: they can not
achieve the ultimate climax when a minimum of
shared love is not there. You will gradually
select this quality because it favours human
existence.

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 But it is time to go back to Jeanne in the
60s, because you know that she has no patience.

So it is up to you to find the present she gave me. Weren’t there the nectar
and that ambrosia on which the gods of the Olympus delighted themselves, and which
fed their immortality? I don’t know, because since the end of ancient times, those
products have become absolutely impossible to find. But, my frustration was not
wasted and I was not in the frame of mind to taste the authentic pleasure of love. That
image of a man who sent back the beloved mirror, I judged it detestable and so false,
in the same way as it applied itself to me. I continued therefore to hunt down the
misunderstanding which was separating us one from the other. And, since the
washing had started, I went to put in all our dirty linen.

You know that, if I had been less naive, if I could have seen the future road in
which we were committed, I would have run away on all fours. And I would have
returned sheepishly, because our baby was due in some months time: it was too late
to retreat. And now, in spite of the horror of what happened, “if I had to do it, I would
go that way again.” So, it was better that the future was hidden from us.

I revived the discussion, by saying a silent prayer so that it would not lead to
a violent dispute, as this had happened too often.

“You make an afflicting image out of me. How is it possible, so, that you
love me? And besides, do you really love me?”

How can I pose such a question? Every time that her body, melted in mine, it
had sent me certain waves of warmth, which filled me, I had known, by means of
evidence, that she loved me. So?

Exactly: it is not every time the fourteenth of July. Sometimes, the feast was
classified as lamentable: we had only copulated and that act had taken a nasty aspect.
In my younger days I could follow more or less such a disgusting meal. At last, and

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above all, there was worse than the holidays in Austria: there were some periods
where she seemed to hate me.

You are not surprised, therefore, while seeing me put in doubt Jeanne’s love
and that even more because she had already lied to me plenty of times.

Now, I see and I am surprised. Now, I know that she said the truth.

I am not imagining that love, that construction made of living materials, is a

perpetual building site where part of the work is set up while another one shattered.
For whoever knows, it is already a difficult conquest: so imagine what it was like for
us, naïve pioneers of the new love, who bloomed in the twentieth century.

Besides my ignorance of that time, my distrust was nourished by the memory

of the Austrian nightmare which I had not stomached. Jeanne struggled just the same
to convince me.

“Shall we see, Michel? My word! But you have not understood anything
from what I have just explained to you. That ultimate ecstasy which the sex
technicians call “orgasm,” that supreme happiness, ah well, we women, we cannot
experience it if two conditions are not fulfilled: the first is that we love our lover, the
second that we believe to be loved. For us, women, that pleasure without equal can
only be the fruit of complete love, that which it takes two to construct! And which
gives birth to the irresistible yearning of fusion.

You understand that it is very important for us to know if our man is truly
loving! Tell me “man,” how many men, how many seducers disguised as suitors try
to deceive a poor lover, by making her believe that she is the woman of their life, “to
screw her up better, my child”! Do they know what evil they do, those thieves of
paradise?”

When that happens, the deceived woman has the feeling of having failed in
her mission: she has taken a fake for a diamond. Suddenly, she loses confidence in

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her aptitude to judge men, a trust which she will find very painful to gain again. As
expected, the price that she had to pay is the deprivation of the pleasure of love.”

Jeanne moved on.

– So? You who boast of having your thought open to the slightest current of air,
how can you doubt my sincerity?
– That is true. I am quite compelled to believe you; if however, what you have
explained to me is entirely true. No! Oh no! Don’t get upset!
But why the devil are you so stubborn in fearing that I am one of those thieves of
pleasure? It is quite true that I am only a man, dirt therefore, compared to a woman,
and therefore, shame and sadness overwhelm me if I wreck like this the beautiful
love which will make me move mountains…
– There you are! If you believe you are amazing me! It is no use hurting your back
by lifting too heavy a mountain: I have already told you that I believe you.
– And you have realised that I am gentle… Well… Oh… Oh well…
– What else! Ah! Refrain from beating about the bush, it makes me nervous.
– By the way, you yourself you have not always been, gentle! Words which are
even much stronger came to my thoughts, sometimes. What happened to us in
Austria? Can you say it to me now?
– Oh no! Poor idiot, you want me truly to get angry! Ah well. So much the worse!
It is necessary that I say it to you some day…

So, anger set in as suddenly as it had come along and Jeanne tried to explain
to me what I had not yet succeeded to understand: some of the elements of her
behaviour which I consider bizarre or unbearable. At the outcome of the conversation,
I believed that finally I knew of her all that from time to time, was demolishing our
love and, surely, I believed also in having the means to eliminate that poison.

How far I was from the explanation!

She feared and hated men as much as she was ready to love them. Not
everything, surely, above all after having validated for her life love at first sight,

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which implied a mutual trust. That she loved men so much in spite of the repulsive
image which she had of the greatest number amongst them: that should have
surprised me. Ah well, no. I made the best of that inclination promising delightful
things and, contrary to my habits, I did not even try to understand.

While I reflected upon it, it seemed to me that in her head she had enough
beautiful images of men without a blemish to hope to find someone to love and that,
on the other hand, nature as well as the human family had made her a woman. She
therefore had a great need for men. Yes, she was entirely feminine!

Can we infringe a natural law?

What do I understand by that? Our human

intelligence, thus performing, allows us to invent
all sorts of answers for the desire of existence:
works, constructions, habits, ideologies, social
organisations, arts, studies… Each one of us is
the liberated consciousness of his Mômmanh, and
she trusts us blindly as long as our work will not
contradict one of her rules which her experience
has taught her, a natural rule. For example, if a
man discovered that from now on he has all the
possibility to walk on his hands, he will embark
in a way against nature and Mômmanh will contest
violently his decision.

“Man who is so intelligent cannot be at the

same time so stupid, you say to me.
– He has tried hard obstinately to shackle love.”

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 Having said that, it is probable that
Mômmanh has chosen some behaviour which was of a
certain quality at their time and which, now, are
perhaps faults. In this case, if we are aware of
all the process, the replacement of the absolute
characteristic by that modern one will be easy.

Difference between the biological acquisitions and the

cultural acquisitions.

Those means of existence invented by man are

taught to children, passing like this from
generation to generation. They constitute our
cultural characters. It is like this that th e
femininity has numerous cultural aspects such as
the rings in the nose, the giraffe’s neck, the
Islamic veil, the little Chinese feet, the
excision…

Think of a learned behaviour that would

prove beneficial for many generations to come: the
valuing of shared love, for example. It would
gradually imprint itself in Mômmanh’s memory and,
eventually, she would arrange for it to become an
innate characteristic. A cultural characteristic
would become a natural one. That may be what we
call “atavism.”

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 Which are the five gifts of the woman?

As regards my Jeanne, at first, I will not

speak about that cultural femininity but about the
other, primordial, that quasi-infinite experience
which our Mômmanh has chosen for us: the natural
femininity.

It is about, above all, the four gifts I

have introduced to you. You can add a fifth which
has its importance. It contains everything one
needs f or the success of the feminine loving
sensuality: the grain and the sweetness of the
skin, the firmness of the flesh, the sensibility
of the breasts, the curve of the buttocks, without
forgetting, of course, the holy of holies… We must
call the English to the rescue to name that
quality. It is sex appeal. A woman who possesses
it is sexy.

Mômmanh continues to trust us in spite of

all the bad tricks which we have played on her: it
is that she is far from being infallible. Can’t it
be in the attribution of beauty to females,
alongside with the masterpieces, you see the
quantity of the flops, the unlucky ones which one
calls “fatty,” “dry haricots,” “big horse” or
“Normandy cow”!

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 She is even mistaken, sometimes, in the
distribution of sexual attributes. At the will of
her fantasy, she goes as far as gifting some
unlucky ones with masculine traits: the shoulders
of a docker, the voice of a howling bull, a
pirate’s beard and also the big teeth of a bear.

Ah well, what luck! With my Jeanne, Mômmanh

made only coherent choices: my well-beloved was
entirely a woman, feminine right to the bottom of
her mother of pearl toenails.

The breasts, there you are! Nothing

astonishing if it is the first example which comes
to my mind. It will not take you long to know the
reason why. Therefore, let us take the case of the
breasts.

They have received from Mômmanh three

missions: to breastfeed the babies, to embellish
women, and contribute to the pleasure of love by
increasing the pleasure of the lovers.

To start with, see the quantity of aberrations that they carry. How many men
have received them by mistake, to say the least under the form of well advanced
outlines? How many women don’t have anything or have too little? How many others
would like them to be in the normal place, situated better to cast a spell on men, and
not rejected to isolation, near the armpits, or feigning to want to heave up on the
shoulders of the unlucky ones?

Let us think of their erotic function: normally, they must contribute in a

courageous manner to lead the lovers to the happy final harmony, when the trumpets
of glory are blown.

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 Here is how that happens, most often, with experienced lovers. The eyes of
the beautiful one contain some promises such that the lover plunges, all dressed, in
their ocean. There follow some kisses and the first embrace. Then, the breasts take
over.

The beautiful breast with generous curves, full and perfect, the beautiful
breasts tender and exciting like innocent white doves, the two fawns, all surprised at
seeing the hunter, invite him to lay down the arms. Man feels the need to touch, to
caress, to envelope in his protective hands the two goblins: with that contact, a wave
of beneficial heat covers the attentive bodies which, now, want to experience the
follow up. The breasts stand out calling for caresses and kisses: then it is the whole
female body which calls for burning caresses. Right from that instant, it is enough for
the lover to be on the watch out for the calling of his beloved one in order to answer
as best he can: she will lead him to the apotheosis.

When on top of the sweet hills where they had dozed off, the two breasts
stand out as if to inspect the horizon, a signal resounds in the body of the lovers: “Let
us love each other! Oh yes! There is nothing better!”

When you know that a woman cannot know the real wish if she is not
convinced that love is not truly there, you understand the big importance of that
signal. If the lover is not too uncouth, he realises then that he is loved, since she has
invited him to make love and not to screw.

The swelling of the breasts: how should you call that phenomenon? Must we
have to say that it is the first of the female erections? It is too technical. Perhaps, as a
minimum, we could use that vocabulary when the machines will make love. In the
meantime, let us look for another way to express ourselves.

The signal which those two strong little breasts give out, I understand them
better by comparing them to what happened when my grandfather made the whistle
of his steam engine roar.

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 My ancestor was a grain thrashing contractor in those heroic days when a
steam engine turned a cereal thrashing machine. Every morning, with some wood and
coal, he had to feed a blaze in the heart of the machine for a long time to produce
steam under pressure: the result was not evident, because he often had some leakages
or other technical misfortunes. Moreover, when the pressure was not sufficient, the
sharp roaring of the steam whistle was a signal for all the peasants of the
surroundings, accustomed to the hard work of thrashing, which was at the same time
a celebration.

It was the signal that the day was truly going to start and my grand father, an
old man of unusual enthusiasm, went about with his favourite oath: “Good Grief.” If
he replaced “God” by “Grief,” it was not at all out of ignorance, but because he did
not want to sin by violating that injunction of the Church: “You must not invoke the
name of the Lord in vain! “Being a good Christian like he was, he exclaimed: “Good
Grief of Good Grief! A hundred thousand carts of Good Griefs! Come on, boys! All
hands on deck! We are going thrashing!”

Like this, as much as the strong breast stands out, that triumphant signal was
saying: “Come along! The feast can start!”

But why the hell did I speak of the breasts? Is it a sexual obsession linked to
the senescence? I would like to get on… Oh yes! I am there: it was to show you how
feminine was my Jeanne. It seems that the breasts are not at all capable to play, that
important erotic role. Ah well have you seen? She had really feminine breasts, very
much alive, such as I could not ask for anything better. And, on that territory of
femininity, she never failed in her promises: she was a woman: she revealed herself a
woman afterwards, every time that she invented a new quality: she is still a woman,
she will remain a woman until her last day and even in the other world which the
future would graciously grant her.

“What? You find I did too much of it. May you know that for my Jeanne,
there is never too much of it.”

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 Do you want other examples?

You will never come to rummage in the motor of her car by assuming an
inspired air: besides she does not even know how to open the hood. If the chain of the
bike has jumped, rather than pushing down her hands, she will prefer throwing the
vehicle in the ditch. Her feminine beauty, which she studies and reinvents
unceasingly with so much love, she does not want to be soiled with dirty oil.

In another life, would she like to drive a bus or a lorry? It is necessary to

fulfil many conditions, and I believe that that will never happen. To start with, it is
necessary that she will be exempted from the handling and the maintenance, activities
which are a threat to beauty. Then, the rear view mirror must allow my Jeanne to see
all of herself and clearly. The profile of the vehicle will be matching with the elegant
silhouette of the mistress of the premises. The piloting cabin will be at the same time
intimate and spacious: the décor, will conform to the good taste of the lady of the
castle, and will be renewed as often as she desires. Evidently, the photos of her
wonderful children will be there in a good place, as well as that of her beloved one
and, perhaps of herself, and that of her good grandmother. An extremely reliable
system of automatic piloting must assure the running of the vehicle. Like this, the
driver can take care of the most important tasks: welcome in the piloting lounge the
most interesting clients and discuss with them the best way to lead her life, her
indispensable social activity which certain ignorant people, with a scornful tone, call
chattering.

Therefore, for that time, and although she operates only by feeling,
Mômmanh has well succeeded in her feminine ideal. I had every right to feel fulfilled,
I who love women so much.

And the cultural femininity, which generates history, did it succeed equally?
Ah well, no! Very often even, I have thought that she was irreparably spoilt. It is true
that I was not capable of understanding the process which had led my well beloved
into fearing men and, sometimes even hating them.

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What cultural acquisitions of the child favour his studies?

The little man learns the existence in his

family, principally besides god, his “Father,” and
his goddess, his “Mother.” He learns a great deal
at a tender age. It is there that the structures
of his thought are formed, and it will be very
difficult, nearly impossible to modify them
afterwards. If the tastes and the necessary steps
for the formation of a cultivated thought are not
acquired yet so, the child cannot succeed in his
long studies.

But, the failures in the education of my beautiful one were elsewhere.

It was in her family that Jeanne learned to distrust men as well as to love
them.

Her grandparents were Spanish immigrants. They had come to France after
the First World War, to escape the great poverty which they had in their country. (I
cannot speak about the misery, because the great pride of that people forbids me from
using that term.) They decided rapidly to found a line in our country, and France
became their homeland. Following a tradition that they had not dreamt of
questioning, they had many children of whom some died.

The will that they put into becoming French could not forbid them from
keeping certain values and certain Spanish customs. It was their cultural heritage of
which, very often, they were not aware, being to such an extent part and parcel of
them, a little like their faith and their pituary gland.

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 All that, in your childhood, you have integrated, whether good or bad, or
even still like having a normal behaviour, do you believe you can do without it? Even
if you make use of all your will power, it is impossible. In the first place, you will not
manage to get rid of an accent! So, those precious know-how’s and those deep
attachments, acquired during youth, both during the moments of wonder as well as in
those of fear, and which are like grafted in your being, all those veins of your soul,
even if you accept to bleed to eliminate them, they are there for the whole life. As
Maurice says, “One can never redo himself.” whatever the learned pedagogues of our
times say about it. (Maurice is a happy vagabond who sometimes came “for a drink”
to our house, and whom Estelle loved to quote as an intellectual guide.)

All this to tell you that Jeanne’s grandparents had Spanish roots which were
still very strong, and fresh. Her mother, Paloma, pushed that way just as well by the
will of her parents rather than by the necessity to integrate herself, discovered the
French way of living at her neighbours, to start with, then in the street, and finally at
school. In truth, she was quite often led to choose between the two cultures.

On the French side, she liked the status of the woman right away, so much so
that her mother secretly praised her. Later on, the communist party had to strengthen
that choice, because it needed to be a hundred times more equalitarian than our
bourgeoisie republic.

If Paloma’s mother, tied by her origins, was incapable of accompanying her

daughter in that emancipation, she was aware of the benefits derived from it, certainly
confused, but with sufficient force to encourage her daughter to take advantage of
them. Such a point of view was in tolerable to her husband Mr Gomez: it is because
she took advantage of his absence to indoctrinate Paloma: “Oh my girl, above all,
don’t have ten children like me: what a lot of suffering! And then, you know: to be
free, you have to earn money. Like this, if your husband is unbearable, you can go
away…” She said that in Spanish, the language of her heart.

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 As far as the good husband was concerned, the status of the woman in the
Spanish tradition seemed like a sacred value to him. That his wife or his daughters
could depart seriously from it was unacceptable for him.

Why is the foreigner attached to his cultural origins?

However, his wife’s sole and his were both

originating from the same Spanish mould. But you
know that our Mômmanh, the one who watches over
our human nature, favours our ego every time that
it is possible. Now, the status of the two sexes
in France seemed, with regards to the Spaniards,
advantageous for the women and de-spoilt for men.
Therefore, by being equally attached to their
values of origin, when they were faced by the
problem of French feminine emancipation, father
Gomez showed himself intransigent while his wife
was rather more flexible.

What had to happen materialised itself.

The little Paloma had to help her mother in the housework, which was quite
heavy at that time when linen was hand washed. Her brothers not only were exempted
from those works which would have dishonoured them, but during mealtimes, they
sat at table like little men, and their sister had to serve them. She did not have the
right to hang about after school, neither to play in the road. Evidently, her brothers
had all the freedom.

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 It was them who had to be good students in the French school, to integrate
well in the new homeland and to have a good position later on, not to be manipulated
in the building trade, like their father. They had to become gentlemen, in that
beautiful country. Unfortunately, neither the daily begging of the mother, nor the
grand theatrical scenes which the father sometimes made, in one of his outbursts of
anger whose shouting and the terrifying oaths were the joy of all the district, neither
the severe thrashing which was followed by a series of terrible warnings, nothing had
the lasting effect which everybody was waiting for besides the wounds, bumps and
rarely sometimes the torn clothes, the brothers brought from school mediocre grading
and the reproaches of the teachers.

Paloma was the eldest of the Gomez children. If she had been a boy, being
the father’s deputy and on condition that he would assume the responsibilities linked
to the right of the eldest, she would have had the right to particular attentions. But she
was only a girl, and her place as the first born, besides the pride of helping her
mother, cost her only a lot of ungrateful household tasks.

At the same time, little by little, she became aware of the walk of French
women towards equality, she discovered in herself some qualities equivalent to those
of her brothers. So she wanted, with all her strength, to realize herself fully. It was not
only through a selfish desire to improve her personal situation. It was also out of
generosity: since women had qualities hidden for many thousands of years, like
buried treasures, it was necessary to release them so that humanity would benefit.

Paloma had inherited some of the great concern for being respected, the
honour to which the Spanish are so tied; she called it dignity. She modified the
conditions like this: “The woman worthy of that name has to prove that she too is as
capable as a man and, consequently, demands the same rights for herself.”

Like this, she set about studying whole heartedly and that even more because
the public school was the best place to discover the new femininity which her mother
should not teach her. At the same time, she learned what later on, would assure her a
good position of an emancipated woman. And why couldn’t she become a civil

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servant? Perhaps even a head? In all respects, she could well show them what a
determined girl was capable of.

All proud and happy, on returning to their poor house, she brought back her
good scholastic grades. Her unjust parents would have seen, it would not take them
long to discover, at last, that evidence: their daughter was as capable as her brothers.
So, she would be their equal: like them, one could also sometimes ask her for advice.
Like them, she would have had the freedom to go out in the streets of the district. She
could even, in the near future, be considered by her adorable father, for what she truly
was: the eldest of the family, conscious of her responsibilities and quite set on
assuming them.

But irrespective of the good grades and the congratulations of the teachers,
the compliments of the parents were late in arriving, with the exception, of her
mother, who had a feeling of great pride fearfully hidden.

One summer evening, while the long holidays were approaching, the school
headmistress, Mrs Lépagneul in person, paid a visit to the Gomez family. She roughly
said the following to them: “Your Paloma is an excellent student. Not only is she
gifted, but she is hard working, diligent, and lovable, to top it all, and there is no loss
in that. It should not be allowed to let these qualities be lost. Allow her to continue
her studies in the higher course of my school; she will prepare herself for the
competitive exam of the entrance to the Ecole Normale d’Institutrices and she will
become a teacher, then a school headmistress, like me. Rest assured that her studies
will not cost you anything.”

In front of that loving and nevertheless energetic woman, Paloma’s

grandfather behaved like a peasant in front of a queen: because he respected humbly
in her a notable person, an authority of the country which had welcomed him. But,
after she left the house, he became again the head of the family, intransigent, and
unwilling to share his power.

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 And, to everybody’s surprise, the lightning struck on the Gomez family: the
father, who had remained too Spanish, cursed his favourite child because she had
become too French and was not suitable for a respectable girl.

He started by finding that he was too poor to allow his children to continue
their studies, even though the costs were not high; if one of the boys showed good
dispositions, on condition that each and everybody in the family did an effort to help
him, perhaps one could pay sufficient years of schooling so that he would become a
“Gentleman”; but it was not a question that one would do so many efforts to educate a
girl. Not only, would it be like casting pearls in front of swine, but, surely, she would
then become like the French, if not worse, those French who, nearly all of them, are
bad mannered, they don’t keep to their place, and dishonouring their family, they are
nothing but whores, those women who sleep with anyone like the dogs, and who do
not know not even the fathers of their bastards.

No! A Gomez will never tolerate such an abominable thing. Besides, to avoid
all the danger of that sort, on the way to school, Paloma will be from now on
accompanied by her brothers, on her way there and back. And it was necessary that
everybody should keep an eye on her so that she would not escape from her house to
go and linger on in the streets infested by louts.

In Paloma the anger increased and started to erupt like a Mediterranean river
reduced to a trickle of water hidden under the stones under the effect of a sudden
storm, transforms itself brutally in a furious devastating torrent. And her much
beloved father was changed into an enemy she wanted to trample on. While
swallowing her sobbing, she shouted that “Yes, she will continue her studies!” that
“Surely yes! She would become a school teacher!” that “She would go out in the
street all alone, whenever she wanted!” that “No! She did not want above all her
stupid brothers to protect her, because she would be ashamed of such a company…”

A couple of bitter slaps on the face interrupted her before she buried herself
in the small garden howling to all the neighbourhood that her father was only an old
idiot, the most stupid and the most nasty of all France, that “None of her friends had

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such a bloody fool of a father like him, luckily enough for them!” that “She would
prefer to loiter about the streets rather than continue to live in such a family”…

Jeanne’s terrible grandfather became as pale as death before the reddish hue
of an uncontrollable rage lit up his cheeks. All the family rushed to calm him. When
he could finally talk, it was the most terrifying oaths which came out first. I cannot
repeat it to you because I will hurt uselessly some pious Christians; whatever is
possible for me to say, is that he pretended to defecate on a holy character, extremely
venerated and implored by the believers; I suppose that such an odious treatment with
regards to a highly venerated one in Heavens was given to him out of vengeance,
which he had well deserved for not having spared the head of the Gomez family the
misfortune of having such a creature as a daughter.

Everybody awaited the verdict. It did not take long to come. Since Paloma
was bringing shame on the family, she herself would be humiliated. Like this, she
would never yearn to start again to become an unworthy young girl whom nobody
would want to marry, not even an old hunchbacked gangster. Because, if one let her
be, she would not take long to be wretched like a bitch on heat which drags behind
her all the dogs of the district.

Paloma was only twelve years old and she did not bother at all to find a lover;
however, the young girl’s shape started to stand out through all the childish clothes
which were too tight. Above all, she had magnificent jet black shiny hair, fine hair,
flexible and long which rippled like the waves of the sea always on the move, big
sombre eyes bordering on intelligent curiosity, already intrepid, the outline of an adult
face which would not take long to reveal itself serious, friendly, mocking and, above
all energetic: such were the principles making up a beauty still free in the garden of
childhood…

(“How do I know it, since I was not there? – Because somebody has related it
to me, by Jove!”)

This is what Jeanne’s grandfather did to save the honour of his family.

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 He announced that he was going, on the field, to shave Paloma’s hair and that
she would go like that to school, exhibiting her shame. Neither the children’s protests
nor the begging of his wife changed his determination; on the contrary, they
persuaded him that all the family was contaminated by the bad French influence and
that it was necessary to act very quickly. Such was his power that each member of the
family, whether he liked it or not, came to help him to shear poor Paloma. While
biting her lips, she swallowed her sobbing. Her eyes, seemed, like blazes. Her hair
was burnt.

Her mother gave her a scarf to cover her shaven skull and it is like this that
she went to school. Luckily, the long holidays were near. Some wicked school mates
took the opportunity to try and torment her.

Which are the two means of improving his social level? The
good? And the bad?

Nothing surprising. You know that Mômmanh

has chosen for us a wish for existence organised
in six elements. One of the six is the bond with
the others.

In that element, the place occupied by our

“myself” in the heart of the others is very
important. She has different names according to
its positive aspects (esteem, notoriety, glory…)
or negative (rejection, shame, opprobrium…). Just
as, in a family, each child jealous of his
brothers and sisters tries to occupy the first
place in his parents’ love, in society, everybody

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 wants to reach a high level in the heart of the
others.

There are two ways in which to reach that

high level. The most evident consists in raising
oneself even by means of actions of a certain
quality which please the others. The other is
without nobility: instead of raising oneself, he
wants to lower down the others, by tripping them
for example.

The first means, generous, enriches

existence: it is a vector of life. The second,
strictly selfish, impoverishes the existence: it
is a vector of death.

Therefore, those few selfish schoolmates whom we can call “pests” pretended
that the “shorn” one was so dirty that she had caught lice, perhaps even scabies or
some other disgusting infection. They wanted to “treat” her: “Dirty Spaniard! Paloma
Lice-Lice! Spanish scabies,” but the side of the kind ones was very strong in silencing
them.

During the holidays, her hair grew enough so that she did not need to hide it
under the scarf. Therefore, she did not suffer much from what should have been a big
humiliation. No, it is not there that she’s been hurt, marked for life!

She had just lost her father: such was at least the feeling that she had for a
long time.

That man so strong, so generous, so handsome, such a rock, a family pillar,

that model of a man without whom she did not know how to live, that adorable father
– But at last! What am I saying? It was much more than that: the Unique Man, Dad…

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the only man of the earth, had just exploded like a soap bubble, leaving in her heart
only a sorrowful emptiness.

And he whom she had just discovered, the nasty man who took the place of
her “Dear Father”… she hated him.

– I’m exaggerating, you say?

– It’s not me who is saying it, but Gomez. And the Gomez family, doubtlessly
because of their Spanish roots, love exaggerating. They create legends like others
make pearls.

After that memorable evening, the Gomez father did not miss one single
opportunity to humiliate his daughter publicly, principally in front of her brothers.
She had to serve them at table, stand beside them while they ate sitting, and wash the
crockery all by herself. She was the idiot, the fool, the slob, the stupid, the debauched,
the shame of the family. After the end of the compulsory schooling, at the age of
thirteen, having obtained, in spite of the negative blows, the famous Certificate of the
End of the Primary Studies, she went to work to help her family survive. At sixteen
years of age, she had a lover and her father compelled her to marry quickly.

How could she love that evil father who was set about causing the
unhappiness of his daughter? How, could she be so stupid, as to admire for such a
long time that evil man?

Bad! Bad! Bad! And however, luckily enough, she could not forget the
“Father” of her childhood. Here is why, all her life, her heart like a Norwegian
omelette, all her life, Paloma was condemned to hate men as much as she loved them.

It is like this that from time to time and in an unjustified manner, Paloma
started to pour a torrent of insults on her husband, Louis, that good man who is
Jeanne’s step-father.

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 You see that great guy, wearing his eternal cap which served to dress his
skull as well as to protect it from bad weather. He has left his overall at the factory, to
put on more suitable clothes, nearly elegant. Since he has no meeting today,
exceptionally he soon goes back home in his suburban house. It is Louis, Paloma’s
husband.

Louis is the head of a workshop in a big enterprise, shop-steward, and

sympathiser of the “Party,” which did not prevent him from having a vast culture as
well as various competences, at the same time being a loving spouse and a
responsible father of the family. I will speak to you of his faults another time: they are
minor. Louis receives the respect and the sympathy of nearly everyone.

All those qualities did not prevent Paloma from pushing him down lower
than the ground and to persevere on him by shuffling furiously on him like a doormat,
in the figurative sense, of course, because he is rather strong to make her fall by a
flick. Her voice marked by a deep contempt, she let her man know that he is a good
for nothing, a “wet blanket,” an idiot who does not know how to distinguish between
an iron and a roasted chick, a wimp which flattens itself in front of all those who
assume a commanding tone, a stupid who trips in his own feet while walking, and, to
conclude all, a sack of shit with an appalling stench. Such sessions of humiliation,
more frequently in public, take place brutally, like a summer storm, with that
difference that there were no warning signs close by. In that case, the Grand Louis
scratches a little bit his skull beneath the cap, the attitude of one taken aback, and then
he seems to understand something and returns to his business, indifferent to the storm
which is raging.

Ah well, that abnormality in behaviour, my Jeanne had inherited from her

mother. The legacy had not been made in front of a notary, but in the complicity
which, from time to time, united mother and daughter. Jeanne learned that as a ritual
which seemed important to her although she did not know the reasons: perhaps her
mother did not want to destroy the beautiful image, which Jeanne had of her
grandfather. It is because even my well beloved spouse practised the sessions of
public humiliation on her husband, your servant, but uniquely in mitigated versions.

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Besides, she only did them in the presence of her family, at the time of reunions, like
those Christians whose faith has faded, who forget the duty of assisting for mass
every Sunday for such a long time that they remain distant from their parents.

With that element of her cultural heritage, Jeanne had already a good reason
to mistrust the masculine sex. There was another, the fruit of a personal test which
should have inspired her with a definite aversion in the meeting with her male
complement. Luckily enough, she has known how to find the means of her cure. But,
fearing probably to hurt our love, she has never dared to entrust me with what she
went through that summer evening, of her eighteenth birthday. I incidentally learned
it through the gossiping of Claire, one of her childhood friends.

Following in her mother’s example, Jeanne wanted the same freedom like
boys, and even more. One had tried however to put her on guard against the dangers
which the defenceless young girls have to watch out for: she had only heard the
nuisances to make her return amongst “the well behaved girls.”

For some reasons which I will not tell you, because I feel you are impatient,
she who still ignored the happiness of being my Jeanne, the poor one, had no wish to
celebrate her eighteen years; eighteen years which seemed to her leading towards
distress. After having shared in her family the birthday cake, she had gone out alone
to the cinema.

She had seen Brigitte Bardot, the bold star of the time, who dared show the
erotic beauties of her body as well as the rewards, promised to those who knew how
to conquer her. She dared provoke the sexual desire in men to seduce them better. To
those for whom the erotic games still seemed dirty and diabolic, those exquisite
effronteries said that carnal love was a feast. But that was not a revelation for Jeanne:
she had already loved, with her thought as well as with her flesh. Alas, her lover had
left her for another, before leaving for the War of Algiers. Therefore, the film did not
answer the worries of the moment.

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 Moreover the heroin, not only accepted to be considered like an idiot, but she
believed that it was right; little did it matter, provided she attracted men at her feet,
keeping them on the lead like Pekinese, and leading them to satisfy all her whims,
very often ruinous. Jeanne did not want above all to play the role of the “Ravishing
Idiot,” even with the compensations which a luxury doll receives.

Night was falling. The shortest way to go back home crossed the “zone,”
those uninhabited lands of which I have already spoken. Jeanne had gone out like a
boy of her age and also as free as a boy, she chose the shortest way. She was not
going to let herself be accompanied like the retrograded girls! At the same time that
night was falling, observing that half wild territory where she had played so often in
her childhood, she remembered how it was full of beautiful hiding places where even
the smartest parents would not discover you.

So, just a little later, she thought that a girl runs more risks than a boy when
she ventures like this alone and far away from any help.

Suddenly she was overcome by fear and started to run.

She heard some quick, numerous, steps and a fit of panic overwhelmed her.
But already three men surrounded her with their arms stretched forth. A big brutal
hand fell on her lips before she uttered a sound. She tried hard to recall all her
energies to try, in all ways, to escape from such brutes, they gagged her quickly then,
amongst the three of them, they carried her easily, like a sack of potatoes, as far as the
hollow covered with wild grass spread in the middle of an entanglement of bushes
and brambles; it was there, formerly, one of her favourite hiding places, where she
related the most beautiful stories.

And I, I will not relate the rape.

When that was over, one of the criminals, the one who seemed to be the
leader removed the gag of the poor victim: “There you are. You are a big girl now,

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 for good. Say thank you to the gentlemen.” But Jeanne started to vomit. There
followed a series of violent words which roughly meant:

– Hi boys, we came across a crazy girl, started the leader.

– On my word of honour, she is completely crazy, that woman, replied one of the
accomplices.
– Completely mad, retorted the other. She has loved it however.

It is then that the leader of the criminals took things in hand.

– But it’s true that she loved it. Is it true that you liked it? That’s it! My slut. Are
you going to answer? Good God!
– Dirty filth! replied Jeanne who was overtaken suddenly by a wave of anger. You
are not a man. You are no longer a beast: no beast would do such things. You are a
sack of excrements.
– Fortunately for you that you have done me some good: that renders me patient. Is
it not true, perhaps, that you have looked for it, slut? Walking all alone in the zone,
you were looking for trouble, hey! But say, Good God! that you loved it! You were
horny, slut, and you were burning to such an extent that it took three like us to
satisfy you! Isn’t it true, perhaps?
– How could you also be so stupid? You, a real bastard, doing me good? You have
calf’s flab in your skull, to think such a thing!
– Be careful about your words, you slut! I am running short of patience. You did
me some good, I tell you! See? Even if I had proposed to do that again, at my
house, from time to time, but gently this time, and with great comfort. True! You
could have become my darling, if you were not such a crazy girl.

From where does the tendency to take our desires for reality
come? How do you fight it back?

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 As I have already told you, for the
questions which the existential anxiety poses, we
only find most frequently some approximate answers
which we must believe: it is because we have a
tendency to take our wishes for realities.

Another law leads us in the same direction.

In the realisation of the existence, if the
altruism commanded by the ideology is a priority,
the selfishness, the “myself-here-now” is our
“darling.” Although it seems attainable to a
slight extent, we grant it preference. When the
altruist says: “No, you must not steal money from
your grandmother.” the selfish replies: “She does
not need it.” And our three rapists, when one
tells them that they are criminals, they answer
that they are, on the contrary, benefactors.

In order that the fault caused to somebody

else does not appear evident, the selfish
persuades himself that he is right. It is in this
sense that he takes his desire for reality. The
culture is a means to counter that fault: when one
is well read in everything, it becomes difficult
to hide the consequences of his acts.

“You did me no good! Do you understand, you big itinerant waste? Being three on
a single girl, you have hurt me a good deal, little dirty beasts and great cowards
which you are. Like some little queer depraved who ganged in three to beat up a
kid at the corner of the wood.
– You do not want to say thanks to dad, impolite? I don’t give a damn! In any case,
I’ve had you, my slut! You saw how I stripped you off! I fucked you as best as I
could, my pretty one. It is good, believe me: you have enough for your life! Ah yes,
your little buttocks are mine, now: it has been so well lined with my impact that all

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 your life will remain like that! And all your life he will demand it of you. Ah yes,
you can believe me, my little slut. There you are! Here is my number. You can call
me when you are craving…”

One of the accomplices interrupted abruptly.

“Hey! Shut up! Bloody idiot! Do you want her to hand us to the police?”

Jeanne moved on.

– No? But it is not true. Do you believe in such idle talk? But that date of Cro-
Magnon! You have never left your wood, poor retrograded child.
– Ah! Easy…
– Ah yes! I have screwed you well, so I have possessed you. You still believe that
nonsense, poor half-witted one! You have not possessed anything at all, do you
understand! Can an atom of truth go into your poor silly head? First of all, what
you call my “my buttocks,” in fact, it is the proper place, luckily, to make love and
to conceive babies. It is there where you have placed your filthy stick. It is there
that you have fucked. You understand when I use that sort of word? As if you have
shitted in a chapel. Particularly a filthy old man: you have seen it easily.
But, after all, that place can be washed just like any other. Since you don’t know
what it is like “to make love,” since you are too much of a non-entity to
understand, you would have done better to fuck on the basin of the boys’ toilets.
You may be a wretch who found nothing to please girls, but not a criminal in this
case.

How three false ideas on sexuality cause havoc. They have a

historic origin.

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 Along the course of its strong struggle for
existence, man has cogitated a lot to satisfy his
important needs. He has nearly always found some
answers, which were adapted to his times. But, of
course, his contemporaries did not want to do
again the steps which had led to those temporary
solutions: they have been satisfied with the
formulas. The latter, since they touch our
continuation, have become articles of faith
transmitted from generation to generation, more
and more detached from reality, and strong in
spite of everything.

They have had to perpetuate themselves in

that way, the three false ideas which we have just
seen in action: “coitus is dirty, the adulterous
woman is definitely filthy, and masturbation is a
shameful feebleness.” Let us see the second.

There was a time, some thousands of years

ago, where men understood like this the phenomenon
of reproduction: “Woman is the earth, man buried
his semen there.” On that wrong basis, it was
logic to suppose that the grains which had not yet
blossomed could awake, be it by giving a baby, or
be it by contributing to it. The husband who
wanted to generate his own descendants had to
therefore watch over rigidly that his spouse came
to him still a virgin and had to be kept away from
other men. Failing which, she risked giving him
bastards instead of the proper descendance. It was
in this case that she was filthy. And it is that
last conviction, detached from its distant origins

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but anchored in the heads, like a virus, which
continued to cause damage.

“She has failed, therefore she is filthy,

and so she is a whore.”

The third virus, under its innocent air,

does some damage as well. Man produces a
superabundance of sperms and he feels the need to
dispose of it. If the masturbation is forbidden,
for a long time because he has not found a
consenting lover, he has to suffer the ever
increasing pressure of the unfulfilled need. Would
there be less rapes? incest? degrading sexual
trafficking?… if solitary relief was no longer
considered a vice that destroyed virility and even
health, if it was no longer considered shameful?

The real danger of masturbation

But, be careful! We risk antagonizing

Mômmanh. In the tablets that matter to us, in the
structures of human existence, did she not
inscribe in golden letters the primordial value of
love? If she made that choice, it was after
finding out that amorous conquest requires us to
excel. To win the love of his woman, a man must
move forward on the path of existence, climb some

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 steps towards eternity; he must become a better
person.

In this regard, I have an anecdote. Whilst trying to figure out how to resolve my
conflicts with my beloved Jeanne, I discovered some tricks. Here is one of them.

If we are engaged in a quarrel and I see no end in sight, I just stop talking: the
torrent of words and screams coming from the other party turn into a trickle that
eventually dries up. But I have not yet found peace: Jeanne has been unbearable to me
and I do not know what to do about it. I am stuck, unable to act, she walks all over me
like a rug. So, since I learned that you should not be a slave to any need, I say to
myself: “This virago is unbearable. Well then, look for another one!” And since, in
order to seduce a woman, you must first be a good person, I slowly restart the process.
And guess who I seduce? My Jeanne, of course! Did you think she was going to let “a
good person” get away?

Well, that’s the solution when everything goes wrong between us. There is
another one for when everything is going well.

When, after a while, all is well between us, when there is a flat calm, boredom
starts to set in; there isn’t the slightest breeze to move our ship; I feel like I will soon
let myself go and my energy will drain away and I will watch the time pass without
me. Then, I said to myself: “Look for another one.” And yes, it is the same remedy.

And it works just as well. My new conquest is still Jeanne!

Do you see the many benefits that come from the practice of amorous conquest?

We must not, therefore, replace this harsh

escalation of the stars with a handjob.

But in men, the need to evacuate his semen

into a woman’s body becomes obsessive to the point
that it could lead to either rape or illness.
Then, and only in this extreme case, masturbation
becomes a safety valve.

Let us go back to Jeanne, still in the hands of the rapists. Anger leads her to take
enormous risks: the leader of the wretched trio loses patience. He repeats to the poor
girl.

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 – Have you finished saying stupid things?
– No, I have not started. But I can always try. All that I wish for now, you see…
– Yeah, right! You have been nice, I’ll give you that. So, make a wish.
– All that is wish for now is to see you three die with your throat open in a ditch of
shit.
– Hey pals! What does she want, the slut?
– She is asking for more.
– Do you think so? It may be that, but she is too much of a filthy swine. A good
hiding is what she needs.”
– Come on guys, take it easy! I have a wonderful idea: we are going to have fun,
you will see! Dédé, pass me your can of beer…

Jeanne did not wait to see what was going to happen. Escaping from her
executioners, she jumped across the brambles and she started to shout, out of terror
and anger. Then, behold a miracle! Some human voices made an echo and a party of
revellers who was passing over there came to the rescue. I need not tell you that the
three torturers, the ravagers of love, had already escaped.

– How? You might tell me, that particularly despicable rape has not
traumatised her for life?
– Oh well, no. She found the means to come out of it.

How to look for their origin to get rid of the embarrassing

beliefs.

Some beliefs have been born in the distant

past, as an outcome of deep reflections which
seemed quite completely pertinent. The law
hardened them like rocks, then time fossilised
them and now, they poison our existence. Ah well,

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 the fiction-theory which I call Mômmanh gives us
the means to get to the bottom of them.

Like in psychoanalysis, it is enough to

relive their history by means of thought. So, in
the light of modern knowledge, their absurdities
become evident. Then the fossils start to crumble
before falling in dust.

But my Jeanne did not know Mômmanh yet. And

then, luckily enough, to eliminate the after
effects of a rape, she had other remedies.

First of all, she had studied passionately the process of male reproduction: the
superstition concerning a supposed defilement was diminished however. Afterwards,
her communist education had taught her this: rape is surely deplorable, but like the
theory of “The Struggle of the Classes” cannot be explained, the lasting trauma that it
causes often is only in the imagination. Finally, and above all, my Jeanne had already
experienced love: carried away by her impulsive nature, she had felt more strongly
than others the delights which Mômmanh lavishes on us on that occasion. She wanted
to find that happiness again and the despicable dirt of those three brutes was not
going to forbid her from doing so.

In any case, it was not the rape which traumatised her most, but the fact that
she had been attacked by same beings like her. Her great trust in human beings found
itself shattered even more, particularly in what concerns the category of the “adult
male.” To start with, she decided not to venture alone in the dangerous places and a
series of nightmares came back to remind her very often how that wise decision was
imperative: like this, she instilled it deeply in her head.

During some months, the act which we poetry engineers, I want to say “the
psychologists,” qualify as sexual, the “sexual act” therefore, seemed repulsive to her,
linked as it was to the memory of the violence inflicted upon her by those three

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criminals. Every time that she met a healthy man, – and there are plenty of them -, she
saw the mask of the three brutes placing itself on her face. But she managed rather
rapidly to remove it, that mask of a nightmare. Soon, she was capable again, when
limited opportunities presented themselves, to experience a blossoming sexuality, as
the sexologists well define it, quite useful to avoid myself the repetitions.

So, and even after a despicable rape, the still strong memories of the ancestral
taboos can stop the formidable momentum which sweep it away. It is necessary to
sweep aside those misleading troublemakers from loving in our times, and they were
so: they vanished like the crust of an old wound finally turned into a scar eliminated,
by the new and healthy flesh. As soon as the moment had arrived, my beloved gained
the happiness of making love, better than before.

And now, my dear friend reader, do you want to do me a favour? Will you
remind me what the aim of the long digression was? Ah! Yes! I remember: Jeanne
had started to explain to me why, from time to time, she ill-treated me without
apparent reasons.

– Our baby will soon be there, she said to me, he must find a peaceful hearth, to
develop well.
– That is what I think. So, there must be no quarrels in the household.
– No more quarrels in the household. Otherwise, hardly has he arrived, he will have
already an obsession: clearing off the camp! And finding other parents!
– What a horror! So, you will no longer look for me to humiliate me even in front
of the family?
– No, I will do everything possible so that it will not happen any longer. Besides,
you perhaps don’t know it, but after a quarrel, I am sorry and I give you a little treat
so that you will pardon me.
– Since you say it to me, I believe I remember now, those treats. If I did not
mention them, first of all I am waiting for other things.
– And what then?
– Some excuses by Jove.
– Some excuses! That, never! Never! Do you understand me?

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 For that time, I had the wisdom not to push the discussion any further. I was
hoping that, later on, the favourable moment for a resolution of the conflict would
come. Luckily enough, I could not then appreciate the stretch of the events which we
had to face before arriving there, because I could have lacked courage and it seemed
to me that I would not have lived, passing on that land like a soap bubble, except that
the last one, that vanity bubble, doubtlessly does not suffer, even at the moment as it
bursts.

Besides, even if the way in which she made me know it was detestable,
wasn’t Jeanne right on the subject matter, by judging that I was not worth of the trust?
Remember the way in which I conceived existence as a couple!

How do revolutionaries and their heirs struggle so long before

applying the new principles integrally.

1789: “Freedom, Equality, Fraternity.” Two

centuries later, it had not yet been integrally
realised.

When a revolution takes place, that is to

say a substitution of an ideology in power, it
never happens that the people and the material
means are entirely ready: to start with, one must
satisfy himself with a demi-revolution. Equality,
for example, which Jeanne and I had to contend
with, like two dogs who wanted to fight over a
bone, ah well, it was impossible to realise it
right away. One had to wait for the lower class to
be one over by the taste for studies, that he has

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 the means to go to school, that he picks up the
habit of controlling his ediles rather than
trusting them blindly, that women were freed from
the multiple pregnancies and other subjections,
and I stop there, because I can fill ten pages
like this…

It is like this that in 1968, the gap

between the revolutionary promises and the daily
life was particularly striking. For whom? For the
young ones evidently, at the age when they reject
the security of the family life belts and they
take the plunge on their own in the tumult of
existence. Naturally they start by making an
inventory of the fixtures. In that year, an
important updating seemed necessary to them, a
revision which their elders, engulfed in their
traditions, could not understand.

In 1968 therefore, the young ones made the

inventory of the promises which had not been kept,
those of the eighty-nine as well as the
revolutionary ideas adopted after: the sexual
freedom, the emancipation of women, the
existential freedom, the equality of
opportunities, the equality in front of justice,
the control of powers by the people… That made a
sacred ramdam. De Gaulle never recovered from it.

Our generation has preceded that of the sixty-eight. It did not have the same
worries. However, at least on the important project of the female emancipation,
Jeanne had taken advantage.

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 All this to tell you that, my Jeanne so badly loved, as well as that too dear
myself, we had a long way ahead of us before realising a crude attempt of the new
love. But love, which, after all, is a fusion of two existences, isn’t it always new,
always to be invented, everyday, as one goes along governing our life and carried
away on the river of “Time”? Yes, surely, but we ignore it: otherwise, the misfortune
could perhaps have passed its way.

Africa had to participate in the following stage of our search while we

proceeded tentatively and stumbled. The Ministry for Cooperation had proposed a
post in Upper-Volta, a place which afterwards chose the name itself and which we
now call “Burkina Faso.” I ignored the existence of the Republic of Upper-Volta.
After having consulted the atlas and an encyclopaedia, I informed Jeanne of the good
news. She accepted right away.

However, I felt curious that she only prepared a simple suitcase, nothing else
as if we were going on vacation for a few days. Taking my desires for realities, I
attributed that fact to the proverbial inconsequences of women, incapable of
elaborating a future plan and to hang on to it, because reflection is repulsive to them:
they are like this without defence in front of the events which surprise and jostle
them. Luckily enough, the men are there. Dear Jeanne, so fragile! I loved her twice as
much for it. Ah yes, happy idiot, I was even more stupid than now.

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329
 9-The truce of the
Discoverers

I had already taken the plane once: I had offered myself that luxury to come
back home more quickly from Algiers, at the time of my “liberation.” As for Jeanne,
it was her first trip by air and she hung on to my arm, forcing her nails in my skin, to
elude her fear. I feel the same type of fear in the car when I am not at the wheel and I
don’t trust the driver fully.

The plane was a DC 6, a plane with propellers which would soon end in a
museum. We made a first stop at Bordeaux, and then darkness enveloped us. While
we were flying, it appeared that, the Pyrenees, Spain, Morocco, the desert, were
equally shrouded in the night, at first I was playing the role with pleasure, then with a
growing irritation, my role of a magic protector. But I ended by giving up.

Since the “rumbling” of the engines, for which the hostess showed her
gracious boredom, was obstinately regular, and since the air was bringing us a lot of
attentions, without all those disrespectful shakings which other types of transport
imposed upon us, the train, for example, since everything was so calm, I dosed off
like a baby tired out by a tender lullaby. During that time, Jeanne struggled in an
agony of fear.

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 But it was written that I would not have slept that night. In fact, the loud-
speakers announced calmly: “You are asked to fasten your seat belts, because we are
going to fly across a turbulent zone.” And the place started to jolt on its air cushions,
like a car hurtling down without brakes along the slope of a mountain. From the
windows, we could see, from time to time, a furious white flash tearing up the night.
Also we happened to drop like an elevator suddenly falling down. After a long time,
too long, that stopped: we were saved for that time, but a new fall did not take long to
arrive. It is probable that after that, we gained altitude, because we never bumped
against anything solid. The commander on board had done well to have us fastened,
because my Jeanne, so impulsive, would have rushed to the door to leave that place.
She still huddled herself to me in her distress, but the raging elements were the
indications of my imposture: no, I was not the good genius she expected. I looked to
see how our human brothers were behaving, the other passengers who I presume to be
old experienced colonials.

The majority seemed to feel no fear; some were reading, others chatted
quietly. I was then half assured enough in any case to take up my role of male
protector.

Then the air and the skies became calm again. Jeanne gripped tenderly to me
and we felt that love was enwrapping us. “Stupid happy ones.” you would say? Oh
no! Her hot coat seemed too solid to be woven only with illusions.

Jeanne told me that we stopped at Bamako, when it was still night time, but I
don’t have any recollections of it. While the passengers and the freight were moving,
we stayed in the plane. It is there, always in advance therefore, that my better
feminine half had her first taste of Africa: it was hot, acrid and rich, well lined with a
quantity of strong scents, loose, which were wrangling vigorously. Curious of the
slightest new sensation, my Jeanne was all excited. But already the plane had taken
off heavily on the runway that she gripped with all her nails to my arms.

Soon, it was daytime, clearly and rapidly, as it does in the tropics. Then, a
portion of Africa came to our sight. It was bizarre and disappointing. We saw a

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reddish land filled with small green flashy bits which resembled vaguely the
artichokes. The villages appeared like fragile toys placed anyhow on that desolate
land. What I recognised later on as fields were like chicken spurs which must have
scratched at random to look for grain. There were no men, since we could not see
them at that distance. I asked myself besides, if they existed and, in the affirmative,
where on earth could they find anything to survive on! Here, and there, rare clear
stains. Vaguely shining, resembling puddles of water. The most frequent, the red
vineyard of the laterite was the dominant tonality and that which was vaguely green
had to be vegetation, appeared like messy stuff. However no, we had not arrived on
the moon.

We landed at the airport of Ouagadougou. The tyres bounced once on the

asphalt before rolling very steadily like those of a car.

We were alive and in good health. Hurray!

At the exit from the plane, we entered into a bath of heat rather clammy: the
first kiss of Africa; it was up to us to accept or to go back. The director of my school
was there. He was, and for some more years, still a Frenchman. He welcomed us in
the same way as the exiles would welcome their own fellow countryman who brings
them like a whiff of fresh air, some food of which their nation had given them the
taste and who, owing to the absence, creates a pressing desire which one calls “home
sickness.” Like this, abroad, one sees the French behaving themselves in a bizarre
manner: an ambassador looking for the company of a bricklayer, for example, or a
well driller learning bridge or tennis to please his friend the lawyer.

The colleague director made us get into his official Deudeuch.

To start with, we crossed a great town populated exclusively by blacks: a

novelty, but not truly a surprise.

The extreme poverty and the misery no longer, were not really the reasons for
surprise: the press of the “Party” had announced it many times to us. It was, it stated,

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the consequence of “neo-colonialism.” Always the same story, in the background: a
new episode of the “Struggle of the Classes,” that is to say the implacable combat
which leads the rich to rob the poor. That war was the gangrene of humanity and it
stretched, overcoming time, I mean “History,” and space, for the whole Earth to
know. She would only end with the disappearance of the exploiting class, that of the
rich, thanks to the collectivization of private enterprise. So, the human being will
become naturally good and the false paradise of the next world, promised by all the
religious, mystifies and swindlers, will be replaced by the true paradise installed in
our good old World thanks to the Communists.

Why does the natural selection make of us beings of faith?

Mômmanh made man in a way that he requires

very solid pillars to rest his ideology on. They
are first of all forged by a reflection as deep as
possible. Afterwards, soaked in the acid of the
faith, supposed to be from now on indestructible,
they become dogmas.

Even faith is a gift of Mômmanh, not

intentional, because she never makes a plan, but
an empiric choice, because she resounds what she
herself proves.

The dogma of the “Struggle of the Classes” was supposed to explain nearly
integrally the faults of human nature and the misfortunes of history.

I was quite ready to admit that explanation, but first I had to understand it
and, for that, question the fact until the moment when I would be convinced of its

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justice. Like this my insatiable thirst to master everything by thought required it, the
painful passion of which you know that it had its good side: very useful when I
manage to control it, it became, alas, like all passions, too dangerous when she
wrapped like a mad mare, leading me, clinging to her neck, deadly pale and
speechless with fear.

It was not the first time that I tried to control the reliability of a dogma of the
“Party.” Here you are that other example emerges from the marshes of my memory. It
was some years earlier, during the War of Algiers and, of course, the “Party”
explained that it was necessary to see there, simply an episode of the “struggle of the
Classes.” So I had the possibility to follow my studies and to remain in reprieve, in
the shelter until that vile business was over: instead of that, and in spite of the fact
that I fear fire shots as well as stabbings, I “interrupted” my reprieve and I enrolled as
a volunteer for my military service in Algiers; I wished to see with my own eyes that
sinister ruling class on the verge of accomplishing its black outlines, but I never
managed to distinguish it clearly. A new crack had formed itself in the shell of my
faith which was all new.

But it took much more in order for it to be torn apart completely. Besides, she
had been scratched after the beginning, when I had refused to admit that “Religion is
the opium of the people”: I could not consider the good man who was my parish
priest like a drug pusher, neither those who had died for their faith as dealers or drug
addicts.

That time still, I was going to dedicate long years to strive to understand how
the neo-colonialists caused the misery of one third of the world so that they indulged
in it. The longed for moment of that revelation was never to come. I had to continue
to search until the day, when having reached the intuition of a better explanation of
history, I felt definitely in heresy. In the meantime, my faith continued to crack little
by little.

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 The director was a pleasant man and a willing gossiper. He interrupted his
flow of words after we assailed him with our questions: on hearing how we were
anxious to discover our new land, he did his very best to satisfy us.

In the mounting heat and the harsh, merciless, light of the tropics, we crossed
the capital. Even the Deudeuch, which should have been familiar, seemed strange
here: stained with red mud, the seats coated with doubtful material agglutinated with
a fatty substance, truly based on abundant perspiration, the rims dented, the tyres
gashed with worrying scars, the doors, the panes and the different components of the
body takes apart, as if they had been put down and then mounted in a hurry, without
any care. That means of transport seemed more terrifying to us than the plane but
there was such anarchy in the circulation that it was impossible to drive fast: then,
when we were within the limits of the capital which, decidedly I could not call city
without degrading that word, I felt safe.

My Jeanne and I, we are untirably curious of anything one can find on that
land, and even beyond: that is one of the reasons for which we demand the right to
live one thousand years. But it seems that that request, however modest, is senseless;
so it is better if we leave it up to others, to those unknown of the future, the pleasure
to discover other existential foods, on earth as well as over there in heaven. I wish
that we can trust them! In all manners, we do not have the choice. So, may they know
this?

No country is delivered entirely at first go.

Of all the aptitudes to be seen, to be heard, to be understood, to be tasted… of

which Mômmanh has gifted man, we only developed one part: that which our cultural
matrix of the Western France has worked. The rest, due to its rejection, has lost nearly
all its vitality. However, some of the elements are still capable of being reborn, no
matter how little they stimulate them, trying to adopt themselves to a new world, for
example. But, to succeed in this metamorphosis it takes effort and time.

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 Think of a good wine, produced in a territory and of a culture: it is rare, isn’t
it so, that you can, after the first glass, taste all the other qualities; it often happens
even, that the neophyte judges it badly and he prefers a sparkling “Coca Cola.” It is
necessary that you have tasted it many times, preferably in the company of good
friends, so that you become sensible to his multiple components, inventions of the
living nature offered to whoever has not lost the taste of life. Ah well, the discovery
of a country necessitates, at least, an even patient initiation and, surely, at the end of
those efforts to open for you new flavours, after those long engagements, he is not
sure that the nuptials will take place.

The country where you step for the first time does not only offer qualities to
discover: it will be too beautiful and even, probably, annoying. It is necessary also to
become conscious of its faults and learn to live with them. Among the Frenchmen of
Africa, the ancestors, our initiators, experimented this by means of a parable.

A Frenchman who had just arrived made his first round. He discovers a fly in
his glass: by reaction, he throws the good whisky and has his glass washed. A few
months later, there are two flies which are fighting in his whisky: he satisfies himself
by removing them before drinking. At the end of some years, he has become an elder.
It is like this that one begins to understand: when there are no flies in his glass, he
catches at least one to put it there.

Finally, there are always, in a discovery of a country, some linked novelties

which allow themselves to be appreciated soon: the flavour of a fruit like the mango,
for example, or the passionate violence of a landscape, the sweetness of the light, the
beauty of women, the surrounding cheerfulness…and what else still?

At first, that strange capital impressed us. And it was good! But how do I
make it clear to you to feel the effects?

Everything was new, as if we had changed planet. Poor, most often, spy
latched, destitute, but new! The trees, the streets, the houses, the clothes, the people,
and even the birds… But yes!

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 There you are! As regards that, we discovered, how a note of welcome
humour, those hideous volatiles with a featherless neck, with their head covered with
repulsive rolls of fat evoking bad meat, those big birds unseemingly like resonant
farts in a worldly gathering, those poor vultures badly loved whose plumage seemed
dirty, as if they had fallen in the waste. Besides, without any surprise, we learned that
they are big consumers of rubbish, voluntary dustmen nicknamed vultures, those
unlucky benefactors of humanity who have drawn out unlucky numbers in the great
lottery of evolution. The chauffer-director informed us that the abattoirs of
Ouagadougou were their general quarters.

A lot of women went about with their breasts showing, without provoking the
slightest embarrassment, it seemed. Tied to their mother’s back, some babies, even
they black, nodded with their head in all directions, at the will of the maternal
movements. There were old lorries that we had not seen elsewhere, except in the
films about the 14-18 War, and which seemed to have survived a bombardment; they
carried enormous and very high loads of wood, inclined to such a point that it seemed
it was going to fall: at one moment I asked myself seriously if the laws of weight
were, different, in this country.

The girls and the women carried boldly all sorts of things in equilibrium on
their head: some paunchy jars, bundles of sticks, big basins full of lively colours,
some small tables which they would have classified as made by some children and
which served as stalls to the merchantmen and merchantwomen; loaded like this, they
kept on straight, chest in front like the bow of a caravel, and they advanced while
swaying their hips as much as necessary, but at the same time with a certain grace and
a lot of ease.

It seemed that that daily exercise made them carry their head in a haughty
manner. Still young, it was all that was left of their beauty: their conditions of life and
their physical works were so hard that at the age of thirty they seemed more than sixty
years of age.

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 The men, themselves did not carry anything on their head: their means of
transport and locomotion was the bike, of which I learned later that they called it
“iron horse,” heavy and solid bike whose rack would have had to bear the weight of a
blacksmith’s anvil. They carried four things, sometimes packed in rags, or tied up by
means of a rough creeper; it happened that their load had the appearance of a shaky
grotesque scaffolding and made up of ill-assorted and very humble goods: clusters of
fighting chicks, their heads bowed down, faggots, some armfuls of fair calabashes, –
those curious recipients of all shapes which resembled the skin of a pumpkin hard as
wood -, boxes of small goods, sacks of grains, boxes of vegetables, machetes or some
other quite modest tool, narrow rollers of thick cotton cloth woven in the village by
the owner of the bike…

The women, the bikes and the old lorries were not the only means of
transport: there were also processions of little metal carts equipped with tyres, pulled
by donkeys. Even if their assembly was done in that place, they represented well the
industrial products of our western world, above all when one compared them to the
local artisan crafts: some shapeless bows, some arrows in rough wood armed with a
point of forged iron without symmetry, coarse potteries decorated with motifs which
resembled designs made by children, white shapeless clothes called boubous and
made of straight strips of country cotton sown ones to the others, small curved legged
furniture which insulted the law of geometry and equilibrium, some sandals made of
straps of old tyres cut by a knife, a derisory luxury of the citizens who did not want to
walk barefoot in order not to be mistaken with the peasants who were still
backwards…

All those items were made entirely by hand, without precise measurements
and with techniques – I must say – primitive: how many times do we meet in
everyday use, like the flat stone to crush the cereals, or still the rustic weaving job of
the peasants, the same objects that one would see in museums about prehistory!

The use of the wheel – No! I do not exaggerate! – The use of the wheel, was
therefore, very recent, and it limited itself to the imported items. After a century of
colonisation, the Burkinabés had not yet decided to make some of them themselves:

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perhaps it seemed derisory to want to make by hand and with great difficulty what the
industry made so easily?

Which is the basis of human existence in Burkina Faso?

In that country where about ten different

races lived having each its own language and
culture, the civilizations had not developed
maths, neither science. Therefore technology was
equally so: prehistoric. But their thought,
following different ways from ours had certainly
discovered other food to calm the insatiable
hunger of existence which leads us all. Yes, what
was then the contribution of those races to the
patrimony of humanity?

At Burkina Faso like in any other country of

the World, men carry on with their life with what
nature proposes to them. Here like elsewhere, the
gifts of Mômmanh are for many in the colours and
in the tastes which the human existence will take
up. Now, besides a very hot sun and a suitable lot
of endemic tropical illnesses, nature has not
offered big things to the Burkinabés, not many big
consumable things, I mean.

When the peasants had earned enough to make a generous meal every day
without meat they estimated that their business was not bad. Moreover, the country
does not receive practically any profitable resource. No fuel, neither hydroelectricity,

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 nor any other energy source at a bargain price. No diamonds, neither copper, not even
iron, no ore if not a pinch of gold which serves only to make one dream: one has not
seen, I don’t know in which year, a sparked-off rumour which I believed without
foundation, or a fleeting rush for gold, in the north of the country, like a bite in the
hollow of a hungry shark.

What is animism? How did animism, polytheism, monotheism, and

atheism link themselves?

So, Mômmanh did not show herself generous

towards the Burkinabés. But didn’t she show
herself equally stingy, or quite so, with regards
to the Japanese?

Let us see the other group of the

existential resources: the culture. She is just as
performing as the closest knowledge of the
scientific rigour is understood. The culture of a
nation is acquired thanks to the multiple
exchanges between the races, associated with good
conditions for the studies: the time and the
material means. Ah well, those cultural ferments
had been very smartly attributed to the dowry of
black Africa.

The basic ideology is an endorsement. It is

prehistoric: it is animism. First of all, let me
give you a wakeup call regarding this important
subject.

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 In fact, the ideology rests on the global
explanation of the world which seems the most
plausible. In the prehistoric age, the first men
believed that all beings, and even everything,
with the like of man, were governed by minds: they
had just invented animism.

Later on, in the light of the new knowledge,

some other men judged unlikely the existence of
intellects. Then, what? And they invented
polytheism, like the Greeks.

Every race having its own, the gods were

millions and millions. Later on still, that
immense crowd of divinities which contradicted and
squabbled all over the world seemed too
incoherent: one invented monotheism.

Then, mainly since the Enlightenment, the

existence of God seemed increasingly improbable:
atheism developed.

Those beliefs are our blind dog that

explores the immensity of the real and gets out of
it the best parts. He who served like this as
guide to the Burkinabés was, there still, a living
fossil, quite close to animism.

The animists believed that, everything like

the man of flesh is inhabited by an immaterial
soul: his intellect, the whole of nature has been
created by some intellects, she is governed by
some intellects, and she is inhabited by a

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 multitude of intellects. In the lion’s flesh there
is the intellect of a lion, in the water of the
river there is the intellect of the river, and so
on and so forth. In order to obtain what one wants
out of nature, it is necessary to call the power
of the intellects.

I discovered that belief by chance, one day when all my students refused to
cut the long grass on the ground which would have been their garden. They were
however very motivated for that work. They had all improvised, with more or less
luck, some excuses the sum of which was incredible: weddings, funerals, collective
work, market, administrative summoning… There was also a false bandage.

“What have I done to you, that you treat me like such an idiot? Why that
insult?

And one of them dared to reveal the true reason of their attitude.

– It is the god, Mister. He is in the grass. If one cuts it, he is going to be angry.
– Very angry, indeed! Let’s go one step forward. There is going to be a great
misfortune.
– You see, sir, the grass is green: the god is there, for sure!
– Mister, wait for some days only. When the grass is quite dry, the god has left.
Then one cuts the grass… calmly.

Evidently, the scientific discoveries are hardly favourable to such beliefs:

when one looks for the evil intellect which is responsible for an illness, the chances
are reduced to discover the true guilty one, a germ, for example.

Having said that, and in spite of everything, when one follows a different
way, and he is completely in the wrong, one must discover different things.
Therefore, while following the roads traced by the animist’s creed, the Burkinabés
must have done some original discoveries. It is true, but I only manage to see the

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most evident. I think first of all about the virtuosity of their drummers and their
dancers for whom their art seemed so easy and essential like respiration for me. I
think also of their broad smile which is not of politeness like it is for the Asians, but
simple good mood, and which reigns like the sun in the middle of their extreme
poverty. I cannot discover the secret of that smile.

I think also, and I should have started from there, of the quality of the
Burkinabian welcome. My Jeanne, our children and myself, we have been very happy
in that country and when we were not, out hosts were not happy at all. And however,
their way of living and their mental universe were so distant from ours that only the
really strange extraterrestrial could be like that.

As regards that, I cannot resist the temptation to relate an anecdote to you.

During an excursion in the bush with my friends, we had to spend the night in
a remote village where the children had never seen any whites yet. And they were
numerous; those little blacks with big eyes open wide who pressed around our modest
encampment. The most daring touched us. They observed everything: cars, camp
beds, cool boxes, luggages, all our things and even the slightest of our gestures, the
slightest of our actions. We were like animals in a zoo.

The evening was advancing, and we would have loved to sleep, but the
children were always there and there was no sign which indicated their intention to
respect our sleep and our privacy. We could not speak to them because none of them
understood French. That evening there, we felt far, far, very far away from home.

It is then that the “Holy Spirit” descended on our friend Roger. In his
beautiful Italian voice, he started to sing “I am going to see my Normandy again” and
he started to teach that song to the children. Even they started to sing:

“I am going to see my Normandy again,

It is the country
Which gave me the day.”

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 After which, Roger mimed a sleepy man and, with gestures showed the
children that they had to leave.

We spent a good night under the stars.

Let us come back to the works of the multiple cultures of that country: I was
not capable of knowing if the other Burkinabe inventions are worthwhile or not. They
pretend to have discovered a quantity of good recipes, in many domains, discoveries
which our scornful attitude leads us to ignore completely. They could have some
efficient local medicine; they know how to treat, in their own way, stress and some
other complaints of the soul; they might even have some interesting techniques which
they invented in the fields of agriculture and craftsmanship.

It is true that we were ill-prepared to discover the soul of black Africa.

We have seen that a culture is a living architecture and a complex outcome of

a sum of apprenticeships. It is nearly as difficult to change culture as to change body
to be born to another life. But that is not the only limitation in our aptitude to
discover: we were oriented towards another aim: to bring “Civilization” to the poor
blacks.

There exists a western ideology which wants to govern the world. One can
summarise it to this: materialist science, democracy and human rights. At the times of
our youth, in all the cultures of the world, but above all in ours, the western
intellectuals dug up what our ideology judged as good. The product of that harvest
was called: “Civilisation.” And France, in her ex-colonies, sent “overseas
development workers” in charge of spreading it.

We did not come to Burkina Faso to learn, but to teach “Civilisation.” That
confinement in our ideology was a second obstacle in the discovery of the Burkinaby
cultures.

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 As regards the animist thought, at the time of our arrival in black Africa, we
considered it twice as scornful. To start with, we ignored its existence as a thought.
Afterwards, the curious rites which the colonialists had reported in the media, the
grotesque disguise, the diabolic dances, the practices of the so-called magic, the
beliefs in the supernatural beings supposed to live or possess such an individual, all
that colonial folklore appeared to us like a mixture of superstitions born out of
ancestral ignorance. “Civilisation” recognised as good only the negro art, essentially
the masks and the dancing: all the rest was to be discarded…

Besides, all the old fashioned things would not take long to vanish. You
know why: we had just arrived, especially myself the teacher, twice as enlightened by
the glorious secular French school as well as the infallible Marxist thought! Ah but!
Some others and I, we were going to lead those people to the road of knowledge and
prosperity. The whole of Black Africa was going to rise up, surprising the world by
all its feats.

“Well! By the way, remind me where we had stopped. Speak more loudly
because I am hard of hearing. How? Ah yes! Sure, it is up to me not to mislead
myself, otherwise how can I guide you, my poor friend? Ah well, so be it! Sorry? –
Who will come to do these digressions in a love story? – Ah well, it seems I have
already said it to you. So, so much the worse if I repeat!”

How is the loving orgasm the firework of two successful

existences?

Two people, generally of complementary

sexes, do all they can to

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 succeed in their love, each one on his side
until the moment of their meeting, the moment when
they feel the desire to melt away their two
existences. If they manage to grant themselves to
each other, Mômmanh rewards them and fills them
with a sense of joy unlike anything else.

Yes, I have already said it, but it is so

good!

Ah well, it is still like this, for my

Jeanne and myself, in spite of our advanced age
and all the stupid things that we have done. Every
night, when our bodies find themselves flesh
against flesh, we feel warmth which has nothing in
common with that of a radiator. No, even now,
above all now, I will not exchange my well beloved
for a steaming toddy and a hot water bottle.
Because that warmth, which we feel, is a current
of pleasure which erases all our wounds, it is, I
believe, the benevolent caress of Mômmanh, the
applause of Mômmanh who encourages us like that to
continue.

So, you see! Since love is the triumph of

existence, it is necessary that I relate to you
our own. Without which, this novel will be a door
on emptiness, like those kitsch postcards or two
mannequins, doubtlessly naked in a shop, embracing
in the middle of a heart of barley sugar,
representing, it seems, the two lovers.

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 And all this does not tell me in which period of history we have arrived. Ah!
Here we are, I am here.

We had just arrived at Ouagadougou. Our love seemed solid and however the
game was far from won. But we ignored them.

In the meantime, we were surprised, intrigued, excited by all the novelties

which that strange capital was offering us. Its call was literally aspiring us.

The pleasures revealed by experience and the pleasures still

to be discovered.

For the little man who arrives at the light

of the world, the call for pleasures as well as
for li fe is still virgin of answers. So,
everything is new, everything is full of emotions:
the first time that a baby assists to the flight
of a bird, the surprise is so good that he bursts
out in laughter. Then our existential space is
decorated at the same time that it is building
itself up.

From now on, our look is attracted towards

that which we have already had the opportunity to
appreciate. Let us suppose that the first pear
which I have tasted has been delicious: now, each
time that the fruit appears in my surroundings, it
captures my attention. Therefore, the discoveries
become rarer and their emotional force diminishes.

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 However, if he has done even the slightest
bit of safeguarding to his soul a big door open to
novelties – And long live the currents of air! –
since the existential domain is so vast that we
don’t know the limits, life will bring us just the
same and often some good surprises.

Here you are, that reminds me of that evening of my youth when I used to do
the hitch-hiking on the route to Caen. A beautiful car stopped and I was very happy.
The inside was very comfortable, the engine powerful and silent, the driver also
master of his driving like a bouncing antelope is of its body. The route wormed its
way into the green countryside towards the altitude of one side. It is just at the
summit that the triumphant music exploded in my eyes, in my head, in my whole
being, and I heard something telling me, internally: “Thanks, my God.”

What was happening then? Oh, nothing extraordinary; besides, the driver of
the car did not see anything. All commonplace, there was a magnificent spectacle in
the sky, orchestrated by the setting sun, a spectacle which was only given, it seems,
only to me.

After that sumptuous evening, a couple of decades passed during which I

have had from time to time the luck of winning at the tombola of existence some
beautiful revelations: a song, a promenade in Provence, an explanation of a mystery
of life… and I know that others will come to add themselves even if that extends my
reprieve to the slightest extent. But none of my discoveries, also important, could
give me the immense pleasure which was granted to me that evening there: I was so
hungry! And I was fulfilled.

Ah well, my Jeanne and I, we cultivate that same care to safeguard in our

soul a big door open on the world and all that which could be found beyond. We are
therefore very curious of all that which could be in the universe and it is joyful,
because what use will it be to keep the door open if we do not invite anyone to come
in.

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 Is our link the strongest? How come? In any case, nosing around everywhere
in the world, not only in the country, but in the books, the spectacles, in the people’s
head, wherever we have the chance to discover something interesting: behold our
common passion. And there is still that: the persons who right away seem the most
unpleasant to us, they are those who believe they know everything, otherwise known,
as those whose intellect is closed, blocked, we consider them public menace.

Here you are: it happens, and it is not rare happily enough, that the beauty of
a woman tears me out from my speculations very often pointless. That beauty calls
me, saying: “Refrain therefore from arriving at my level, stupid! Rather than wasting
the time granted to you.” So, I look at it more attentively. If I see, as is frequently the
case, that she has not got those big questioning eyes which always, without letting
themselves go, will call the discoveries, so I have the feeling that that beauty is not
alive, and she does not interest me anymore. If on the contrary, on sounding those big
eyes, the look reflects a feminine’s soul, I find an avid curiosity that she may be
accompanied by that generous momentum which demands only to be filled with
enthusiasm for all the beauties of the world, if I see a beautiful soul which will greet
with a clear burst of laughter any motif of surprise, then I feel strongly attracted.

Therefore, my Jeanne and I, at any moment, we are anxious to receive a new

flavour, an unknown melody, a previously unpublished architecture, a promising
thought… For that joy of enriching existence, we are ready in the possible measure,
to upset our routine.

And we only want those false ideas to make a screen between the reality and
us, even if they are sacred. Because above all we look for a real world and, if
possible, which lasts a long time. After our garden of discoveries, behold a second
one which we cultivate together: that of knowledge.

When we have done the gardening well, Mômmanh offers love as a bonus.

All this to tell you, at the time of our arrival at Ouagadougou, since we were
young conscious adults that they will never be at all mature, and that we share that

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beneficial gift of insatiable curiosity, our capability of amazement was still very
strong. She was no longer as lively as a baby who tries to catch a pigeon: discovering
with surprise that the animal flies, he shouts his pleasure and applauds that exploit of
the bird. No! In the Deudeuch which was travelling along the roads of that bizarre
capital of a new world, we did not clap our hands while uttering cries of surprise and
our colleague director did not have to worry about our behaviours.

We at first crossed the poor quarters: enclosure which down there they call
“concessions,” surrounded by earthen walls more or less destroyed by the rains;
rectangular huts, equally earthen, with the undulated roof more or less rusty,
resembling the roofs of our hangars and which, like the latter, evoked the crusts of the
bad wounds on the face of the earth, round huts also, with thatched roofs, a little more
worth; heaps of rubbish here, there; some big trees like lime trees, with abundant
foliage of a very healthy green, touches of optimism about which they told us that
they were mangoes which came from India and which produced delicious fruit; there
were children everywhere some of whom were completely naked, the bodies
sometimes covered in ash; raw-boned dogs, some chicks, some goats, some pigs, and
even, it seemed to me, at the turning of some dusty road of red clay, a horse so thin
that it seemed to be waiting for the end of the world, or still a strange animal called
“zébu” and which resembled a cow, with big horns, with a ridiculous hump attached
to his back, which hump jolted in such a grotesque manner like the breast of an old
lady.

I was asking myself what could one do in those familiar enclosures called
“concessions.”

Besides our healthy curiosity about which I have spoken, youth obliges, I was
led by the desire to impress our acquaintances, which could not fail to be more and
more numerous, at the time of our return to France. I imagined them, pampering at
my approach: “Here you are. Have you seen who is there? It is Michel. But yes, one
has surely spoken about him, Michel the African, he who knows Africa like his
pocket. It is important to listen to what he relates: it is fascinating. He has seen
everything, understood everything! With him you know everything about Africa and

350
the black people. Unbeatable! And then, he does a sacred job, down there!
Extraordinary!

With him, it is the whole continent which is going to change. Wait a couple
of years… Oh! Leave some decades and you will see: Black Africa will impress us…
There will be beautiful black women on the Champs-Elysées, statuesque bodies of
course, but supple, sensual, mysterious… Do you see? And then, you will see African
products everywhere: it will be like for the Japanese products, now. What’s more as
regards black dancing and music, there will be the fashion, the cinema, the painting,
the science, the literature… It will be all new and formidable, you will see. There will
be a new Einstein, all black. And when you want to go on a trip to the moon, you will
embark perhaps on an African spacecraft…”

So? Will you still say that my delirium was totally selfish? I agree: I had a
sacred layer all the same. However, after having cleaned myself as best as I could
from the frenzy of that glory, I continued in spite of everything to hope that the dream
of a prosperous and creative Africa would materialise itself.

Discover the secrets of Africa which were spread out to the big sun in the
familiar enclosures called “concessions”? It is not so easy to penetrate the intimacy of
the black cultures, even if you are kindly invited. Bearing our way there, there were a
good number of obstacles which we ignored, starting with the false ideas of which I
have already spoken. Amongst our peoples, enormous differences in levels of life and
culture constitute other barriers some of which are quite evident. Here are some
samples.

In our western countries, we take great care of hygiene and different

precautions which guarantee approximately our life until an advanced age, and we are
keen not to die before we have received, a minimum, of our quota of years. Ah well,
the extreme poverty of the Burkinabés does not allow them these demands and they
live in the company of death. At least, it was like this for a quarter of a century and,
keeping into account the extremely slow progress in Black Africa, I do not believe
that that aspect of human condition has changed much.

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 They exposed themselves to all sorts of illnesses and, in the majority of
cases, they did not have the means to pay for efficient cures. To start with, the
villagers, as well as certain citizens, drank unhealthy water. However the latter could
not be more natural since, generally it came directly from a sort of pond which filled
itself in the rainy season and which one called “small lake.” That water is inhabited
by colonies of parasites of all sorts, they themselves being absolutely natural, and it
was not treated neither boiled, nor filtered, nor rendered drinkable by any procedure.
By drinking it, with a little luck, one could catch many infections some of which were
mortal.

If that means failed, there were plenty of others like them to invite death to
one’s meal. Here is one of the most simple, reserved however to the inhabitants of the
capital: tasting without precaution a tender lettuce which the gardener had regularly
and with much care watered with water from an open sewer which our friends
familiarly called it “Rio del Merdo.”

The climate seemed suitable for the rapid development of the viruses, germs,
amoebas, worms and larvae of all sorts. A big number of microbes covet your body to
cut beefsteaks and dig their caves there where their colonies will live. They attack by
air, by land, by the way of water equally and they know very well how to use the
flesh and other food full of parasites which got in the way like the Horse of Troy.
Lovers of novelties, you have a lot of line ups of surprising exotic illnesses: the
malaria which is well known, but also some amoebas, some bilharziasis, some
filariasis, the worm of Guinea, the onchocercosis… if an excess of novelties give you
the vertigo, the generous Africa keeps equally at your disposition a good assortment
of familiar illnesses: measles, meningitis, hepatitis, typhoid fever…

Here is an insight of ordinary conditions of hygiene in the countryside, which

no one calls the bush, down there. Know that in the city, where nearly all the citizens
have come recently from the bush, health is not protected in a better way.

Ah well! In the house of the Burkinabé peasants, the table service was very
simple. On the dusty floor one sometimes put a woven straw mat, but that wasn’t an

352
imperative rule. All the family sat around, on the ground, and the only plate was
placed in the centre. Each dipped into it with his hands until everything was eaten. As
regards the water, I have already spoken about it. Not only was it the standard drink,
but it served also to wash the food, the pots, the calabash and all the other kitchen
utensils. Taken for granted that all the invited had washed their hands, which did not
take place, that same natural water bore their imprint.

You have understood: to accept to take part in a meal in one of those

mysterious “concessions,” to accept would be only a mouthful of water or of that
millet beer which they call “dolo,” it was as if you were going to receive the kiss of a
plague victim.

Once I found no means which did not seem offensive to negotiate a refusal
and I found myself sitting in a dusty place in the company of a peasant family. In the
centre of the group in a big calabash, there was the plate of the day, which was
supposed to be a delight: some “peas”! Like everybody else, without even washing
my hands, I pick-axed in the common calabash something which resembled chick
peas; when I crunched them under my teeth something screeched which I took for
sand grains contained in the earth which remained attached to the famous peas. That
interpretation is a little credible but I could not check it. To make the things slide
along as far as my stomach panicking, I could drink from another common calabash,
some brimful glasses of the good dolo, evoking vaguely certain ciders of my
childhood, but nonetheless very, very dubious. In fact, I am not at all authorised to
describe the taste of those foods because fear prevents me from paying attention.

As soon as decorum allowed me, I moved away in the ochre dust and I took
refuge in the hut which they had given me. I remained there till I found a remedy for
the panic which had invaded me. That experience was free: no colony of parasites had
installed itself in my body. Afterwards I always knew how to find the means to refuse
that type of invitation and it was, I hope, without upsetting anyone.

353
How can the cultures understand each other without destroying
each other?

Wasn’t there already, an insurmountable

barrier between the peoples and us? Ah well, no!
In fact, the majority of the obstacles which I
evoked, if not all, could be got over. But
practically every time, you must put patience and
tenacity into it.

In the general way, I think that we

ourselves have erected those barriers laboriously
during the struggle to live indefinitely. And the
moment has come to lower them, those damned
barriers, now that the human existence can express
itself on a mondial scale. Men have to be capable
to compare their respective ways of existence and
to get a profit out from them, in the way in which
the women can present themselves mutually and
comment about their outfits, enriching like this
their arsenal of seducers, without however flying
in their feathers.

The ideologies are difficult to present and

to discuss. To start with, the interlocutors must
admit that they are not keeping back forcibly the
truth, but that they are obeying their beliefs.
Facing those who believe in intellects teachers of
the universe, even we, the westerners, we must
recognise that we believe in another explanation:
matter barred of all the intellect would have

354
generated the life which would have given birth to
our mortal soul.

Admit, the times of discussion, that our

beliefs are beliefs and not first truths.

If men manage like this to lower their

ideological guard, the time to throw a curious
look above the hatred of the neighbour, they will
arrive less frequently to slit the throat of their
fellow mate for a simple opinion offence.

Nonetheless, whichever the culture which has

formed them might be, the majority of people would
be happy to put into practice the beliefs of their
ideology. They aren’t capable either to justify
them or to discuss them. There is the role of the
theologians, or the ideologists, or the members of
the committee of ethics of our sweet France. They
are those people there, the big priests, who must
organise themselves to compare and attempt to
match their ideologies.

It is still more difficult to appreciate

mutually the rules of life which lean on forgotten
beliefs. You know that it is necessary to make the
history of it, that, which quite often,
necessitates the contribution of specialists. The
historians will come to enlighten the debates.

But I ignored then all that…

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 Yes, I remember: I have abandoned you all; here is a good moment in the full
tropical heat and without the slightest refreshment, in the middle of Ouagadougou, the
unknown capital of an unknown country, in the Deudeuch of the colleague director
whom we still call “Monsieur.” Rest assured that the trip is proceeding normally and
we shall arrive at the planned hour.

There was an atmosphere which was pleasant to us: at times nonchalant

attitudes, subtle and gracious, vigorous also. Smiling faces and even laughing, quite
often: laughter and smiles under the rags. Easy and communicative laughter, grand
convivial laughter of simple good humour, laughter without embarrassment and
naughtiness which invade space and boost your morale.

In Paris, everybody is in a hurry. Could it be some mysterious illness which

ravages the town of “modern” countries? In any case, the illness is very contagious: I,
who like a lizard in the sun, would simply stroll on the quays of the Seine, I am
carried away to rush to a goal which I ignore. At Ouagadougou, the only ones to push
were the “Toubabous,” that is to say the Whites. The Blacks, themselves, took their
time as if they had been installed in eternity.

I have just used two terms which were taboos: that which in spite of
everything would have used them to call “cat” a cat could have risked being accused
of racism. That is the weight of the affective charge accumulated on those simple
words throughout the centuries. One therefore had to say: the Africans, the
Europeans.

We passed by a wide avenue bordered with curious trees, at times twisted and
knotted, powerful and fragile: the “cailcédrats,” we can say, a local variety of
mahogany, with hard wood without much value. It was the avenue of the ministers
and the great ambassadors, at the bottom of which there stood the presidential palace.
It was the avenue of the international dignity and black Mercédès. The colleague
director informed us that they called that avenue “the Champs-Elysées.” I do not
know any longer if that was its real name or rather if one nicknamed it like this out of
derision. On the central strip there grew a type of grass, strange like all the plants

356
here. It must be the real grass all the same, since some donkeys on liberty grazed
daringly. There at least, there were no pigs or poultry, to the contrary of the popular
quarters of the city.

We drove therefore along the most solemn and the richest avenue of the
country. However, it is here, paradoxically, that in my being the concept of “poverty
of one third of the world” took consistency, which, up till then, had only been a
thought hollowed out, the wrapping of which I was going to discover at Burkina
Faso. Some modern buildings of modest dimensions, the asphalt of the double avenue
quite rectilinear, but not surpassing the kilometre, the electric street lamps, some
trees, some ornamental plants, the whole combination rather out of tune more or less
budding, more or less badly kept: there that poor luxury stopped. The earthen
pavements were muddy, because it had rained; there were puddles of water along the
streets; a number of constructions awaited, for a long time doubtlessly, urgent
maintenance jobs; thin savage plants stubbornly lived in that difficult surrounding
which the rags contributed to disfigure. It was nearly all the luxury which the
Burkinabé people could offer to men supposed to represent them, to the leaders of the
state, so that they could officiate in sumptuous surroundings, worthy to be shown to
the look of the nations.

Was it necessary for them to be poor!

It is true that, in addition, they hardly had the sense of state, but I discovered
that later on.

At the end and on the lower side of the “Champs-Elysées,” we entered into
the modern commercial quarters, constructed around the Big Market. By “modern
commerce,” I mean that of imported products, an incredible diversity of goods and of
services which that nearly prehistoric economy couldn’t supply. Every time that the
colleague director gave us a piece of information, we came out with some “Oh!” and
some “Ah!”: we were much more surprised, when we heard that a good part of the
merchants were Lebanese and the others were French.

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“What are the Lebanese doing here? And why not the Burkinabés?
– One question at a time, please. The Lebanese are good merchants; they do
business in all the French-speaking Africa. Second question: the Blacks practice
above all business on a small scale, rarely import-export. With them, it is necessary
to haggle over everything. You will see: at the beginning, it is amusing, but one
does not always have two days to do his shopping.
– Ah, really?”

The Big Market was an immense hangar covered with iron sheets which were
not yet rusty, planted in the middle of an asphalted space. It was already too small to
contain that crowd of small merchants who were overflowing on all sides and invaded
the entire place, stopping right at the beginning of the streets. In that place, where all
sorts of meetings took place, there was a confused pilava of shouting, of laughter and
of smells often strong, but not necessarily appetizing.

I learned later on, that that market the hub of activity was also a reserve of
extras for a spectacle belonging to the local culture: when it required a popular and
warm welcome to an eminent personality, the authorities sent some beaters to the
Grand Market; their mission consisted in persuading the people to go spontaneously
and in a crowd along the way of the official cortege to discover and acclaim the idol
of the day.

Here still, in the heart of the city, poverty was evident: holes in the asphalt,
papers and waste spread around, a little dust scattered or mud according to the
weather, corrugated iron, a lot of badly kept buildings. One distinguished well an
architectural project for that central square, but its realisation had been also botched
up as well as unfinished. In that poor country with uncertain tomorrows, the foreign
merchants wished to build only the precarious, so that they could withdraw easily if
their business was threatened. At last, a third cause explained the destitution of the
scenery: like numerous peoples whose way of living is still close to the prehistory,
and they don’t have yet the sense of the state, the Burkinabés did not have any longer
the worry to look after the public framework of life.

358
 How is the evolution of the material framework of human
existence done: of the clan towards the world-state. Why is it
that the Burkinabés don’t even have the sense of state?

Yes, as we have seen, the human existential

type, favours the overdeveloped ego, that which
leads us to choose a social family, alias “a
homeland,” quite close to us. Along the course of
the historic evolution, we have known the clan,
the tribe, the state-nation, the multinational
state, and we are probably on the way towards the
state-world.

Ah well the Burkinabese state, ex-colony

which gathers many tens of ethnic groups, was far
from being a homeland in th e heart of its
inhabitants: they belonged to their clan and to
their small nation. They were of such a clan, in
such a village; there were some Mossis, or some
Gourmantchés, some Bobos, some Dioulas, some
Peuhls, some Dogons, some Lobis… They were not
Burkinabés, or truly so few. They did not have
therefore practically any duties towards what was
not their homeland: the Burkina Faso, the country
which did not exist yet.

A single example: the Burkinabé civil

servant uses to the profit of his family and of
his clan whatever he can take away from the state.

359
 Is he dishonest? No, because he will never rob his
family or his ethnic group. His conscience is at
peace: he is an honest man. He is an ordinary
civil servant. As far as the people are concerned,
they do not condemn him: they would rather be in
his place.

Imagine now his similar in an old state-

nation which at the same time is a homeland, like
France. That civil servant embezzles also the
public state revenues, but not to the profit of
his ethnic group: he has a bad conscience, his
people curse him, finally, he is not an ordinary
civil servant he is an exception.

That behaviour as regards to the state, we

find it amongst all the peoples who quite often
still live in clans or who have been installed in
modern states which ar e not their homeland:
artificial states cut out by surveyors, like
slices of meat in the flesh of a living animal.

But there, still, it was impossible to understand all that. Nourished by the
ideas we received, we were, I remind you, convinced that their country recently freed
was entering an era of striking progress towards which we were going to participate.

At that time, the capital hardly had more than one hundred thousand
inhabitants, whereas there would be more than seven hundred thousand about whom I
asked myself what they lived on. In order that the countryside can nourish so many
citizens, it is necessary that the peasants make real progress and the international aid
as well. Therefore, the city was not extensive. After having crossed the centre, then a
little zone of residences for the rich, we covered two or three kilometres in the
suburbs, the same as those previously described, with their “concessions” covered

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with the same culture and breeding according to the taste of the new citizens still
attached to the peasant way of living; one must say that that agriculture in the city
helps to survive when the work in the city is lacking, which is frequent.

Is it necessary to renounce the hope of finding paradise on

earth?

I have hurried to start my work to help them

to install their paradise on earth. Am I an idiot?
I still believe in it, the nearly naïve paradise
of my youth has been replaced by a perpetual
building site of continuous creation which, I
hope, will please Mômmanh.

On our exit from the city, we were nearly dazzled by that space long in the
shape, and having approximately the same surface as twenty football grounds and
which, like a gigantic mirror, reflected the blinding light of the sun. It was an artificial
lake which the colleague director called “dam,” on of those which carried water to the
capital. Some fishermen in a boat were throwing their cast net and their gestures were
beautiful like those that we could see elsewhere in the world: I want to speak of the
net which, when thrown carefully, opens like the corolla of a flower before closing
itself in the water, keeping the fish prisoners in its netting.

There were also some fishermen with their fishing line, fish vendors, washer
women and girls who came to draw out water, and also some passers by on foot, by
bike, by cart… who paddled gaily in the water of the apron.

I was going to forget the clusters of children clinging, some to a trunk of a

tree half immersed, some to a piece of land, some to a small boat. They were mostly

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boys, nearly naked, not to say totally, and whose white teeth, still far from being
carious, wrote down a big happy smile which lit up the young bodies to the sombre
skin shining sweetly to the sun.

– The “Bigas” are paying for a slice. I quite believe that it is they who are right,
said our conductor director.
– Excuse me?
– Oh! Excuse me. Here we call the children “Bigas.” It must be the Moorish term,
the language of the Mossis, and the majority of the people in this country.
– There are therefore plenty of languages.
– Oh, rest assured. Everybody understands at least a little French. Yes, there are a
good sixty languages or local dialects. I was therefore saying that the Bigas, or the
kids if you prefer, are everywhere the same: they are mad about water.
– One can bathe here. In such a heat, that does good.
– Yes, but if you are keen on your life, do not do as those bigas. In the water of the
dams, or that of the small lake which is even worse, one catches all sorts of filthy
things, even serious.
– And those children, they don’t catch anything.
– Less than us: they are at home; their organism has built up its defences. Then,
from time to time one dies of it: it is like this.
– Ah well!

It had rained on the eve and the overflow of the dam was flowing over the
route towards a small dirty valley situated below. That type of dump which served at
the same time as the ford of the users of that street, the director called it “dam.” The
Deudeuch started boldly. The water reached nearly the lower part of the door. Hardly
had I the time to fear that it did not reach the engine, leaving us stranded in the
middle of the apron: we were already on the other side and we continued our way.

– Amusing, isn’t it? There is no danger. One arrives just the same (but rest assured
that is quite rare), it happens that after an exceptional rain, the crossing is
impossible: so, one spends the night at Ouaga.
– Are there many of those aprons?

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– Some of them, but I love to see a hundred times more of them. The dams like this
one here, are the life and the future of the country. Without the dam, the rain
coming from the sea goes quickly back after having done a lot of damage and very
little good. Thanks to the supports for the water that, we can keep it for a longer
time, the time that she makes it possible for everybody to eat from it. But you come
just at the right time: you don’t want to understand everything the first day?
– No, surely.
– You will see: one gets on well here. The people are very kind.

We have already learned, but without truly realising in our minds, that that
country had two seasons: the season of the rains and the dry season. The names for us
so familiar, of spring, summer, autumn, winter, names which we believe universal
and in that resentment of many geography lessons, oh well, those words however well
civilized had no meaning here. Man can try hard to invent an Orient of dreams and a
fantastic interglacial universe, what a lot of trouble he can come across only to come
out of this hole!

Therefore, in the season of the rains, the water arrives from the sky, most
often during violent storms which can uproot trees a hundred years old, big as the
oaks, storms which one calls “tornadoes.” The heavy rainfall of enormous drops
tumble down from the sky like a cascade: often, in less than an hour, the rain falls as
much as it does in an ordinary month in Brittany. The streets and parts of the roads
also, are transformed in torrents; temporarily, the aprons become impassable. The
thirsty plants do not benefit from it as much as they want from those galloping
downpours which, as soon as they arrive, tear along the roads, towards the sea,
carrying with it all that its strength permits it to drag: pieces of good land, essentially.

After the season of the rains, during a period which lasts at least six months
for that region of Ouagadougou, it is the dry season. Attention: thirst with extremely
rare exceptions, not a drop falls and you can sleep under the stars. The grass of the
savannah dries up quickly and the slightest spark is enough to set it on fire. Towards
half of the season the harmattan blows which, endlessly, at the same time as the dust
which rises in the blue sky, transports the meningitis and some other illnesses.

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 For the Burkinabés, the beautiful weather would have consisted in a sweet
rain like we had at home, at night preferably, which would have refreshed the charred
land, washed the sky and purified the atmosphere… Moreover, during that sick
season, when the radio said: “Beautiful clear weather and sunny all over the
territory.” one asked if the journalist was joking or if he recited by heart a formula
learned during a course in France.

At our arrival, it was the month of August, the heart of the season of rains
and farming. The tornado of the previous evening had left puddles of water in the
holes of the street, and sharpened their colours.

Here, I must introduce to you the laterite. In a tropical climate, the joint
action of the rain and the sun provoke the formation, in the soil, of a layer of red
infertile land: it is the laterite. The extended drought hardens it until it forms an
impenetrable crust for the roots, practically sterile. When the savage rain of the
tornadoes has carried away the thin layer of the good vegetable earth, there only
remains that red shell, like the laughter of a dragon. That is what happens when the
cultivations and farming are badly conducted: great stretches of laterique desert are
formed.

Ah well, even the laterite serves for something: one uses it to cover the
streets. Some big holes are formed principally when the rain has rendered them
fragile. During the dry season, the cars and the lorries move their trail of red dust,
comparable to the trail of a comet.

Another phenomenon assaults the vehicles, their passengers and their freight:
it is the plate of corrugated steel. In the scorching sun, the lateritique lining is dilated
and forms thick transversal streaks so well that the way seems a strip of reddish
corrugated iron. This phenomenon is mitigated during the season of the rains, but
persists nevertheless.

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 “On the corrugated iron, our conductor announced, that it was necessary to
drive either slowly, or at a minimum of 80. Between the two, the car falls in pieces
and you will find yourself sitting on the road.”

While proceeding in this alarming manner, Deudeuch took up its momentum

to cling to the speed of survival. We had to travel about fifteen kilometres before
reaching Kardougou, the village where our school was built. We had just left the city
to enter the territory of the peasants, and so, we were not in the countryside.

– Here, the peasants do not live in the countryside: they live in “undergrowth.”
– Ah well?
– Ah yes! It is like that here. You arrive in another world. In France all the land is
cultivated; in the Upper-Volta, it is most often in its wild state. The peasants
practice what is called the itinerant culture of the slash and burn technique. In other
words, they clear by means of the fire, the corner of the undergrowth where they are
going to make their field; they cultivate it for some years, without manure, until
nothing suitable grows, because the land is exhausted; so they ask the chief of the
land of the village for the permission to clear another corner of the undergrowth.
And then, you must know, that here the land cannot be privately owned: it belongs
to the village. It is because the land where the family constructs its huts is called a
concession and not a property. Strange! Strange!… other places, other customs.
You know, I sometimes have the impression of having fallen on another planet.

On that route, the undergrowth” had a particular character owing to the

influence of the nearest city: nearly all the lands were cultivated. Under the striking
blue of the sky, the two colours dominated the landscape: the red of the route and
some plaques of the bare laterite, the greenery of the cultivations.

In the middle of all the plants that were strange to me, I recognised a familiar
cultivation just the same: mais. There was also a plant which seemed similar and
whose stem was taller still; in fact the director told us, that what I was seeing there
was not always the same cereal but two similar species: sorghum or big millet, and
another species called “little millet.” However, since their grains had approximately

365
the same flavours and above all the same function, that of basic food, the Africans
had combined these two species in one single category: it was the millet, the
nourishing cereal in tropical Africa. It made up nearly entirely the only daily meal of
the Burkinabés peasants. Moreover, I was surprised when the director informed me
that the average produce was inferior to 300 kilos/ha., twenty times less than that of
blessed France!

In spite of the unbelievable deprivals, on seeing the green stretch of the

cultivations, I kept on the impression of certain opulence. I did not know yet that in
the dry season, the same landscape did not evoke any longer the prosperity, but rather
the three fourths missing fur of a sick and hungry beast. In any case, on that day, I
was keen on keeping my false impression, consequence of the illusions which I had
with me and of which the greater part would not take long to dissolve because of the
brutal reality.

In a global economy, do we need a world-state?

And now? Now that my hair is white and that

I have come back to my old self completely, I
believe again that that country can become a
splendid garden. Now, men should not take long to
take that revolutionary decision: cease behaving
like fools. I know: you have heard that a thousand
times and it is always the announcing sign of a
woolly utopia. Allow me just the same to introduce
what Mômmanh has inspired me.

See the entire humanity like a colony of

living beings particularly intelligent and

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 performing. The planet earth is their domain. They
have the possibility of developing there the way
and of producing there enough riches so that human
existence commits itself resolutely on the ways of
cosmos, towards the two infinities of time and
space. Instead of that, what does one see? Some
idiots who strike each other and kill each other.

“What are we to do? – It is up to you to

find it. It is up to you and all the others. I
will give you a lead just the same.”

Globalisation at the service of man. The world economy at the

service of man.

The liberal economy, in the developing

countries, produces enormous riches which are
increasing. One knows now how to regulate that
system, from the internal side of a state, in a
way to avoid the serious crisis. Like this, our
French government makes the economy’s actors
respect of a plethora of rules which guarantee the
quality of products, salaries, the stability of
the currency, working conditions, the protection
of the unemployed… For example, it is nearly
impossible in France to cultivate poppy or to sell
arms to someone in the same way one sells butter.

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 But the market has become global and on this
scale it is impossible to control. We have gone
far past that.

So?

So, the forbidden ways to earn money in a

country, are practised in another, the cultivation
of coca, poppies, cannabis, trafficking of arms,
of organs, of children, of perverse se x… tax
evasion, plundering of natural resources,
degradation of the biosphere, child exploitation,
exploitation of salaries, slavery, mafia
practices, strangulation of the human future… Must
one continue the list which will cover doubtlessly
the whole volume?

Like this, when a state wants to regulate

the economy in a way so that it gives work and
riches to all and it serves for the better
development of the existence, it finds often other
countries to reduce to nothing its efforts only by
rendering to an unfair competition. And moreover,
because of that worldwide competition, all the
countries live under the permanent threat of
recession and unemployment, a threat which will
end up by materialising itself.

All the wounds which ravage the world’s

economy, a state which will live in anarchy will
know how to get to the bottom of it. If a world
authority disposes, to the planetarian scale, the
same powers as that state, even it can render

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healthy the economy of our existential space of
action: it would rule the world market.

Humanity possesses the natural resources,

the scientific knowledge, the know-how and the
machines to produce enough to provide and freedom
to all men. Perhaps it is necessary to pay
attention, however, to the risks of
overpopulation, searching for the right balance
between the number of humans and the overall
quality of life. The worldwide market is a
gigantic enterprise capable of satisfying the
needs of the whole humanity. The direction of that
precious ensemble is trusted to nearly two hundred
states of which each takes care first of all of
its own interests. Is man, th e only conscious
being on the planet, to whom Mômmanh has entrusted
her destiny, crazy? To take humanity in a bus that
is driven by two hundred drivers! When is he going
to decide to give the world market an only
direction, with means of action at least also
efficient like those of a modern state?

As the Earth is a village, when will it have

a mayor?

And shall we see man, his intelligence at

last freed, managing better his planet, like a
good farmer?

So? “When will it be?”

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 But, look. It’s not just the economy that
has been globalised, it is perhaps human existence
as a whole. Let’s see.

As the Earth is a village, when will it have a mayor?

The territory and the men with whom we can

act to realise our existence, I call it
existential field of action, that is to say
accessible to our will. At daybreak of humanity,
that field was limited to the clan and to the
territory which he can cover to find his
subsistence. After the discovery of America, it
stretched to the whole world but it was still
possible, for a good number of peoples, to
withdraw behind their borders as Japan and China
did. And anyway, most existential activities take
place within countries.

But, thanks to the “snowball” development of

science and technology, man has extended his grip
to the whole of the earth and beyond.

Now, the part of the existence affected by

globalisation is bigger without being able to
reverse the tendency. But this coin has another
side: a positive one. A planetary empire would
have t he means to govern: the Internet,
satellites, missiles, transport, and so on. The

370
president of the United States can order its
troops anywhere in the world as easily as if they
were just outside the White House.

Before, a threat to our existence could be

situated outside of the existential scope of
action: that inflicted on the West by the Huns and
later the Mongols, or the European plague for the
Native Americans after 1492. But this was
exceptional, and the people threatened could not
do much about it. Now, a state can deprive its
neighbours of water, or poison the planet’s air.
Now, there are dozens of threats to our existence:
pollution of all kinds, nuclear risks,
overcrowding, fanaticism, epidemics, depletion of
natural resources, drugs, arms trafficking… Thanks
to globalisation, these threats ar e now
commonplace. But also thanks to the globalisation,
we can give ourselves the means to combat them.
They are within the reach of our collective will.
If we create an international power, the whole of
the earth will be within our existential scope of
action.

“The earth is a village.” Well, but then,

where is its municipal council? Who is its mayor?

When will we have a planetarian government

to better rule the earth’s existence?

And the Earth will again become the Garden

of Eden that man has described in his myths. And

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the Earth will become our first port of
embarkation for the stars.

Amongst the obstacles to this sacred union,

there a re all of the nationalisms and their
selfish desire for domination, conflicts between
ideologies, incompatibilities between traditional
lifestyles, etc. But the first obstacle, which
everyone now runs into is the omnipotence of big
business lobbies and their main instrument of
domination: the United States and its allies.

The United States has imposed a form of

capitalism on the world for which they themselves
set th e rules: ultra-liberalism, whose main
purpose is to allow these large lobbies to earn
more and more money; it now has 30% of world
production, whereas before these wild new rules it
had just 20%. And anyone who wants to escape from
this racket and these unhealthy rules can not,
because they are entangled in the n et of
globalisation.

These rules make it possible, sometimes

indirectly, to make children work, to engage in
slavery, to destroy the industries of developed
countries, to carry out tax evasion and money
laundering on a large scale, to pollute the air
and th e water and to engage in unhealthy
speculation. They bring down wages and destroy
social protection. They make us desire economic
growth at any cost, even if we have to look for it
“with our teeth” and even if, in the current
conditions, it contributes to the depletion of our

372
 natural resources. It doesn’t matter: the returns
on capital will be higher and higher.

Is our selfishness that great? Yes it is.

But it is not the American people who want

this: they often suffer the results themselves.

So?

The large lobbies direct the vote of

American voters with their millions of dollars.
This is how they manage to hold the government in
their hands.

And as the United States impose their laws

on the world!…

-1: Mômmanh is the little affectionate name

that I have given to evolution.

At a great speed on the corrugated steel sheets – 80 km/h. for our brave
Deudeuch – in resentment of trepidations and clouds of red dust which were
accompanying us like a witch’s train, we had the impression of sliding on the route.
We had to learn later on, at our expense, how much that impression was right: some
nervous handling of the steering wheel was enough to lose control of the vehicle
which went across the road and in a frolic anywhere as far as a tree wrongly placed
puts an end to its vague desires of independence. That sort of slip on the road lasted a
good ten kilometres and our driver decreased the speed to engage himself slowly on a
new apron trickling with water. We had arrived at the dam which nourishes the

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village of Kardougou. All of a sudden, we turned to the right to take a laterite road,
bordered with greenery: we were on the school territory.

The colleague director was taking us directly to our house.

“This is what the administration calls ‘villa’ and we familiarly call a ‘small
house’. It is yours.”

It was a modest 2-bedroom apartment, nearly new, flanked by a terrace in

cement sheltered under the porch roof with corrugated transparent plastic, an addition
which we had to call “véranda,” to speak the same language as the autochthonous.
Our small house had the electricity, two air conditioners without which the moments
of great heat would have been borne with difficulty, and the running water; in brief,
in that country of extreme poverty, the function of that lodging had the effect of a
residence of great

luxury which one would be happy to call “villa,” since its small size forbid it
from reaching the level of a castle. But, we had to discover the different aspects of
our lodging later.

For the time being, we felt a delicious tickle of happiness at the sight of our
house. A vigorous creeper with big leaves sheltered the veranda; its numerous
branches resembling ropes intertwining themselves into a sort of net which enclosed
the transparent porch. That plant down there, was the creeper of Madagascar, our
director told us. Was it truly the time for blooming? Were its flowers really like this:
big and gracious, fleshy, crammed with vigour, sensual which encouraged the caress
of the look, to the colours now striking, playing boldly their devilish serenade,
presently discrete, inviting timidly to discover in their peaceful contemplation their
delicate intimacy? No, they are only like this in my memory. What does it matter, that
a beautiful stranger of the tropics symbolises the new delights which our
accommodation invited to discover, in that hot country populated by Blacks.

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 Yes, our lodging pleased us right away. Behind, closed by a hedge of acacia,
was a big plot of land of which I was going to make our garden. If there were,
amongst the small grass, some bougainvilleas, some pride of China, red jasmine,
ornamental manioc, a banana tree… There still, our horizon opened itself on the
promises of unknown pleasure.

That F3 planted in the laterite of a village of the African savannah, was an

element of our daily life transplanted in that strange universe. At first, he played the
same role as the colleague director and his Deudeuch: avoiding us preventing us from
being too much out of our own element, deprived brutally of our existential foods
tested without having the time to experiment others.

Afterwards, little by little, we discovered that we should not have adapted

ourselves there, neither even survive, without some elements of our western comfort:
in the first place, hospital and all its doctors, then an air conditioner, the refrigerator,
electricity… which seemed to us as important as acquaintances of the French or the
Western ones, be they Americans.

But I cannot all the same relate everything to you. Allow yourself the voyage,
if you can. With only as much imagination, of hope, of faith, in the man which we
shall have then, you cannot be deceived. And you will not be the only hare-brained
Westerner immersed in a black population, because hundreds of NGOs lead some
actions down here.

The time of the meal did not delay itself; for that first meal in that distant
“down there,” we were invited to the table of Mr Lajoie, at the time, director,
compatriot, colleague, and already nearly a friend.

“It is quite a completely ordinary meal, he warned us. This evening, you will
be better received, in the presence of all the colleagues and friends of Kardougou.
Work starts again at three in the afternoon which, after eating, gives us a more
sufficient time for a good little siesta, a refreshing shower, and even for some inside

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activities, while, outside, the sunlight shoots down its rays on whatever moves. Of
course, you will take up your work only tomorrow.”

On the inside of the “lodging” just a little bit bigger than ours, well closed to
prevent the heat from coming in, Mrs Lajoie was waiting for us in the shade
deliciously fresh, in the company of their two children, two boys nearly adolescents.
We took place in the corner of the lounge. The malicious eye, sure of its little effect,
Mrs Lajoie rang a little bronze bell. A big Black arrived soon: immaculate white shirt,
each of his cheeks marked with two or three parallel scars, signs which showed the
adults of his race; he displayed a good will, which seemed even more naïve because it
was accompanied by a big smile.

– Madam?
– Grégoire, bring us the aperitif. Do as usual. And don’t forget the goody-goodies,
said Mrs Lajoie who, in turning towards us, continued.
“Admit that that amazes you, huh? Ah well no, we are not colonialists, and
however we all have some native servants here, sometimes two or even three, they
even do all the housework, which gives us a lot of spare time; they earn ten times
more at our house than they do cultivating their fields and they can buy a moped.
The servants are happy, the masters are happy, everybody is happy. So, is there a
problem? I know a good boy who has already worked with some Europeans. I will
send him to you after tomorrow, Madame Dufour: he will be your first native
servant. And I will explain to you how to deal with them: because if you are too
gentle, they take you for an idiot; so not only don’t they bother anymore, but they
empty your house and they make fun of you.

During the meal, nobody had the need to rise up for the service.

After one of us let his wish be guessed as “I could still do with a piece of
lamb leg and some flageolets,” the lady of the house, very attentive, rang the bell, and
the wish was granted.

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 The perspective of employing a native servant embarrassed me. We, the
comrades who came to help the Blacks to break the last chains of colonialism, we
who wanted the natural equality of men to express itself concretely in all the world,
we all the same, slaves of our selfishness, were not going to betray the best element in
communism!

But, living without a servant, meant depriving a young villager from a better
way of life for him, his wife and children; it was taking away the happiness of
possessing a moped. In the situation of that time, perhaps the walk towards freedom
of the Blacks passed through the employment of the servant. I found that I had
reasoned out things well and I informed the entire table. As usual Jeanne had
concluded well ahead of me. Why look for noon at two in the afternoon? She wanted
a boy like everybody even so because her pregnancy became evident.

At the end of the meal, while the boy was serving the coffees, Mr Lajoie said:
“It is pleasant all the same not to have neither the table to clear nor the crockery to
wash. The children take a bad habit here. They believe that it is normal to be served
like lords and, on the return to France; they suffer in returning to ordinary citizens.
While waiting, let us benefit from our temporary privileges and we shall have a little
nap. Here, everybody takes a siesta. It is doubtlessly the great heat which creates this
need. So, put into it as much as you can as from today. Be careful, one must not sleep
for too long, not more than half an hour; otherwise, after awakening, you will have
headaches and your mind will be confused. There you are: have a good siesta, my
friends.”

It is like this that we discovered the pleasure of the tropical siesta in a well-
closed bedroom where, thanks to the air conditioner, the temperature was sufficiently
fresh so that one could rest serenely. The siesta gives you again the energy during
which, outside, the sun perseveres in vain on desert spaces. When you awake, you are
in good shape for the second stage of the day which contains a lot of time for free
activities.

377
 When evening came, all the “Europeans” of Kardougou met at Rémi, a
colleague, and his wife Laure. In fact all those people were French like us. While
waiting to be able to realise the universal fraternity, we, the comrades discoverers and
liberators of the whole humanity, were quite happy to find ourselves among
Frenchmen. We let ourselves be guided with instinct like some newly-born in that
rather strange besides foreign world. Those new companions, seemed perfectly
similar to us, like members of the family, they knew what was good for us. We were
all dumbfounded, happy to discover to which point, in the land of exile, a portion of
France can have the same taste like a glass of water for a thirsty person.

The evening started with a game of bowling and an informal meal, like all the
rest. The atmosphere was nearly familiar. Although it was for us a discovery, we were
suddenly seduced with that game in open air accessible to all. Boy or girl, from 7 to
97 years. I did not know anything better to favour the friendship of the
neighbourhood.

The game of bowling was followed by an aperitif with a great variety of good
things, some goody-goodies or throat delights, kebabs, fries, cheeses and some fruits:
it was what our hosts called “dinner aperitif.” The evening ended gaily.

Nested like this in our little French bubble, we went to sleep without fear of
the black, so deep in the heart of Black Africa. We were hasty to be on the following
day, and not only to see the new colours of daybreak: we were impatient to start for
our good new existence, myself in my class with my black African students, Jeanne
with the management of our house and the initiation of our native servant.

The African episode started well. Who could warn us that our love was going
to ruin itself till it became a daily punishment, and even! A tragic disaster. Would you
believe it? I said a punishment. It is still a part of my Christian education: that
religion doesn’t explain that such mishaps of man can’t be willed by God who is all
goodness, they are necessarily punishments earned by our big sins.

We were not at all guilty.

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 Some strength that we were incapable of understanding, and much less to
control, swept us away, like in the era of the Hundred Years War, the unhappy
inhabitants of the kingdom of France were struck from all sides by the three
inexplicable scourges of the war, of the plague and of famine. Our love had been a
marvellous gift and we had arrived to a point to consider it like the air which we
breathed, evident and indispensable. But it was little by little transforming itself into a
nightmare.

To those who, amongst you, have entered in that history and sympathise with
his heroes, I say in a brotherly way “Hang on: it is going to spin.”

379
380
10-The Hundred Years War

Imagine that you are an aeronautical pioneer and that your plane broke down
in an unknown place in the desert about which you don’t know anything. You have
only one chance of surviving: walk in what you believe to be a good direction for a
long time because you have not found any help, till the hypothetical. As long as that
moment did not arrive, are you on the verge of crossing the desert? or rather to live
your last days? How are you to know?

“Be silent and walk!”

Here is what type of universe we had to look for on our way, at the same time
so close one to the other and so distant that the despair of never finding us was taking
the upper hand. And above all, it was necessary that the land opened itself beneath us:
then we realised at last that we were taking a false route.

If you have to, even you must undertake a crossing of the desert like the
lovers do too frequently for life, get going and offer to your beloved that present fruit
of your sorrow, more precious than the viaticum: some beacons to find your way.

If you have had them, our dear Estelle would continue to invent her
existences, like the living do, instead of being already nothing else but a fossilised
intellect, as brilliant as the precious flame which we carry with fervour before she is
reduced, like all this, to an unchangeable being as much as tiny links of the future
inventions of life, faint ghostly kisses of which the people of the future will ask
perhaps from where could it come.

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 Oh yes, if only we had known. But the regrets are not very nourishing unless
they generate good grains. Let us hope that you will be numerous to render that
fruitful.

How nature and culture are sometimes conflicting.

Ah yes, we do not know even what is love!

Those who are not keen on that! Since Mômmanh has
generously guided us with the dispositions for
that art, it should have been easy to arrive there
just only by following our instincts. But no! It
would have been too simple! Because you know well
that men have many times to struggle hard to
correct those natural inclinations. They have
persevered to such an extent to suffocate the love
which we tried so hard to discover. That which
Nature did, Culture ha s nearly succeeded in
destroying.

In brief, like Romeo and Juliet, whatever we know about the subject of love,
is that it can be marvellous: behold that it is not bad, already. But we have not learned
neither why nor how. For Romeo and Juliet, the ignorance was without importance
since society made them die soon after their love at first sight. Since we did not have
that chance, it is necessary for us to continue the adventure till its conclusion.

It was like a beautiful mare which we know how to ride for some promenades
of which each was an exploration in the rich region. We could mount the mare, yes,
but when she fell ill, we were incapable of taking care of it. And that happened to us
too often. We were also not capable of feeding her every day.

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Why must lovers have the same values, but not necessarily the
same tastes?

You know that love is the fusion of two

complementary existences. It needs the two lovers
to have common values and, whenever possible, to
be more likely to achieve these precious values
together.

Assuming they do not share the same

passions, they must at least agree in this
explosive area. If one is a motorcycle enthusiast,
the other must not look at him sighing
contemptuously.

Tastes, needs and abilities must fit

together better than the pieces of a puzzle. If
one likes chicken wings and the other likes
thighs, that works well. If one feels suffocated
in bed when the window is closed whilst the other
can not sleep when it is open, there is a big
problem to solve.

Moral valuesare generated by ideology. So

two lovers must share the same one.

I know that a Catholic and a Muslim can have

a deep and everlasting love, but this requires
their religious beliefs to hardly mean anything to

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them and their personal ideologies to be something
else. Therefore, if they care more about freedom
and science than the vestiges of their religion,
they can have a lasting relationship.

That is why we now need to refine the

concept of ideology. We saw in Chapter 2 that
ideology defines the main rules of existence,
especially those who must guarantee posterity.
However, it is not possible for two people to have
exactly the same view of the world and what should
be done to ensure a good quality of life for man.
Just look at how we argue in churches and within
political parties. The truth is that everyone
forges his own ideology. Personal ideologies are
like hands: they may look the same, but each has
its own unique fingerprint. Those that we call
ideologies are actually ideological families,
churches or chapels depending on how many
followers they have: Catholicism for example, or
the French secular ideal, Zen Buddhism, communism,
or any other of the multiple families not
forgetting Jehovah’s Witnesses, Scientologists and
other Trotskyists.

Here is an example.

If a man is too attached to his “myself-

here-now,” all respecting the concern of
perpetuity, his ideology will invent rules of life
which evaluate the selfish pleasure. On the
contrary, the man too attached to the existence
distant from the ego will be too attached to the
austere and altruistic rules of life. I believe

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that those two opposite models will find it
difficult to unite in love, even if they share the
same basic convictions. Like this, two Catholics,
one too pious and charitable, the other thinks of
nothing but the feast and the selfish pleasure:
those t wo there do not dispose of a common
ideological stem sufficiently strong to build a
love.

And those who belong to the adverse

ideologies? Even less.

So, let’s assume that our two lovers,

although they do not necessarily belong to the
same church, have sufficiently close personal
ideologies, a common ideological core, a large
basket of shared moral values.

What about their other values, then? Well

yes, ideology is not everything. There are other
values apart from morality. Apart from their
ideology, there are other things that matter a lot
in life of an individual: for example, love, or
sports, or being true to oneself. And God knows
what else.

It is good for lovers to also share other

values apart from moral ones. Otherwise, how could
a woman accept that her husband spends half of his
time hunting and fishing?

Therefore, they need some common values:

moral values and others.

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 But tell me, can it not be the case that a
man is rich even though he despises money? That a
woman is beautiful even though she is not
interested in beauty? That an individual is a hard
worker even though he hates his work? But if the
characteristics of the beloved that seduce us are
of no interest to them, but only accidental, they
will lose them easily. And the love will disappear
with it. If I only love someone for their fortune
whereas money is of no interest to them, they are
likely to go broke. So: “Bye bye My Love. Did you
think I loved you for your beautiful eyes?” Whilst
if they also love money, they will do everything
they can to remain rich and therefore desirable.

So, this is the main reason for looking for

common values: it’s better to have a gold mine
than a nugget.

On that basis, it is necessary that one can

offer to the other the elements of existence of
which he dreams, and reciprocally. To do that, it
is sometimes necessary that they have the same
tastes. It is not necessary that one does not like
to sleep with the window open and the other with
the window closed because all their money will go
to the glazier.

Same tastes: here is what seems a

contradiction with what we stated previously. So?
Let us refine matters.

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 It is good sometimes that the tastes are
different and some other times that they are
identical, provided that they agree. It is good
that one likes to cook, the other the cuisine, the
other the potato peeling and the crockery, that
one prefers the wing and the other the thigh. But
it is wrong that one has cooked the thighs of the
frogs when these cause the retches to the other,
or still that both of them fight over the only
little chick’s brain.

Finally, it is necessary that their

competences agree. To carry a too heavy table,
they have to join forces. To prepare a trip, their
know-hows must be complete: one will take care of
the itinerary, the other one of the logistic, one
will do the baggage while the other will prepare
the car.

Let us suppose that they love music: one

plays the violin, the other appreciates,
criticises and applauds. And now they yearn to
make a beautiful garden. It is very simple. They
plan it together, without too much squabbling.
Together they realise it: Oliver spades, to clear,
reaps, refreshes his knowledge in
horticulture…while Amelia studies the art of the
gardens, plants, sows weeds, prunes… and the birds
sing.

Ah! I was going to forget the methods.

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 If the existential aims agree but the means
to get there are in contradiction, there is the
risk of a split-up. Like this, Alice and Jacques
love their children; they want both of them to
succeed. But to reach that aim, Alice believes
only in blind discipline while for Jacques,
absolute freedom also blind is sacred. So?

What is the recipe of the great love?

To summarise all of this:

- Common values and existential methods.

- Similar passions and tastes.

- Complementary sexes and skills.

This is the basic formula for a great love.

And if it does not work, despite the care

that we have devoted to it? This would be a sign
that we’ve missed out something important.

Two human beings are so complex that it is

impossible to be perfectly matched to them, far
from it. So? They can still build their love if

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 each of them is capable of putting up with what
appears to them as a defect in the other.

And most of all… do not forget what we have

already seen regarding the “love fair.” Do not
forget the main point: the greatest existential
qualities are also the most popular. To be loved
by a fairy that, in her basket, has beauty,
intelligence, humour, health, energy, tenderness,
and everything else… you must also bring a lot to
the table and even more just to be sure. The more
qualities you have, the better your chances are of
being loved by a fairy.

So do not forget that love requires that,

throughout your life and without flinching, that
you stay on the pedestal of the coveted man, the
man of value. This is another one of Mômmanh’s
cunning ruses to force us to grow.

Let’s continue then:

- Complementary sexes and skills. These

qualities must be developed to the highest level.

- Common values and existential methods.

- Similar passions and tastes.

- And, to put the icing on the cake, that

each partner is able to withstand the faults of the
other, the failures of this beautiful harmony.

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 This is the formula for a great love. But let me
cover myself before you try it.

Ah! One last thing. If you want to put this famous

recipe into practice, forget it. You can not drive your
car whilst holding the manual in one hand and the rules
of the road in the other!

Good luck.

It is in the sharing or roles that our disagreement was most irreducible: each
one of us wanted absolutely the role of the leader.

Remember: Jeanne took after her mother the belief that she was never to trust
any man. It was necessary even to humiliate him from time to time to avoid him
having the upper hand and at the same time be unable to satisfy his likings. Jeanne’s
mother, Paloma, had meditated that matter for a long time: besides the cruelty and the
injustice which her dear father had endured, the man had allowed himself to be
destroyed easily by all sorts of vices such as alcoholism, sexual perversions,
gambling, etc.

To the teachings of her mother, Jeanne added other reasons to want at all
costs to direct the symphony of love. Firstly, her strong personality made her want to
be the boss. Secondly, feminism had a large influence on her.

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Why is that tendency of the freed oppressed to become
oppressors?

There is, following I don’t know which

liberation, that tendency of the beings recently
freed to want to taste first of all whatever has
been denied to them up till then. Carried away by
the momentum of their triumphant struggle, they go
as far as wanting to re-establish to their benefit
the oppression of which they were victims. Like
this you see the old slaves become slave traders,
bourgeois of the French Revolution playing in
their own turn the role of the lords which they
had eliminated, and what else still? Ah well, the
ladies of our era, as soon as they have been
freed, are tempted to do what had been prohibited:
go to cafés, drive buses and order people about. A
lot of them want to take the place of the male
heads of the family that they have dethroned.

Is that all? By itself, would this

revolutionary spirit not lead to one injustice
being replaced with another? No, there is also
something else.

There is also the inevitable mistrust

against the old “masters,” men. But this is not
all.

When the citizens protest in the city

streets to defend their beefsteaks or their ideal,

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 foreign bodies infiltrate in their cortege,
amateur fighters, robbers, looters, agitators… It
is like this that women whose first concern is to
fill their heads with their selfishness have
boarded the brain with the feminists. And since
our young era is dominated by selfishness, they
are more and more numerous in leading astray the
“struggle of the just.”

Finally – I almost forgot – there is the

confusion that we feel when we let go of our old
habits. We are free now, it’s true, but what
should we do with this new freedom? It takes trial
and error, mistakes, obstinacy and imagination to
invent new rules of conduct, good ones that will
eventually improve our lives. In fact, we have not
yet managed to get over the 1789 revolution! So
please, be a little patient when you consider the
errors of our liberated women.

Now, remember, my Jeanne had anticipated the feminist revolution at full

speed as usual. She had there a supplementary reason to demand the command of our
galley.

On my part, I also had some solid reasons to cling to power as if it had been
vital.

To start with, it was perceived as a duty, in the best village from where I
came. One used to think that it was dangerous, and therefore unworthy of a man, to
let his wife “wear the trousers.”

I wanted also to be able to do it, with all my strength, because the

subconscious, in the wings, manipulated me like a puppet: you know well what the

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mistress of everything demanded of me, similar to God. And I was far from having
sorted out the bag of knots in my soul.

Therefore, if I consented out of despair and of extreme justice to trust my life

to a pilot of a plane or to a medical corp, I was incapable of abandoning the conduct
of my existence to anybody, not even my love. Since the present intimate coffee
pause or a dreary awakening beneath a dug out hut, as far as the most distant times in
the past as in the future, since the immediate surrounding of our dining room till the
borders of all the space was possible for me to see in my imagination, I scrutinized
the universe and I asked it endlessly so that I could lead our boat there in a safe
harbour in full security. Only I was truly gifted for that vital art.

Therefore, when there were not even two members in our family, my family
had already two leaders. That was the origin of many scenes the arrival of which we
soon learned to recognise, like the peasants feel the arrival of the storm which risks
ruining their corn. But the signs of warning were often useless: the war of the leaders
went as far as the conclusion.

The bickering took place many times a day, in ordinary times, and they
developed often in relentless fighting. Fortunately, some truces, more or less long,
opened the passage to other aspects of life, comprising there the happiness. That came
when our will to command allowed itself to be forgotten.

Certain household scenes took some strange aspects, which hardly toned
down their difficulty.

For example, when a disagreement between us began to degenerate, a gesture

similar to cutting off with my hand followed by an outburst from my love announced
the imminent storm, we used different arms to impose our will. To reduce to mercy
my love, I used the gladiator’s net while my beloved tried hard to knock me out with
a mass of arms. I pretended that for each problem there existed a rational answer that
was enough for us to discover together. She answered that as for that game, I gained
more if I let go and that it was necessary to shorten the discussion. Therefore, while

393
never endingly, I tried or believed to try to resolve the problem, she heaped her
arguments on my head, as if she wanted to drive the message home by means of
hammer blows. And it took me a long time to understand, it being so strange to my
culture that she did not hesitate to lie cheekily.

Like this, when she wanted us to buy a new car, we had conversations of this
type.

– Your car is quite wheezy. Will it be able to go up the coast?

– But come on, my dear, it proceeds as usual. Are you dreaming?
– It is you who are dreaming. In order not to wear it out, you will keep scrapheap
until it falls to pieces on the way. Unless it throws us in the ravine. Have you seen
the direction, how it rattles?
– It does not rattle at all! There you are, we are proceeding in a straight line, I let go
off the steering wheel. So, you can see well!
– It zigzags on the way. Stop! But stop therefore! You are going to kill us! And
then the engine is dead, the body is gobbled up by rust. There are some holes on the
lower side of the doors.
– What holes? And the engine is in good shape.
– Besides, mother does not want to go up into your coffin. She says she is too
young to die. And I am ashamed when we go to the Nourys. Have you seen their
Mercédès? It is not a stingy man’s car!
– I am not stingy! In which language must I explain things to you? I am thrifty.
– A type who dares take out his wife in a dustbin is stingy.
– It is a beautiful dustbin, as beautiful as a car. And it drives very well.
– Poor idiot! It must be truly that you have the sh… in your eyes not to see the
speedometer which marks forty. I warn you if the engine stops, you will listen to
me.
– Forty? But look! You read just as well as I do, 70, no?
– No, I do not read 70! And besides, that does not mean anything because we start
going down.
– Going down but going down what, good god? We have not finished going up the
coast.

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 – If you were less stingy, you will replace that scrapheap of which I am ashamed
and which costs much more than a new one. Everybody tells you, but you, the great
intellectual who is going to redo the world, you take all the others for ignorant.
– Everybody tells me that? With that what? Who, for example?
– Everybody, I tell you, isn’t that enough? There you are, Bernard, for example.
And then I don’t want to talk to you any longer! You are too bloody stupid.

And we stayed for some time to ignore each other in the worst manner as if
we had been strangers, or else, we “sulked.” It is a familiar duel and yet quite strange
when one inflicts mutually the suffering of being cut back with love, while hoping
that the other is going to give in and comes to ask for pardon on his knees.

Several and several times, we have played another game just as wicked:
extend the discussion indefinitely without even knowing what we were discussing. At
that stage, the aim is no longer to convince your dear opponent but only to be the last
one to talk. To have the last word: for want of anything better, one will content
himself with that poor result.

In order to win that miserable last word, Jeanne the rash did not beat about
the bush: she put forward her truth and vanished soon afterwards. I followed her
surely, but when she jumped in the car to go I don’t know where, I had to give up.
There was nothing else left but to sulk.

How is it necessary to surpass the struggle for power within

the couple.

Wanting the last word, and sulking: I

suppose that those two objectives answer the same
wish inscribed in our genes by Mômmanh. That wish

395
 will be set off by a deep disagreement and it will
aim at obtaining the capitulation of the other.

Each one of us waited for the hated loved

one to execute the ritual of submission of the dog
in front of its owner: to lie down, the head
stretched out on the ground, his look attentive
and imploring facing his master, waving his tail
and emitting a low groaning. When his master
orders him: “Hector! Stand up!” he obeys
immediately with joy. Well, renouncing the last
word, it means: “You see, I give up. You can take
whichever way you like. I am not your lord and
master.” And this renunciation can take so much
effort that we can’t do it.

Because Mômmanh wrote down only the right

answers in the genetic memory which directs our
ego. If such was the case, our action will be all
traced out and we will not need to look for our
way in the fog. But she gave us liberated
consciousness. It is therefore, up to us, to
choose what will serve us better in our EXISTENCE.

At the beginning, we were capable of sulking for more than a week. And
when that torture finished, we had gained nothing, neither one nor the other.
Fortunately enough, we had the good sense early enough not to prolong uselessly that
absurd situation. On my part, it was enough to learn to repel that temptation strongly:
try to renew the contact by using a new approach, rational or “reasonable” for sure,
about discord. According to the sacred expression, one did not have to put it back on
the carpet which here I must call “ring.” One only had to abandon it hoping that,
during some months as a minimum, it would no longer come to poison our love.

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 It was like this, that the topics of discord put aside were piling in the loft. We
had to dispose of them one day because we were soon running out of space.

Besides the fact that at our house the barking is as exceptional as tactless, we
have another difference with the dog: when that animal fails his master, he receives a
good thrashing then he is submitted definitely. My beloved one like myself, no one
wants to submit himself and we covered many places and many years, antlers
entangled like some deer on the rut, breaking some crockery on the way and sowing
consternation.

In that way, we also happened to do worse. Many times, without any

necessity, with the sole aim to establish our power, we demanded from our love an
annoying action for one in the same way as for the other.

It was on a grey winter Sunday. We were looking for a common activity for
the afternoon: the cinema, a market in the discovery of nature, a game of scrabbles at
our house, in the warmth, an art exhibition…

“A football match, I said laughing, Saint-Hilaire plays against Saint-Denis.”

I have said to you that, one like the other, we did not feel any attraction for
the spectacle of sports competition. That common indifference that “lack of taste”
shared is only the thin subject of understanding, but we could have put it to our
benefit, just the same.

“Ah well, replied my love, it will be a Sunday unlike the others. Let us go
and see it.”

And it is like this that for the first and last time in our married life a
communal plot, at the bottom of a field opened to the four winds, we assisted for a

397
battle more or less friendly between two rural teams. But why therefore had she
inflicted that punishment?

“Ah! You know, my dear, it is necessary that I bother you a bit, otherwise
you will be bored very quickly with me.”

One of her preferred methods of attack was anger, which, like a long blade,
which should have removed all my resistances and rendered me submissive to the
wishes of my well beloved. I did not believe that that manoeuvre was premeditated
because, when she did not slip on the shell of false indifference which I erected by
pressing my teeth, she obtained the opposite result expected: I thundered in my turn,
brandishing my will against hers. I believe rather that she was tied to two genetic
characters of my Jeanne: a great inclination for anger herself, and a great impulsivity.

How dangerous is anger.

Anger is a present which Mômmanh gave us to

follow from our resources in certain difficult
situations. But it renders one blind and deaf: it
is because it is necessary above all not to make
an intensive culture of it. As regards the
impulsivity of which I have spoken to you about
previously, it is like anger a beautiful gift from
Mômmanh for which we pay too dearly sometimes.

An angry consequence of those character traits was the curious aptitude of

my Jeanne to get jammed, like a rusty bolt inserted across in the trowel, so that, for
her, nearly the blocking seemed inexplicable. Do you want an example? Ah well, here
we go.

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 We had entrusted our children to their grandparents and both of us were
leaving for our holidays, for about ten days. Faced with such a heavy responsibility,
Jeanne’s parents inspired us with a sense of total confidence. Moreover, they were
very happy, perhaps even more than the small children. Therefore, we left without
worrying.

We were happy, even, to find ourselves on our own to rediscover and pacify
our souls, hoping well that our love, well strengthened, would grant us exquisite
moments. In the frame of our personal war, the war of the leaders, we had led a series
of long combats, as hard as well vain. Out of silent understanding, we had concluded
a cease-fire on which we watched over carefully, in the same way one looks after the
feeble flame of a candle from the slightest air current.

It was owing to Jeanne’s lack of aptitude to “coincide” in the most

inadequate moments.

Having left Vieuvy, by car of course, we were going to discover a new

region, probably the Cévennes. We would savour in advance the emotions which that
country would not fail to give us. If, as I am sure of, each man is capable of bringing
at least a personal contribution to the banquet of life, by a stronger reason, a region,
no matter which, will bring more: landscapes, houses, costumes, traditions which
have been elaborated for a long time and matured by the generations who have
formed a chain throughout the centuries, traditions nourished by alchemy of the
region all like the good wine… Yes, on the way to those holidays there, we went
humming, taking the time even to dawdle a bit.

I do not know at all in which way it started. We were taking part, I believe, in
a discussion on the different types of behaviour regarding money. I evoked that type
of spendthrift who, after spending all his money in a jiffy, tries hard to obtain that of
his neighbours in order to continue to squander it.

“You yourself, sometimes have this behaviour. You have exploited me,
dear,” I said while laughing and in a tone which meant that I was indifferent to it.

399
 With regards to management of our revenue, we had reached an agreement
which seemed satisfactory, and we did not have any quarrels on that matter for many
months. Moreover, Jeanne’s answer slammed in my head such a violent clap of
thunder in a blue sky.

– Ah yes! I am exploiting you! You are making those detours to throw me that s…
in my face. Dirty type! I hate you!
– But at the end, my dear, what is coming over you? I was discussing money in
general and I believed that you did the same. I did not want to warm up an old
conflict which has been settled for a long time.
– You did not want, eh? Dirty hypocrite! If you did not want war, you should not
have tried to throw your dirt on me. Ah! There you are you pretentious wimp, now.
Don’t touch me! Poor bloody fool, I hate you!
– But at the end, Jeanne, we are acting like mad. We left on holidays, both of us,
everything was all right: we were happy.
– You did not have to take advantage to throw your venom. Besides, I am no
longer staying with you. There is surely a station in this city. I will go back by
train! Leave me at the station, if it is not too much my asking, and go on holidays
all on your own.

I had to leave Jeanne at the station. She snatched her bag from my hands and
she advanced towards the entry hall with a quick step without turning back. Guess if I
felt like leaving for my vacations.

I still believed, at that time, that she suffered much less than me when trouble
arose in our couple. Otherwise, why would she have provoked such sorrow? That
time I had to discover that it was nothing.

During more than an hour, I wandered in the streets of the city which I will
not be able to indicate more clearly because I did not even try to know its name. I had
a tough job to cogitate all my strength, trying to understand what had happened and,
not getting anywhere, trying just the same to find good means to make it up with
Jeanne, yes, I had tendered dangerously, one more time, my will of rationality, to

400
make my brain burst, and the only tangible sign was a headache. And my steps took
me towards the station. A miracle perhaps was going to save me, once more.

Jeanne was there, sitting at table in the terrace of a nearby café. She seemed
frustrated, not touching even her half shandy. She looked sad, even desperate, to such
a point that I advanced to take her in my arms to console her. And the miracle took
place: she started to cry.

We took up again the route of our holidays. Our reconciliation was marked
by our flesh.

However, I asked Jeanne for some explanations about her strange behaviour:
that was allowed. Why did she get “stuck” like this, in an unforeseen manner,
provoking suffering which was useless? She answered that it was stronger than her
and that we had to live with it. It was up to me to be very careful about what I said, to
reduce the risks. It was up to me also, at the moment when she was stupidly stuck, to
come and set her free.

You may ask me what relation is there between Jeanne’s curious handicap
and her uncompromising will to be the leader of the family. Ah well, here you are. In
her heart of hearts, Jeanne knew that she spent more than me and blamed herself for
being unjust without being able to correct herself. Admitting that weakness was to
endanger her stature as a leader, in the same way as a political leader who has stolen
the public funds has to resign. Feeling her authority, on which she was keen above
everything, threatened, Jeanne, impulsive, reacted immediately and violently. She
used the heavy weapon which she had at hand: deprive me of love. And like a leader
does not go back on his decision, she found herself “stuck” once more.

She thought: “That bloody macho, if I leave him in a suspicion of power, he

would be at my throat. He can beat me, because he is stronger than I am.” Here is
how a great impulsivity associated to that extreme suspicion leads her frequently to
spark off measures of reprisals on the false alerts.

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 If she could differ her reaction, she would have had the time to see that I
accepted that unequal sharing of our pocket-money and that her authority was not
being undermined.

But Jeanne is impulsive: she pulls, she aims, and then she reflects. I have
often asked her why she uselessly persevered to bring up the past: it is that in spite of
everything she wants to avoid the blunders that she has committed by over speeding.
Too late!

The impulsivity and the anger, those two presents which Mother Nature has
put in her cradle provoking dangerous outbursts in the wars of leaders. When a
conflict points his nasty muzzle, before we had the time to avoid it, they would have
already led us in a whirlwind of rage and of hatred which reaches its peak soon
bordering on a passionate drama or on rupture.

Yes, Jeanne is impulsive. Her response to stress is ten times more rapid than
mine, granted that I have the opposite fault. The emotions which spark off the
perception of her environment, I believe, not only do they come to her very quickly,
but also that they are immediately more intense than with us, as if she has a filter
lacking which we have. In any case, she cannot refrain from reacting quickly, before
her ‘myself’ could have opened its mouth to tell her to reflect first. It is like an
impetuous torrent which carries her, helplessly, even when she sees me on the bank,
still more perplexed than usual.

For example, a spot on the floor which evokes vaguely an enormous spider,
that makes her immediately howl and jump. That weakness caused formerly the joy
of our kids. When, delighted with the anticipation of the reaction which his mother
would offer him, one of them had organized a practical joke of that type, invariably,
she never failed to start again telling him: “Play on me another dirty trick: I will have
a heart attack and perhaps I’ll die of it!”

402
How the soul which is overcome by rationality looks for her
compliment: a soul overcome by emotion.

Those emotions which are strong as they are

immediate escape therefore the control of
reflection. On the scale of evolution, they make
my Jeanne tumble down by millions and millions of
years till the times immemorial when Mômmanh
started to invent intelligence. When there are no
painful consequences, I like that handicap: it is
comic, it undermines the authority of my well
beloved, and above all, above all! It carries all
the savour of the natural urges since no
reflection could have rendered them tasteless. The
reactions which it leads are purely emotional.

Emotional! That was what I lacked most.

Oh yes! Remember, my friend reader, that unknown madness which I

contracted that I wanted absolutely, by way of rationality, to become God. I fought
sufficiently against that illness to contain it, and however, I still have not sorted it out.
Shall I ever manage? No, doubtlessly it is my burden and my banner.

When it seizes me, I reflect so much before acting that I lose all the faculty of
answering to stress, without feeling any longer neither disgust, nor love nor hatred,
torn between the imperial desire to be God and that to be again capable of loving.

So, when I am in front of a comic situation, the laughter is suffocated in me.

Because it is not rational, to laugh! Fortunate enough! Fortunate enough, the free and
joyful laughter of Jeanne pushes itself down in my rusty throat and carries it away.
Thanks love!

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 Yes Mômmanh made up in the horizon a picture to make you shout with joy,
I do not feel anything. Because, you see, it is not rational, to shout with joy! And,
what’s more, without even knowing why! But Jeanne is there who exclaims while
clapping her hands, and the warmth of life permeates itself again.

Here is how, without my Jeanne, very often I shall miss the aroma of a good
coffee, the pleasure of living a film which carries us away, the rupture of flying like
an arrow with the insolent sparrow which perches in the pear tree. I would love the
charm of the conversations with the creative, inventive, imaginative, more or less
liars and manufacturers of projects and dreams of all sorts…

Since the emotions express themselves savagely in Jeanne, I have chased

them away with my excessive behaviour. In the best of cases, when my circuits are
not yet overheated to the point that I cannot deliver the slight information, I find
myself facing the sketch of a painting which is rational of reality, and I do not know
what to do. I have exchanged my nature against a computer, but a special computer
which suffers for having lost its soul which pounded in him in his childhood years,
when he was still human.

Curiously enough, during those crises, all the same quite completely a
robot… No, because it is forbidden for me to taste the pleasure, I can quite
completely appreciate pain. There is therefore something in me linked to good living:
the toothache, the migraines and the irresistible need to cough.

It is like this that our handicaps are corrected mutually, on condition however
that we fight them energetically: as a consequence they will destroy us. Jeanne
appreciates that my imperial needs for reflection curb her many fleeting momentums
which could be dangerous: I drink her exclamations, her laughter, her shouts, her
enthusiasm, like a baby drinks the maternal milk because they generate my
suffocating sensibility. It seems to me, that in that quite particular domain, the
chances of meeting our loving compliment were minimal. Ah well, it is when it
arrives all the same. Thanks. Thanks who?

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 And behold that my chattering has not even led us astray since it has led us
again to the deep cause of my determination to want to lead the family.

Like this, during that regrettable war of leaders, each one in his own way,
was implacable. Did it take so much unhappiness that at the end we recognised that
fact and accepted to find a solution for it? The carrot or the stick: it is true, alas, that
quite often, it is the great kicking on the behind that make us advance rather than the
perspective of a better existence.

Quite sure that we made great efforts to go out of that dead end: and more
often, it was in vain. Did we need a human sacrifice to get out of it? Did it require our
daughter’s death she who had a promising future? Yes, in spite of the abolition of
death sentences, that she died for sure!

Are the existential experiences of our life written in the

memory of our gametes?

Is it you, Mômmanh, who have had that

cruelty?

I have already told you, that in our

science-fiction game, in the model which I
developed, Mômmanh is our old blind mother. The
tiny fraction of herself which realises itself
through me, I call it “my Mômmanh.” To satisfy her
imperial appetite for existence, all along the
billions of years which pass after the origin, she
keeps in her memory the taste for that has done
her good and the disgust for he who has done her

405
wrong. But, incapable of conceiving the universe,
she cannot do any projects. For that, she appeals
to the prodigious brain which she has elaborated
patiently: ours.

She is our old blind grandmother sitting at

the corner of the fire. We relate to her all that
we have seen. She rummages in her immense memory
and tells us: “My child that is good: you must
look for it. But be very careful! That is bad: you
must discard it.”

Being so small, we drink all the wisdom of

our Mômmanh. Afterwards, it is as one goes along
that our own tastes and disgusts are formed, and
we listen to her advice less and less.

Fortunately, death comes to take us away

from this drifting. What, in our lives, has a
great existential value will mark either the
genetic code or the other heredity vectors of our
reproductive cells. Therefore, any remarkable life
will leave two tiny messages in the ocean of
existence: one in our history (our cultural
memory) and the other in our genetic code (our
natural memory).

Well, in those billions of billions of

memories, our Mômmanh has selected for us two
tendencies which sometimes are opposite, risking
paralysing us: in our actions, we grant priority
to altruism, that is to say to the triumph of life
in general, but we have a strong preference for

406
 the pleasures of our own pile of flesh already
rotten.

Priority for others, preference for our ego.

In the case of a severe conflict between the two
teachers, rather than giving up one’s place, quite
often, the satisfaction of the ego hides in the
subconscious. So, one c an bid farewell to the
clear conscience!

How does the purgation of our passions allow the fighting

against our bad desires of the subconscious.

Ah well, each one of us had a bad gene

particularly harmful hidden in the subconscious.
And that demon was, for each of us, the principal
responsible for our will – What am I saying? – for
our need to be head of the family.

And then? We only had to throw them out,

those two bandits!

Easy to say.

That walk which we evaded both of us

although it seemed easy, it consists very simply
in reliving the history of the incriminating
behaviours, in a way to obtain a clear conscience

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 of motivations which have inspired them. That
operation is called the purgation of our passions.

It is not long and painful which if the

selfish passion which one keeps a secret is truly
very hard to overcome: for example, that of the
murderer who cannot bear neither the contemptible
look of his conscience nor th e perspective of
killing himself.

But our madness did not seem as tough.

In what concerns me, remember! I have already related how the vain pleasure
of being always first at school had given birth to the monstrous demand which
poisoned my existence: understanding everything to be a God. Since it was contrary
to the generous morality instilled by my parents and by all my teachers, all I had to do
was to conceal that monstrous swelling of my ego. When? In my subconscious,
evidently, well hidden under a pile of virtuous principles.

And Jeanne? Head of the family, till death! Why did she attach herself to that
function and with such perseverance? Apparently, she had nothing too shameful to
conceal. In which case, she did not even need the purgation of her passion. A simple
historian would have been enough, as I have already said, to explain the origin of her
despicable behaviour.

Therefore, the only effort should have consisted in discovering the

antecedents which I have already related: how in her youth her mother had learned
that she must not trust men, that you must command them and humiliate them from
time to time, because they have a contemptible side. So, in order to wind off, it would
have been enough that she lived with the principles which her mother had instilled in
her, for sure, but without giving her the true justifications, like this we do it well quite
often because it is more simple to teach and to learn some proved principles without
however loading our poor heads with the long theory of explanations.

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 It was a good occasion for Jeanne to appeal to my passion to understand all:
we could have observed together that those convictions as regards men were no
longer justified in our age, neither much less, in our couple. Afterwards, always
together, we could have discovered that the best solutions for our family seemed to be
a reasonable sharing of power: “Down with the leaders! Long live democracy! And
long live freedom!”

Instead of that, every time that I tried to take on that step, we had a conflict
and it even happened that Jeanne was “stuck.” I understood that the subject was a
taboo and I gave up. But what could that refusal conceal?

Like me, Jeanne had been born just before the “War”: I mean “Our War,” the
nd
2 World War. Because of the absences of fathers, we had remained only children for
a long time. Like me, Jeanne was the first child of the new generation and she brought
the hope of her clan. Surely, she was nothing but a girl. And then? In the eyes of her
mother as well as the other women of the Spanish branch, it was up to the women to
take the future in their hands.

Like me, Jeanne was a flattered and even a spoilt child. She was the princess
who was going to reign on the marvellous world following the misfortunes, a red
princess, evidently. Nourished like this, her ego was inflated, all like mine. It was so
good that she wanted… ( No! “wanted” is too feeble.) She demanded that it was
always like this, that all her life, she was treated like a princess.

By which means? Thanks to her beauty, to her spirit, to her good

communicative, to the charm of the conversation, all her assets which were worth to
her humour, she believed, that she was a pampered child.

As far as her husband is concerned, it was understood that he had to satisfy

all her whims.

Those demands of a spoilt child contradicted and whipped the equalitarian

and generous principles of the communist morality: therefore it was necessary to hide

409
 them in the subconscious, under the oriflamme of the combats for the cause of the
worker and that of women, afterwards, there was nothing else to do but forget them,
free to act in the limits of their den.

Here is why Jeanne was strongly attracted as much as I at the demand of

being leader of the family. We were both of us slaves of that evil plant which sprang
during our childhood and, elsewhere, quite difficult to uproot. But, one more time,
was the sacrifice of our child necessary to pull us out of there?

From hatred to excess of love, passing through the break-up of

love: how does the parents’ love condition the character and
the existence of the child.

The sacrifice of a child does n ot go

necessarily to death. It is enough that his life
is spoilt to the point that it is painful and
futile. It is quite often, alas, the price which
the handicaps of our genre pays, not to recover,
only as a price for their illness. Let me explain
myself.

You have not forgotten the six elements, all

indispensable, which make up the human existence.
One of the first, at the base, I have called it
“link with the others.” Its most accomplished form
is love.

When the child who arrives in this world

received hatred by way of love, in return, he

410
hates the one who hurts him. That hatred hits not
only his parents, but all those similar to them,
the other fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters:
how can the baby make the distinction? Therefore,
he hates all humanity. Depending on whether he is
dominated by fear or not, his aggressivity towards
the human species will be evident or masked.

When the child who wakes up to the existence

receives only indifference, all his life he begs
for love which he evades, becoming cruelly a
fault. He risks strongly being stupid because his
parents never answered his search for learning,
not even when he wanted to learn to walk.

When a child comes to this world and

receives the love which he needs, he develops
well. From his parents seconded by the social
surroundings around them, he receives the
nourishment for the body and soul. When he is
finally fully fledged, adult, he leaves his family
to start living on his own.

But if he breaks down because of love

prematurely, what will happen?

If his parents cease loving him too soon,

when he is not yet capable to lead his existence
alone, he will have a tough time to recover from
that open wound. It is however what happens too
often.

411
 The source of love dries up when the parents
dedicate such a lot of energy to fight one against
the other that they forget the existence of their
children. Or well when father and mother decide
brutally not to live together any more and leaving
the children to believe that they are no longer
loved, left to themselves all naked to the
tortures of the world.

We will find one of those children who grew

up abandoned. The love of which he has been
deprived prematurely, for a long time he has not
found the trust in those he loves, that lost love
he would want more of the lost love than the
others, in the same way like he who, having
suffered hunger, fears to be lacking and watches
over a useless storage of food. There you are!
There is the threat of war, the people no longer
trust t he networks of supplies and they start
stocking some foodstuffs: ah well, the child of
whom I am talking acts in the same way, quite
reasonably.

But while waiting to be loved again, he has

to survive.

The young one, discovering with terror that

he cannot count on his parents finds himself like
an abandoned fledgling, when he is incapable of
flying. And, since he has been betrayed by his
mother and his father, those two perfect human
beings who represent all the others, he does not
trust anyone. Surely, there is not always the
death of a child, but at least great suffering the

412
 consequences of which can be heavy. At that age
when he has not yet built up his defences, the
worst can happen.

How a bad divorce can lead a child towards toxic mania.

Before he gets used to the weight of his

punishment of chain and ball, and before he
accepts to carry it all throughout his bloody
days, he has to survive the pain of the first
shock. Instead of the love which nourished his
existence a living wound opens itself. An
unbearable anxiety submerges it, such that he will
not sort it out. The slightest aggressive impulses
carry him away, and they leave him as desperate as
before. The death, she assumes a soothing face,
not to say friendly. She has however a too
definite character and, nearly always, he avoids
suicide.

While waiting for a better life which will

never come perhaps, he mistakes his existential
anxiety, the hunger which Mômmanh knows, with
false answers, illusions of happiness: drugs. That
starts by some sweet things which make him put on
weight, or any orgy, be it of electronic games, be
it fictions made to evade, on a video as well as
on films. If a solid love does not come along to
change tendency, with the passing of years, the

413
 drugs will become harder and harder: cigarettes,
alcohol, hashish, cocaine…

You know that not every couple is allowed to adopt a child. The would-be
parents must in the first place convince the administration of our country that they
will be good parents, and that is not easy. So, don’t you find it curious that the
motherland does not have the same demands for the multitude of natural parents?
Why is that the latter have all the freedom to wreck the existence of human beings?

Ah well, in the thick of the One Hundred Years war, during the truces we
became anxious that we were bad parents. We had consulted some “psy” of all sorts,
which we respect since they practiced honestly their job. If they could detect the
dangerous animal at his job in our subconscious, they could perhaps lead us to
neutralize it before one committed the irreparable. But you know well that one could
not defeat the tuberculosis before the discoveries of Pasteur and Koch.

How even, with the purgation of the passions, the bad desires
of the subconscious are difficult to fight against.

I have discovered Mômmanh however after our

return from Africa, many years before the plunge
in hell. Didn’t I have to put in practise that
promising discovery to deliver ourselves from the
bad teachers, if they were concealed in the
subconscious under piles of virtuous principles?

Alas, no. That has been impossible for me.

414
 To start with, Mômmanh has never been
completely revealed to me, perfect and all dressed
up. I had to bring her out little by little. And I
have never finished. And now that we are going to
work together, I do not believe that we shall ever
finish.

On the other hand, if a wave of enthusiasm

has surged in me at the moment of the first
discovery, it has soon fallen down again. Around
me, nobody has believed in it, not even Jeanne.
Deeply disappointed, I have finished by finding
that generalised scepticism legitimate and I have
decided to doubt, even myself also, as much as I
could.

“Around me, has anybody believed?” How could

I leave such an immense thing? All close by me, so
close, Estelle believed in it… Please, leave me
some minutes so that I get back on my feet…

So, we cannot use my knowledge of Mômmanh to

put an end to our war. Besides, those bad teachers
carpeted in the subconscious do not let me be.
There are certain elements of myself with the same
title as the good ones, those who live the big
day. And like them, they are ourselves. It is
necessary to have something terrible to lead them
to surrender.

Let us leave the fatality running towards that odious accident… And let life
carry on.

415
 There were at least two supplementary handicaps which prevented us from
progressing towards peace and reconstruction. It was my existence of never break
“the sacred ties of marriage,” whatever happened: I will speak to you later on. It was
also the malign characteristic of another need which you already know: that of being
the leader.

How men have always known how to find recipes not to be slaves
of their desires.

You know, that if the desire as well as the

will can be beneficial, the need is always bad.

To start with, by nature, she is never

satisfied, since perfection is not human. There
follows that she makes slaves of us, obliging us
to dedicate vainly a lot of energy instead of
realising other aspects of existence. For example,
let us suppose that I absolutely want to be a big
star; I have to dedicate a lot of efforts, I will
not obtain even the certainty that the crowds will
not give me their backs to adulate somebody else.
So, slave of that need, I will have no other
choice but to dedicate to it all my time without
being satisfied.

If we don’t manage to uproot the needs, as

one does to the weeds, they choke out life and
render it sterile.

416
 And during that time, our old Mômmanh,
blind, paralysed and impotent, stays at the bottom
of the house in an armchair. We, on the doorstep,
we are at times her eyes and her hands open on the
vast world. She needs us. Let us not leave a need,
whichever it may be, bring us the living death.

For a long time men have found the means to

deliver themselves from those needs. Humour is one
of them. There is also the absence of desire of
the Buddhists, the emptiness in oneself of many
oriental philosophies, the acceptance of destiny
of the Greeks and the Muslims… I also have my
recipe, but I will not tell it to you: now that
you know Mômmanh, you will know how to find yours.

Besides the slavery linked to all the need, that leadership war hindered us in
another manner. She tended to reduce each one of us to his own limits which, in
addition, are situated often close to the ego, when we should have made love yield its
fruit by enriching us mutually. Let me explain myself.

Like a leader, each one of us asked sometimes for an advice to the other, but
in the same way in which the king takes advice which does not oblige him at all to be
aware of his mistakes. While now, having abolished the statute of leader in our
family, it is necessary that we submit our wishes to the judgement of the other,
whether that pleases us or not.

How love makes us better and stronger.

417
 Like this, we are compelled to discuss it
all over again. When our behaviours are contrary,
together we do the investigation of which I will
give you an example. There are some chances when
we find more rational answers to a problem of our
life. The existence gains in quality.

She earns more than in another manner. By

renouncing to be leaders, we try to make our
objectives agree. By definition, that agreement
can only be made to the benefit of the two
“myself.” Therefore, it was necessary to pull
ourselves from selfishness and altruism which
profited from it to gain ground.

Love makes us better.

We observe the consequences of our way of

acting. If it is necessary, we will search for the
origins. Together, we reflect in order to find
something better. Most often, we manage to
understand ourselves.

Love makes us stronger.

(Let me take a break here. Now that our hair

has turned white, now that our deformed bodies
need frequent repairs, now that “My Love” has been
with me for a long time, the times when I do not
need to reconquer her occur increasingly often.
And then I feel that I am letting myself go and
that I am slipping into decay, as if there was
nothing that I could do about it.

418
 To stop this living death from taking over
me, I have found a solution. I tell myself: “Look
for someone else!” And then again I become alert,
sharp-eyed, animated by a flow of energy, my
spirit on the lookout. Then I am creative again,
straddling the steeds of existence, ready to face
the dragons.

Of course, at my age and penniless, my

chances of seducing a pretty shepherdess are
almost nil. Moreover, they become totally nil if
you consider that I cannot envisage, as in the
18th century, sending the shepherdess back to her
sheep after she has given me pleasure. Well, I
have no regrets because my rebirth had an effect
on an unexpected shepherdess: my Jeanne herself,
who finds her delightful impulses of yore.)

In the dark forest which stretches from the

beginning, we look for our way. Are there any
marshes? Some precipices? Where are our friends?
Our enemies? Where do we step to reach our house
in heaven? Our two intellects combined are two
lamps probing in the darkness.

“Light here, Michel. Is it not a beautiful

asphalted road? It will definitely lead us
somewhere. – Surely no, dear. It is only a bad
reflection on water. – And here? – Oh no, it is
an abyss. – What abyss Jeanne? You are
hallucinating. There is only a beautiful cherry
tree, there. My cherry tree! Famous! The Cherries!
Do you want to taste? – Surely not. Don’t you
know that the brambles conceal a great fault? You

419
go down there to pick the cherries and the abyss
swallows you. Farewell, my dear… Let us go! Wake
up, for Pete’s sake! – You must be right Jeanne…
They were however excellent, those beautiful
cherries.”

You know about the human tendency to favour

his dear ego when the table of existence at the
present finds itself abundantly decorated with
juicy dishes. Hemm! Ah well, the temptation of
serving his “Myself-Here-Now” in the first place
is quite strong in the leader, because he has only
his conscience to oppose to it. There are no
reasons why the contrary powers are necessary.

Now that there is no longer any leader in

our love, we are better armed to escape from that
trap. If one of our two egos exaggerates, the
other one says: “And myself? And myself?” In the
silence which follows, one can then hear the
distant voice of Mômmanh: “My children, my
children, don’t forget above all that first of all
you have to watch over me, through lack of which
you will die.” And, from that transitory discord,
we will go out even better than before.

A very tiny grain of dust laid astray in the

infinite billions of billions of stars which fill
the universe, the earth is our garden. Myself all
alone, like every one of the six billions of human
beings still alive, I feel the owner of all that.
Death is a necessary evil which is going to take
away all the good things of which I am capable of
considering under various aspects, be it is only a

420
 thought. Since I must fade out, it is necessary
that I leave them as heritage. At least, take good
care of them.

How the transition from selfishness to altruism works?

Have you calculated the cost of selfishness?

Ah well, no: it is worse than that. I wish

that all that would be given to me, and for ever,
instantly: “Myself-Here-Now-eternal and Infinite.”
And my Jeanne, do you think she is worth better?
And you yourself, have you looked after yourself
well?

I must give an important detail, and never

mind if I repeat myself. To start, consider the
“myself-here-now” as complete selfishness,
existence reduced to a tiny dot engulfed in the
infinity of space and time, the death rattle of
being reduced to its immediate enjoyment. Well,
the path that leads from “myself-here-now” to
“others-elsewhere-in time,” this path does not
follow a regular slope. It goes up like an
escalator, in stages. Every stage interrupts the
escalation so that the “myself” is satisfied at
the level of which the altruism suffered from.

421
 For example, the search for posterity has an
altruistic tendency since it distances the “now”
to go towards other times. But since it interests
itself only in personal celebrity, it remains on
the selfish stage. If I associate my children to
that celebrity, I go up only one step, because my
children are still too close to the “myself.” And
so on and so forth.

My Jeanne and Myself, we look in our earthly

garden for somewhere to construct our house. It
happens that My Love says:

“It is my house and only mine and you are my

slave dear.

– I do not like my role not at all: I am

incapable of keeping it. Your own, on the
contrary, tempts me a lot. Ah well! Let us invert
it.

– Are you mad, dear? I would be too

ashamed…”

There goes Mômmanh with her grain of salt.

“Oh no! You have recovered now, and the One

Hundred Years War is over. Have you already
forgotten everything?

– Oh! No!

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 – You have killed your child. The little
existence you have left is in your hands.

– Oh no! Mômmanh! Stop! I beg of you, stop!

– Each of you dream of a love where the

beloved one will be his slave: you wish that your
children will be enslaved?

– Please, Mômmanh, stop!

– You! You, to whom I have given such

beautiful eyes, look, look in that jumble which is
the jungle of life; look for something with which
to construct a quite solid house where one can
always feel the beauty of it. Didn’t you tell me
that certain slaves are hardly suitable for that
type of task?

– It is true, Mômmanh. But to construct that

arch of eternal life over the billions of years
and the billions of stars of the universe in
expansion, shall we be all alone?

– It is your problem. I have made you so

intelligent that you will end up by finding such a
thing. In any case, I want all the family to have
a place in my arch.

– Your arch? Your arch!

– Yes, surely…

423
 – It is mine as well. It belongs to Jeanne
just as much. Have you forgotten that each one of
us is the liberated consciousness which is lacking
in you cruelly? Not only your conscience has burst
out between the billions of individuals, but it
does not belong to you.

– Oh goodness me! Here it is again, and

there it is again the man who built himself up on
his own. Each of your billions of ego is a
fraction of the myself-even. What a misfortune if
you lose me: it will be your definite death.

– Excuse me, Mômmanh. It is my delirium to

want to be God which is overwhelming me. Ah well,
it is understood: we will make the entire world
ascend in your arch, even the dirty ones, the ugly
and the good for nothing.

– Your Estelle will have a good place there,

with Mistinguette… In the company of her parents
and her brothers, quite sure. And your house…

– It is a symbol!

– I know! Now that you finally have learned

how to love, you will find on that earth materials
of life which are suitable to you both. Besides,
it is time to open widely to your friends that
damned house to “Myself All Alone”

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 Therefore, besides the offence of common slavery for all the needs, that of
being the leader had another vice: it favoured our selfishness. And then it had still
another fault besides this one.

It was necessary above all, for the outcome of a confrontation that the other
one may believe to be victorious. Therefore, the negotiations as well as the
concessions were exceptional.

There was, remember, in your tastes, some undetermined incompatibility on

which we made a dead end at the moment of marriage, thinking that our love will
easily come to an end. It should have been possible at least to start to change them in
harmony, those minor differences of opinion: we managed well, now. Instead of that,
our need to be able with its big chain loaded with three balls and chains was enclosing
us in war. At any moment, in any place, if we were not on the verge of confronting us
like the deer on heat, we were always in danger of doing it.

The principle of the difference of opinion led to the money. It is true that who
disposes of money keeps a big part of the power and of freedom. Jeanne had
understood that lesson from her mother: “You must absolutely earn your living, my
girl. And when you are married, above all! Above all! Take care of your job and don’t
leave it as long as your retirement is not assured. Because, if your husband is
unbearable you can always leave him. And if it is he who annoys you, you and your
children, will never live in misery. In a household, a woman without revenue is a
slave, kicked by man. While you, with your wage, you do not have to work so hard.
You can always keep yourself straight, and say s… when it suits you…”

Yes! Jeanne had completely abided by her mother’s opinion. And like her
mother kept severely the strings of her purse in her own hearth, Jeanne wanted also to
manage our budget. She left me enough money in my pocket. But my firm intention
was the exact opposite of hers: to her the pocket money, to me the responsibility of
hoarding. We were both of us equally decided…

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 Fire! Fire from all batteries! The war was raging while the children hurried to
empty their plate to get out of the battle field and to go about on their business. Were
they hoping to see our disputes and the household scenes over one day? As much as I
can remember, they never said anything about it. Perhaps they had tried to obtain the
ceasing of hostilities, then they renounced. They seemed to accept that misfortune in
the same way as the bad weather: they could not do anything about it, it was
necessary that they had their own life. He prevents only the storms accompanied by
hail or showers, in the same way as the long days of the frozen north wind were too
frequent, to the point of upsetting dangerously the development of our dear little ones.

The warnings were not lacking however. Hold on, here is one which I
remember. It took place a short time after our return from Africa, when we had just
settled in out new house, at Futaie.

We were all seated in the kitchen, for the midday meal. It was a holiday, and
we should have relaxed. Instead of that, a violent quarrel burst out because of a
cupboard the price of which seemed very high. Their nose in their plate, our children
were eating as quickly as possible. It is Pablo who came out first, to come quickly to
announce to us calmly:

“The house is on fire.

– Eh? There is fire? Where?
– Here, by the side of the chimney. Are you going to put it off?”

An inflamed log had fallen from the chimney, setting on fire the canvas
which covered the sitting room. The flame was going up joyfully along the wall and
started to lick the leathered pine panel which covered the ceiling. Some more seconds
yet and the fire would be out of control, devouring the whole house. Quickly, we
brought some buckets of water, and that was enough to stop the fire.

So we realised.

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– Ah well my dear, it was a near miss.
– In two seconds, we would not have had a house nor anything, not even a tent to
camp in the garden. You see where that leads us, your bloody stupidity. But, what
do I care still with a similar idiot!
– If, instead of taking the fly in the slightest current of air and if, instead of uttering
cries of anger for the every other minute, like a crazy, you were to adopt a human
behaviour which consists in discussing honestly and reflecting together, perhaps we
will arrive somewhere…
– In order that you manipulate me still with your twisting about. You never listen
to me! Your stinginess, I do not bear it any longer completely. You buy only
rubbish…! The house is full of it. I have a hard time putting as much as I can in the
dustbin, it keeps coming back. A factory for rubbish that is what you are! Besides, I
am going to buy that cupboard, as soon as possible! Continue to masturbate your
brain, you crazy one: you are not good for anything else.
And then, you can fuck the camp! I do not want to see you anymore.

Our two ways in managing the family budget were absolutely incompatible. I
tried hard to save up the money I accumulated patiently when she did all that was
possible to manage to waste them: one filled the barrel while the other emptied it. I
wanted to invest the money to make it yield more to increase our wealth.
Consequently, I accepted to buy only in cash. Jeanne, on the contrary, always
impatient, wanted to borrow, even if it meant falling headlong in the first pot of a
money lender without scruples.

In most cases, these behaviours at times antagonists and irrational had

cultural origins. We had learned them during our childhood.

Formerly, in the green countryside of the past, it was strictly recommended to

save, be it to acquire land, be it with the hope of finding a bigger farm to “make
yourself worth something” and to buy the necessary equipment. My father did not
liked to repeat , in our once despised language, the patois that is now called “Gallo”:
“Penny by penny, one accumulates a whole bagful.” (Little by little, one accumulates
a treasure). There was another saying about money: “You must always put something

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aside for a rainy day.” In fact, the peasants of the past were not protected by any form
of insurance, not even by a pension fund or Social Security. The consequence of all of
that was the relationship between peasants and money which had been instilled in my
soul as a child.

Because of this peasant atavism, I still have some completely aberrant

behaviours, which are like warts on my personality. Here is an example, probably
from the Middle Ages, when dead wood was valuable to poor farmers. To fill up my
fireplace, besides beautiful beech logs, I waste time picking up the smallest twigs in
my garden and I offer my harvest to the fire which makes short work of it.

Jeanne had grown up in the city, more precisely in the big city, which was
managing to escape the influences of the countryside. The attempts to borrow,
provided that it was within reasonable credit, were approved. One used to consider
that practice as a sign of modern life, like an act of civilisation, since it was supposed
to favour the business and the economic development: “that helped the flowing of
business” one said.

Moreover, in her family they admired the beautiful good things which only
the bourgeoisie could buy. They had the conviction that whatever was expensive was
valuable while the bargains were good to throw away.

To those city and family wombs which expressed themselves in the

behaviour of Jeanne vis-à-vis the money, one had to add other influences: the
impulsivity with its emotional charge which pushes into action and, successfully and
more cunning, lying in wait in the subconscious, a secret selfishness of a spoilt child
who went out for some air from time to time and of which I will speak to you soon.

Starting with my peasant childhood, without being stingy, I had cultivated an

excessive attachment to money. On one part, I was very keen on keeping permanently
an important money-box and that was not for the pleasure of contemplating my gold,
but to be able to face certain hazards of life, a catastrophe, unemployment… without
which the bailiff would come to skin us before leaving us on straw. My Love and

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Myself, sat our eyes on that box: Jeanne tried a means to empty it without much
noise, and I asked myself how to protect it. That precaution is good. How many
refugees, in our marvellous twentieth century world owe their life to them? But let us
take into account the different assurances which protect us, even the negotiable value
contained in jewels and family heirlooms; it is not desirable to make up a very
important money box.

I suffered also a more perverse attachment to money, which would have led
me to eat till the last mouthful of half rotten chicken, because I had paid for it.
Fortunately, Jeanne did not let me be: she herself did not seem to feel any pain while
getting rid of a new and an expensive dress and the only flaw of which was not to
render her more beautiful.

That very failing led me to buy very often objects or services of very bad
quality and this after several hesitations and endless regrets. Jeanne bought the
highest quality at a higher price. Her fear was not to squander money, but to come
across suddenly a more beautiful object. By buying the most expensive, she thought
she was safeguarding herself against that risk, and also against that of seeing
unfolding itself, but too late, a latent defect.

Jeanne was enchained to that imperative: it was absolutely necessary for her
to buy the best and the most beautiful: so, she was never satisfied. How often did she
throw away expensive objects because of the idea that there might be better, wake her
up in the night! As far as I am concerned, I carried that ball and chain: wanting at all
cost, provided it was free, to obtain an incredible quantity of richness with our modest
salaries. And I was never happy. I too have thrown money from the window under the
form of bargains which their bad quality rendered useless.

Our ration of life is quite short: however, running obstinately the impossible,
we have squandered in that way a good part.

We have discovered those two needs which are poisoning our lives, after the
accident. And we found still a lot of them. The worst of all, the deadly one, the

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reciprocal need to be the head of the family was far from being the only one. There
was also surely my mad need to understand everything and I had started to loosen the
grip. There were still many others of them, more or less strong, often intermittent.
And behold some in a jumble: needs of consideration, of youth, of beauty, of
consideration, of security, of life… We had learned to contain them by saying: “So
much the worse, what escapes me, the others will obtain.” then to replace “I demand”
by “I wish” every time that it is possible.

As you have seen, our two ways of managing money had their origin from a
big number of different roots: we were not capable of pulling them out, then put some
others of them on the ground. In spite of everything, love has succeeded its alchemy:
the opposing and absurd behaviours, often pitiful, have been changed into bursts of
happiness.

From now on, we did not have any conflicts any more as regards money, at
the most disagreements which dwindled down very quickly. But we could not agree
on a common management of our belongings. Besides, is it desirable?

Our way of managing things was very simple. We divided in two the overall
resources. After the discussions, which could be passionate, came close to the storm,
we agreed about mutual expenses which we also shared. There remains so to each of
us about half of his part with which he did what he liked.

Now, at last! We know how to use our revenues to the best of our
possibilities, not only without suffering, but with pleasure. And the worries tied to
money do not weight any longer on our existences. Ah well, if each of us did not
remain by his side, clinging to the will to be leader of the family, we could together
come to the bottom of that difference like the majority of the others, before the
tragedy.

But let us come back there where we had arrived, rightly, before the horror.
While waiting for the stress of a real death to come to pull us out of our selfish
passions which were only death in all its power, the fight of the leaders was going

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towards a crisis. As soon as we had just seen it, all the questioning of our ways of
living stopped and threatened to make the “War of a Hundred Years, last vainly for
such a long time that we would not be able to bear it. Our house was the usual
battlefield. Sometimes we broke objects, preferably fragile, generating noises, not too
dear: some plates or some vases broken on the tiles doing the job well. Without
bringing peace, they relieved us just the same from an excess of rage.

We would have wanted our children not to suffer from our war, but we never
managed. We imagined naively the holidays, outside our times of constraint, like a
moment of happiness when, all together would have tasted the fruit of our efforts and,
our burdens laid down for two months, we could all go to discover leisure which is on
the other side of hatred. Think therefore! Far from being a truce, our holidays were
the moments of our worst confrontations.

Oh yes! Life in common was no longer in time partial, like in a period of

work. And above all, we were free from the constraints of the job, free at last! Free to
impose our own constraints to the love of our life, free to fight till the overthrow of
our dear opponent.

We had all the time to finally settle our conflict once and for all, and we were
proceeding strongly the first days. Like this we managed to ruin two weeks of our
happy freedom.

The end of the fighting was not at all in sight. Besides, why should they have
stopped? On the contrary, the confrontation was increasing, without other pause
except for the tormented sleep. But, after about fifteen days, we were quite weary and
the conflicts seemed to us temporarily without solution. We did not want, any more,
to continue to make the children suffer knowing that it was in vain. By means of a
tacit agreement, we decided therefore on a truce for the holidays.

It was only a ceasefire, a simple respite therefore, in the war which would
achieve a result surely, one day or another, to the resolution of our conflict, an

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improbable outcome about which we continued in spite of everything to dream.
While waiting, to save the rest of the holidays, each one camped on his positions.

In the presence of one or the other, we had the approach of the people who
advanced on mined land. A long and painful experience had revealed nearly all the
sensitive points of the opponent. It was necessary to avoid brushing against the
detonation, because of which the explosion would take place and start again the
hostilities. We had become experts in that art to such a point that our walk was no
longer affected. We had the appearance of a successful couple, without problems,
with a dubious character. But in spite of everything, an explosion tore apart from time
to time the fragile peace: at a price of a big effort, we managed to sheath our arms
before the war set us on fire again.

I remember particularly a long holiday trip which started in that way. Estelle
was perhaps eight or nine years old. With our three children, in the car, we were
going to visit Greece. On the way, we had to visit plenty of places in Yugoslavia.

At that time, we were full of admiration for that country. It had pushed back
by itself the Nazis. Its rebellious communism seemed promising; finally, and perhaps
it was the most important, it managed to let one live in harmony, it seemed to us, a
good ten races very different from the ancestral hatreds which had very often pushed
to kill one another. Moreover, one could still find some beaches perfectly clear and
some mountainous regions with enough asphalted roads to reach them and, as for the
rest, a nature completely wild.

It was exactly in such a place that we were going to live for some days,
before going to frolic with the Adriatic Sea from which we were expecting sharp and
new pleasures. Our camping was at the centre of the country. Was it Croatia? Bosnia-
Herzegovina? Or rather Serbia? It was hardly important at that time, because those
“regions” were part of the same country: Yugoslavia. That was found in the wild
country, hairy, on the edge of a wild river. Was it perhaps the Drina? Or rather
Bosnia? Or quite that river whose name seemed wild: the Vrbas? We did not know

432
why such a place attracted us, except that it seemed good to us. Now, we know: we
were yearning to go and chat a little with Mômmanh.

One used to say that in the rough mountains of Yugoslavia, there were still
bears, true ones, not “reinstated.”

During the break crammed with a heterogeneous loading, the three children
busy reading on the back seat, the war went on at a good pace between the parents.
We had gone past Ljubljana a long time before. In our rage to win, we used all the
missiles, without much being concerned for the laws of war. She sent me the
cobblestones which should have knocked me out:

– Your family is full of crazy people. And aren’t the people surprised at seeing
you delirious? But if I did not stop you, it will be ten times worse.
– What crazy people do you see in my family? Some original ones, yes! Some
people who have personality.
– Yes, that’s it. And the stupid one, which is his personality?”

While I prepared the next attack, the kilometres passed.

Resigned, the children continued to read.

“The stupidity of Gerard is not of genetic origin. You know well that it is the
opinion of all the specialists.
– The specialists! Ah yes! But what do the specialists know? Besides, nobody can
live with you.
– And your Spanish ancestors, what does one know about them? Your gene of
stupidity must come from somewhere, all the same!
– So there! The only time that you made me laugh you did not do it on purpose.
– Excuse me, Jeanne, I let myself be carried away. No! No and no I refuse to hit
below the belt. I want to get to understand each other on a healthy basis.
– That is it, yes! The perfect man and I, the slut. But take care, sinister pain in the
neck.

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– Listen, Jeanne, I would like to explain an important thing. But you won’t be
angry, hey? For once, you will succeed in controlling yourself. It is the first step
which matters.
– What are you simmering yet? Well! Send me your s… I will cling to it.
– I am not simmering anything: I am reflecting. There you are! There you are! If
you have failed your studies, it is not for the reasons you are mentioning. I am not
saying you lack intelligence: it is a rare defect, as far as I know, but your intellect
works in a way which is totally fanciful. For sure, I can help you, but to understand
that, you need a minimum of lucidity…
– Where have you seen that I have failed my studies?
– It was you who said so.
– Am I not a scholastic psychologist? When I say that I failed my studies, it is a
way of speaking. Besides, I do not want to hear about it anymore. Let us stop there!
Stop! I tell you! I want to get down!
– But we have not arrived yet. Where are we, besides?
– 150 kilometres away from Split…

Split is found close by the sea, very far from the wild mountain and on the
river bank where we have to camp, so far that it was too late to make half a turn and
go to join the good route. When we arrived at Split, the sun had set. Failing to
succeed to find a camping site, we had to pass the night in the car. Split was at two or
three hundred kilometres from our destination and we could not impose that long
supplementary distance on the children.

Pushed by the distance, Ulysses could only reach his isle after ten years of
uncertain wanderings. Would our personal tempest have similar consequences? Our
wandering in Yugoslavian land led us to a shore with very clean pebbles.

There were no crowds. The children transformed an inflated mattress in a

jumping platform. From that base, lying down on their tummies, they could observe
the bottom of the sea, ten to fifteen metres below, because the waters were
particularly clear. They could also fish. And for sure, they did not deprive themselves
from diving. Sometimes, it was to go and look for the sea urchins, the shells and the

434
 other treasures of the bottom, sometimes they practised underwater fishing, but, most
of the times, it was simply for the pleasure which they felt by feeling themselves like
fish in the sea. The children enjoyed themselves so much, that we remained there for
more than fifteen days. We never reached Greece.

The Hundred Years War had developed and strengthened itself all along the
ten years in Africa. Three children had been born during that period which had given
us the strength to bear the long truces: Pablo, Estelle and Thomas. It is for them that
we had decided to go back to France. To extend our golden exile, we thought, would
seriously compromise their education.

At the primary school reserved for the children of overseas development

workers and some superior executive Burkinabés, our dear little ones received a solid
teaching. Afterwards, at the lyceum of Ouagadougou, the level was considerably
lower not because of the teachers, but because of the students.

How is it very difficult to replace the cultural acquisitions

of childhood? Which is the principal cause of scholastic
failure?

When the children have not acquired in their

family the tastes and the mental structures
necessary for the success in their studies, they
experience great difficulty.

You know well that the children of educated

parents are quite often good students. You know as
well that the children of Jewish culture or those
of Chinese culture succeed nearly always in their

435
 studies whereas those of animist culture, of Black
Africa particularly, are often mediocre students.
Everybody knows that.

So, why expect the school to lead all the

students to the summit? How can they assume such
an objective before having understood how the
family culture acts on the studies?

The child learns existence in the family

centre, especially from his parents. He learns a
lot during the first years. He develops his
tastes, some mental structures often too complex
and some acquaintances. If that as a whole is
compatible with the continuation of his studies,
the child will have the chance to succeed in them.
It is right the opposite, it will be a very
difficult task, much more difficult than that
experienced by a left handed who wants to become
right-handed. An apparently irreparable fact
increases the risks of failure: certain capacities
of our neuronal ensemble – our intelligence- if
they are not utilised in the infancy, are lost for
ever: it is like this that some handicapped
intellects approach the study of languages, of
music, of mathematics…

How it is difficult to correct an apprenticeship which is

badly done.

436
 Here is a personal example to show you the
importance of the cultural basis acquired in
childhood. Forty years ago when I came to live in
my house, I inscribed in my head an orientation
table of which I give you the important parts.

To situate Mellé in relation to my house, I

memorised the wrong orientations which are crossed
on the diagram. Consequently, I used to see Rennes
to the east of La Fûtaie while it was to the west.
Note well that the only mistake which carries away
all the others leads to a small part of the route,
a street in La Fûtaie which I thought went south
when really it heads towards the west.

I have tried to correct that error for

fifteen years; to inscribe in my memory the right
path that leads to the capital city of Brittany.

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There was nothing I could do about it: the wrong
diagram did not want to be wiped out.

So, are a few years ago, I went to Bourade

to buy some science fiction books. There are about
twenty second-hand book dealers there, so I was
sure that I would find what I wanted. Knowing that
Bourade is situated to the north-west of Rennes, I
thought I was very close, about 35 kilometres
away. To my great surprise, I had to cover double
the distance. So I understood that I had once more
recalled my false mental map. Look at my little
diagram and you will understand what I mean.
Fortunately enough, along the way, I let myself be
guided by the signs and the road map, so I arrived
at the right destination just the same.

This time I was determined to overcome the

problem, to delete the error imprinted into my
brain and to replace it with a correctly aligned
map. I thought I had succeeded until the day that
I lost my way again: the bad record was
resurrected, as strong as the first day.

All that to show that an error in learning

leading to a small structure can be difficult to
correct. So you understand it is impossible to
redo certain learning extremely complex like
language, the art of reasoning, the conception of
the universe, the family structures, social clans,
the existential priorities and their practices… In
brief, it is impossible to redo the learning of
childhood.

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 The experience of the wolf-child may make a
stronger impression on you. The best known case is
that of two girls that were found in India in 1920
by Reverend Singh. Amala and Kamala were two and
seven years old. Dying of fright, they were hidden
in a den in the company of two cubs.
Reverend Singh took them out and after some
adventures, put them into an orphanage that he
ran. Raised by wolves and educated by wolves, the
girls d id everything just like wolves, to the
extent that their human bodies allowed.

“They let their tongues hang out, imitating

their panting, and they moved bent over leaning on
their hands. They lapped up liquids and they ate
with their faces down in a squatting position.
They only wanted to eat meat and would chase
chickens or dig up any carcasses that they found.
They ate the entrails first, as wolves do, and
showed marked photophobia (a fear of light) and
nyctalopia (an ability to see well at night). They
remained in a state of prostration during the
whole day, going out at night to try to escape
from their prison whilst howling. These little
girls slept very little, about four hours a day.
Amala and Kamala growled when they were approached
and showed a great hostility towards humans. They
were always alert, hyper vigilant and moved their
heads back and forth continuously. They were
indifferent towards children and somewhat
interested in puppies and cats.”
(Dr Charles Danten. AN ANGRY VETERINARIAN)

439
 The youngest died after a year without
having adapted to the human lifestyle. Kamala
survived seven years longer, probably due to the
kindness of Mrs Singh. It took three or four years
for her to learn to stand up. By the time she
died, after eight years held in captivity, she had
learned about fifty words.

(I wrote this in the year 2000, and here I am in 2010.

But in 2007, the world learned that the story was a hoax and
that there was no known reliable testimony about children
being raised by wild animals. Serge Aroles, a French
surgeon, after several years of rigorous investigation, gave
evidence about frauds of this kind which had previously
been believed. He wrote about them in his book “The
Enigma of the Wolf-Children,” which was published in
2007. My hypothesis will have to rely on other, real facts.
You can also make your own contribution, dear reader.

Anyway, this banal misadventure shows us how

important it is to be able to challenge any belief, as solid as it
may appear.)

Therefore, it seems that it is impossible to

fundamentally change what is learnt in early
childhood. In this respect, two more examples come
to mind.

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 The first is Zidane, our national glory. In
the last minutes of his distinguished career, he
deliberately ruined the chances of the French team
by hitting an opponent that had insulted him. At
the same time, he dirtied the beautiful image that
he had offered to young people, the example that
was followed by thousands and thousands of
children. After that, he went off to the locker
room crying. I would draw the following
conclusions from this unfortunate gesture:
Although Zidane knew that a French citizen should
not behave in this way, the values that were
implanted in him during his childhood amongst the
poor of Marseille too strong; he had to give this
absurd “head butt” to comply with a code of honour
that no longer applies.

The second example concerns me. During my

childhood in my peasant family, I learned to save,
save and save. Every little thing that could be
used one day, I put aside: for example a piece of
string or a stick. I wrote the rough draft of my
essays on waste paper which I then recycled.
“Penny by penny, one accumulates a whole bagful”
(you collect a treasure) my father said. And one
day, perhaps, you will become rich enough to buy
an “asset” (land). Times have changed, but I do
not always find it easy to adapt. Thirty trees
were cut down in my woods. I collected all of the
branches, even the smallest ones, sometimes the
size of my thumb. I turned them into heating wood
to fuel my boiler. Doing this hard work earns me
about one Euro per hour. Then, because I do not
have the time to take care of my garden, I have to

441
hire a man who costs me twelve Euros per hour. I
can count and I have done this calculation many
times. If I were rational, I would just burn the
branches and forget about the twigs. But my
conditioning is too strong: I can not throw any
piece of wood away. The same with string.

All of this supports my theory that the main

cause of failure at school can be found in the
cultural environment of young children.

If the education received in the early years

is incompatible with the pursuit of the studies,
the po or child suffers in class and will
experience the scholastic failure. Among the sub
products of that situation, there is the hatred
for school and all that which follows.

By scholastic success, we understand the

acquisition of the foundations of the western
culture accomplished, that which wants to know the
reality even remote that is possible to do at our
era. The peasant who is content in putting to
practice the traditional recipes inherited from
his ancestors does not participate in that
culture. Neither he who is happy of himself when
he applies blindly th e simple instructions
diffused by the organisms of agricultural
vulgarisation. But the peasant holder of a
baccalaureate who has studied the agricultural
sciences as well as the management of the
agricultural exploitations and who cannot stop
himself from developing what he has learned at
school, yes, that man there is cultured.

442
 However, it can happen that an individual
from an underprivileged cultural environment
succeeds in spite of everything brilliantly in his
studies. Yes, but he is an exception. Perhaps he
has extraordinary inborn qualities? Perhaps the
circumstances of life have led him to develop his
intelligence based on sources other than his
parents? Perhaps they became examples of what not
to do, giving him a desire to study in order to
avoid ending up like them? Perhaps both of them?

So? When the family education condemns the

child to fail his studies, what can we do? Must
his parents renounce? Must they, as soon as
possible, entrust the education of their children
to strangers, the teachers of the day nursery and
of the maternal schools for example? For that, it
is necessary first of all that they accept the
risk of seeing their offshoots bore themselves in
their company when they grow up, and escape far
away to live serenely their culture which is
altogether new.

It is up to us to choose the answers.

How does the traditional Burkinabe education generate the

scholastic success and the technical progress.

And the Burkinabés in that business?

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 The Burkinabés diffuse their animistic
traditional cultures which refrain from succeeding
in modern studies. The school, when it exists, is
more often powerless. The scientific culture and
its problems, the efficient modern techniques, do
not manage to enter into such a country. Aids has
developed practically without hindrance because
the traditional culture opposes the scientific
explanations and the use of condoms.

Barriers to the acquisition of a scientific

culture begin to build in the child’s family
environment. They form the structure of an
individual’s personality throughout his life. And
they are therefore transmitted from generation to
generation, and there is nothing that the modern
school can do to counter them effectively. Given
that this is the case, why wouldn’t the failure of
Africa to achieve its economic development last
for centuries? It took our French ancestors a
thousand years just to get back to the scientific
level of the Greco-Roman civilisations.

What is the principal cause of miseries in Africa?

Finally, you know why our beautiful

enthusiasm at the beginning had dissolved. We had
arrived young and innocent, believing that we were
going to bring Africa into the twentieth century,

444
 with a touch of our magic wand. Having became
aware of the barrage against science which was
innocently perpetuated by the Burkinabés families,
we were from now on convinced that our beautiful
mission was, at least for the decades to come,
doomed to failure: Africa is not the only
continent where poverty is gaining ground,
accompanied by terrifying wars, genocides, famine…
The unfortunate Africans have found themselves in
an existential planetarian area full of advanced
scientific knowledge, and to manage this modern
existence they are unable to free themselves from
animist thought, which is so far removed from
modern thought.

To take one example: look at what they do to

prevent AIDS.

This is hardly surprising considering that at secondary school both academic

level and motivation to study are incredibly low.

There was for our children another pressing reason to go back to our country.

Far from showing hostility in the meeting with us, white westerners, the
Burkinabés consider us rather as geniuses from another world, Martians of some sort.
That type of racism can be pleasant to endure, at a first time. But the Martians will be
always perceived as people of another type, incapable of understanding what the
Burkinabés feel. You know, since I have already said it, that mutual lack of
understanding was due to a bad interpretation of our cultural differences.

445
How the Africans can jump into our era preserving the best of
their cultures?

There quite exists a method to match two

cultures which are very different. We have seen it
in the theoretical chapter. “How the cultures can
be understood and enriched without being
destroyed?”

Maybe, but the method of which I have

already spoken to you, about some deep cultural
exchanges, was far from being practicable since
Mômmanh had just taught it to me. And then it must
be realised by the high cultural authorities of
two nations present. So, despite the warm welcome,
of the smiles and the good humour, we were bound
to remain isolated on that land, in our Martian
bubble.

(To fight a stubborn belief, I must say that

this syncretism does not mean the death of African
cultures. The Japanese, for example, have managed
to combine their traditional culture based on
animism, Buddhism and Confucian teachings with the
most advanced scientific research.)

And then, supposing that they realised those

agreements at the peak between the western
cultures and the Burkinabés animism, one would
have covered only half of the way. The hardest
part would still remain: to teach this new

446
 syncretic culture to children so that they can
implement it as soon as possible. Perhaps it would
require sending thousands of children to school
from the age of two. Perhaps it would be necessary
to send them to boarding schools so that they were
temporarily away from their families’ influence.

Would it be possible to find a large number

of families that were altruistic enough to entrust
the education of their babies to strangers and to
allow their own children, who had made the leap
into another world, to become strangers to them? I
think it would. My mother has done this for me,
prophesying: “When you become a “Sir,” you will
not recognise us any more.”

It is because, in spite of the comfort of our exotic life, it does not cost us a lot
to go back to our country in the beautiful house constructed with our savings as
overseas development workers. I compared my life in Burkina Faso to the big
holidays, distant from the daily cares, in an unreal world. Ah well, those long
holidays had lasted a lot.

In that country where we were considered as strange Martians with advanced

technology, our children were treated with a lot of affection. For whole days and even
longer in case of illness, our servants watched over them, carried them in their solid
arms, played with them, closer to the little ones than ourselves. But they looked at
them also as young lords, and the other Burkinabés, the peasants, the vendors, the
children did the same. For example, while fishing in any river, if Pablo stuck his hook
to a root at the bottom, soon three or four “children” plunged to detach it. And, if it
happened that these children, like all those in the world, struggle and fight sometimes,
they did not dare jostle a little “toubabou.”

447
 A delay in their studies as such could be irreparable, a superiority feeling
nourished by illusions, customs of an easy life, without struggle, to start with the
current use of our similar fellows, the native “servants,” for all the “domestic” tasks:
our children were going to depart pretty badly prepared in life, the only without
possibility of increasing. To start with, they risk strongly being unable to assure
correctly their existence in France: they would be like a pampered kitten in winter and
which, on their first going out in spring, succumbs to the first scratch.

This is why, after ten years of Africa, a year before Pablo’s sixth birthday, we
went back to France. For that important decision, we had well agreed. We started to
drive in our new roots in a little city to the west which, for you, I will call Fûtaie. The
children discovered that they were no longer lords and they experienced their first
fights, even Estelle. Jeanne and myself, we both obtained a job at Fûtaie, at first go,
which was lucky for us.

The War of the Hundred Years could start again, strengthened by the
importance of the new stakes. We were no longer on a visit abroad, but at home, at
our house; our children started the study marathon for good and, since we no longer
had native servants, we had to share the household tasks; finally, after a lot of unkept
promises, a deep reformation of communism was going to start. The long holidays
were over, real life was going to start.

Since the new stakes were so important, since life was going to start for good,
we were not going to let it be spoiled. One as well as the other, consciously or not, we
were quite decided to struggle firmly to install definitely our power.

One of our favourite battlefields was the laying out of the house and garden,
above all the internal part of our nest. Each one wanted to do it according to his own
taste. If it is difficult to succeed a beautiful painting in two the task became downright
impossible when each painted what he liked without worrying about what the other
has put, if not to cover it again. Imagine what a mysterious masterpiece of art such
cooperation will produce. It is however what we have done.

448
 How many reproductions of work which I had lovingly chosen and paid for,
pushing the gentleness as far as to offer them to My Love for Christmas or for a
Mother’s Day, how many of those beauties loaded our souls with light have they gone
to look for refuge in a rubbish skip? How many wall papers have been pulled out, and
then done again at great expenses? How many pieces of furniture, paid at bargain
prices chosen by myself, have gone to try their luck at the rag man of Emmaus? How
many charming ornaments whose main fault was that it did not please me at the
wrong moment fell on the tiles mercilessly?

Now, we share the powers in our house: to Jeanne the house, and to me the
garden. The criticism and the advice of the other are welcome but each one remains
the master of his territory. What a waste before arriving there!

The episodes of the tough combat stretched on many years. I ended up by

accepting a strategic defeat. The setting of our battlefield was far from being my
major worry: it is because I gave up little by little some ground in the hope of
obtaining some concessions on the fronts which concerned me more. I emptied like
this the children’s rooms, then the hall, the kitchen, all the house room by room, but I
never obtained the slightest concession. And the same! Hang on! I have come to
doubt again the moments when she would have asked for my advice!

Oh yes! Imagine yourself, that if she felt in spite of everything the need to
have my advice on her plans for decoration, she never followed the slightest of my
advices. Never! She feared so much seeing the enemy planting himself again on her
territory that the slightest of my suggestions was taken as a camouflaged soldier
whom I would have sent to prepare the victory again. One of her favourite
expressions was the “phallic symbol.” The phallic symbols were supposed to be
concealed in the majority of my favourite decors. So I had just practised an uncertain
strategy: since my choices were systematically rejected, instead of expressing them, I
worked out other strategies completely contrary to my tastes, with the hope that
chance positioned like this would favour my true wishes. But since I am not gifted for
lies, those acrobatics were not very successful: I was caught in the act of deception
and Jeanne became angry.

449
 Not only, instead of taking the good road to correct our disagreements, we
plunged in the opposite directions but, on the way, new differences were formed in
the shadow and then come out in the open. Those arose from the fact that we changed
inevitably all through our life, at the same time as the world around us.

How we cannot stop evolution: we can only try to take control

of it.

Because you know, for sure, that everything

changed constantly, in the universe, everything…
So, those who want to fix nature at a stage of its
evolution, those who will try to freeze a society
in a benign period of its history, those will at
most be taxidermists.

And, tell me, can Mômmanh love them when

they are preparing themselves to stop its search
for existences? Alas yes, because they are as much
as we are, a part of her liberated consciousness;
she can only let them go on, the time that their
task will lead them to disaster.

However, the same phenomenon as for the

carnal love must produce itself. Do you remember
it: Christianity wanted to uproot from our souls
what it considered as dirt, but with the support
of the thinkers and of the humanist poets, our old
Mômmanh carried it away.

450
 Therefore, in the course of their life, the couple changes. The attributes which
made good partners for existence could vanish. Your love was young, beautiful, rich,
strong, powerful and famous. Fatally, he will lose his beauty on becoming old and
fragile. He can also decline more and more quickly, finding himself disfigured,
handicapped, ruined, sick and in prison. So, if you love more the money than the
good mood of your husband, more his youth than his intelligence and more the
brilliant situation than his generosity, your fake love will be crushed as soon as there
is the first accident.

Even the character of the beloved one, that to which one refers when one
says: “It is not his money neither his rank which I love, it is the person.” it can find
itself changed by the alchemy of time. Even that “myself” therefore, apparently
unchanged, can undergo certain changes. Like this, a dynamic and cheerful person,
can exceptionally undertake to dissolve his qualities in alcohol, a good for nothing
can change into a worker, and a coward can become courageous… However, that
type of change that of myself, is distinctly rarer than the preceding one.

When the basis of the existential agreement called “love” is like these
changed, new differences between the lovers risk appearing. Fortunately enough, we
have had the chance to escape nearly totally to that type of test. The most important
changes concern me.

Jeanne had married a communist, who was also quite a renowned teacher.
You know what happened to my faith in “The Party.” As far as my career as teacher
was concerned, it became more and more sombre, chaotic, and uncertain. At the end
of that double evolution, I was an ex-communist and a contemptible teacher.

Ah well, those changes did not shake our love. And perhaps, they themselves
have probably contributed to patch it up: I became aware that Jeanne was more
attached to my person than to my attributes. I know I can count on her, and my love
has been strengthened by it.

451
How each personal ideology tries to inscribe itself in a big
ideological family.

Have I told you that, in the human space,

every individual has his personal ideology? Since
he cannot realise the existence all alone, he
looks for the greatest number possible of
coreligionists, in other words, he enters in the
ideological family which suits him best, on
condition that he finds himself.

In the heart of that family, which one calls

church or party, a common trunk of convictions
shared by the greatest number is formed. Amongst
the French communists, that is called “the Party
Line.”

Surely, the personal ideology practically

never coincides perfectly with “the line”

Here is therefore what one finds in Jeanne’s personal ideology. She remains
attached to communism for two reasons. One is the primordial concern for equality
amongst men, concern which I share. The other is the very strong link which unites
her to the martyrs of the family, above all to her father. She refuses to make a
dishonouring image of them, and there again, I am with her. They were intelligent
and generous, above everything. And they made history advance towards the
development of human capabilities even though they were strongly deceived. She
wants them to form part of posterity as they were truly, and not as the concurrent
ideologies have disfigured them.

452
How we must give honour to enemy militants who believed to
have done well.

Now, it is also what I want, since I have

discovered Mômmanh and the gestation of the
ideologies. I want the memory of those who have
done their utmost to assure the triumph of the
Existence: they were generous, even when they were
severely deceived.

While reflecting well, I see a third fraternity amongst our personal ideologies:
we ardently wish that sciences will manage to understand man and his history in a
way so as to improve both of them.

Therefore, since we agree on those three essential points, there is not amongst
us a sensible difference of ideology.

The poor state of my career risked enlarging more the split which was
becoming more and more painful.

At the origin of these new setbacks, there was still the old illness of which I
have spoken at length. My demon has not died: he will only lie down with me.

How a vice which has been pulled out of the subconscious is

never completely uprooted.

453
 And yet! I am not completely sure about it.
No, it was not eliminated: I kept it in its den,
as best as I could and it kept itself ready to
come out with the first call. Don’t forget, not
any more, that I would never have discovered
Mômmanh without that pact with the devil. But when
he has broken his chains, he resembles a furious
dragon and I do not manage to control him: I need
patience for that.

A short time after our return from Africa,

two great stresses chained the monster. The
Marxist theory of history, supposedly scientific,
seemed to me to be more and more in flagrant
disagreement with reality, and suddenly, I was
lacking in ideology. Having lost my gods, I needed
to find others, under the penalty of not having a
way out till death.

First of all, I had to teach history to college students. I have not been trained
for that, but that was not what bothered me most.

What history?

There is some good in all misfortunes: since I did not believe in it any more, I
did not risk going to teach history according to Marx and betray like this the moral of
Secular School.

Unfortunately, I could hardly benefit from that advantage because practically

I had nothing to teach. The students looked up to their teacher, myself in this case,
that I make them discover and relive the most important moments of their past. They
waited for the pleasure to identify themselves with the heroes of long ago, and to

454
trample on the bad ones. They expected a living history and I only brought them a
jungle of annoying questions.

To understand as well as one can the explosion engine, that is to say to the
point of being capable to reconstruct it and modify it, that extreme care of
understanding everything which stopped me from sleeping, was not shared by my
students. Some of them, full of good will, accompanied me just the same in that walk
to the threshold of the unbearable, the moment when by sheer force of questioning,
the history had lost all the reality at the same time as all the interest. Like this, the
epic of Ulysses found itself transformed in an unspeakable minced meat of which
even the maggots would not want.

Led by my demon, I felt quite incapable to answer to the distress of the

children. It happened all the same that my personal questionings achieved some
elements of reply. Surely, I wanted to make the students benefit from it: alas!
Generally those answers had such a level of abstraction that they could not grasp
anything from them. Like this I had obstinately tried to explain the important role
played by the birth of philosophy among the Greeks! In particular, they had started to
reflect on the human intellect and had succeeded in rendering it more performing. The
progress which they had thus brought in the art of reasoning allowed them to
understand how they succeeded to win the peoples distinctly superior in number. If,
instead of yawning, my audience would have followed, till there, then the incredible
feat of a young kind of twenty years of age, Alexander the Great who conquered the
greatest empire ever assembled till then, and that only in about ten years, would have
become incredible.

“The Greeks had learned to make use of their own head much better than
their neighbours.” This, my students could have understood. If I had been content of
that explanation within their reach, the majority would have loved my course. But my
demon was at the helm. He demanded that I reached the perfect intelligence of that
epic. I felt incapable of it, but the demon which you know continued to pull me till I
was completely drowned. So, seeing the whole class dismayed, I started to stammer

455
and the students moved about looking for more interesting occupations to kill the
time.

In brief, when the devil kept the helm, I wanted to lead the students into my
mad exigency of understanding everything and, luckily, they rebelled. Of course, I
wanted to carry on and I struggled, but the demon had nearly always the upper hand,
so strong was my need to understand everything perfectly, to start with history.

Like this, slowly but steadily, from year to year, I built a solid reputation of a
professor whose history course was quite woolly and boring. They called me
Strangelove, in memory of the sinister hero of a well known film. Some graffiti in my
honour flourished on the tables and the walls of the classrooms where I taught.

“Strangelove P.D.
– Down with Strangelove!
– Strangelove, are you strange?”

The hostile words, the actions also, increased, involving most often the
students, but equally the parents. One day, while going out of the college, I was hit by
the core of an apple. Many times, my car was stained. At the telephone, at all hours of
the day and night, insulting messages, one more humiliating than the other, arrived in
the ear of whoever picked up the phone: Jeanne, myself, the one or the other of my
children… One evening, when I was at the cinema in the company of a friend in the
dark hall, we were bombarded from the balcony with pieces of chewed chewing gum.
In the street, in the hypermarkets, in all the public places, it often happened to me to
hear the gibes: “Strangelove, are you strange?”

Must I say more to you about it? I was progressively led to become aware of
an urgent necessity: improve the quality of my course. The strong kick on the back
was therefore healthy.

456
Theory of the struggle for existence: its good personal use.

To make my dragon go back into his niche and

make it possible for him to stay, I looked for
another more efficient means than the others,
those which had just proved their lack of
reliability. In time, I had discovered Mômmanh.
Suddenly, I had a global answer to my nagging
questions on laws eventuality regulating history,
but I could not use that unknown theory in my
course. Moreover, according to scientific
criteria, it might be wrong: I was convinced of
that.

No, I used my discovery in another way.

It was the need to control everything,

absolutely everything, that tormented me. Then, I
said to myself: “It is not possible to ensure
existence alone, but you do so with the help of
others.” Yes, I had just invented hot water, but
nonetheless I felt relieved of an enormous weight.

This done, I was free to get started and to

do my best. For this purpose, I just had to
mobilise the resources entrusted to me by Mômmanh,
saying: “They are almost always much greater than
you think.” I had just rediscovered how important
it is to have self-confidence. I had again
invented hot water and I put it to good use.

457
 You know the importance of self-confidence.
When Mômmanh is convinced that all of the
resources of our being are capable of success, she
mobilises them. All of them. And it works! Because
she is the real leader.

You have to stop needing to be able to do

everything by yourself. Get others to help you.
And mobilise your energy to do something.

In practise, I concluded that certain

formulas worked well, doubtlessly because they are
specific and suited to my case. Here’s one that
always works: “You do not have to be clever.
‘Leave some’ to others. Take your existence to
your fingertips.”

And now, I managed to master the monster rather easily, given its usual
pugnacity.

“Help yourself and heaven will help you.” Heaven sometimes materialised in
the form of nice students who gave Mômmanh a good dose of empathy: they had seen
the demon inside of me and they helped me to hunt it down. When, after I started to
give lengthy explanations and I began to stammer, feeling that I would never succeed
in fulfilling my need for perfect intelligibility, they stopped me, saying: “All right, sir.
We understand.”

Thanks partly to their help, my history lessons were quickly becoming what
they should always have been: clear and lively, as long as there were not too many
interruptions. I thought that after some years of great efforts, the bad reputation which
I had acquired would have been wiped out. I would then have become what I wished:
a teacher.

458
 Instead of that, the hostility in my regards worsened. I could not understand
anything. A “dahu hunt” was launched against my person and I could not understand
anything, because it was a new phenomenon in the schools.

Ah well, so much the worse: I decided to go to work in another town where

my reputation would be clean. I obtained a transfer to Saint-Martin-de-Grosbois, at
thirty kilometres away from La Fûtaie. I could start again on the right footing. I
would be happy. Alas! It did not take me long to realise that a new “dahu hunt” was
launched again, against me.

Jeanne has some doubts about that new harassment. Moreover, she told me:
“The illness of the persecution is a sign of paranoia. Go and consult a psychiatrist.”
The latter stated that I was not at all paranoid and on seeing my last inspection report,
that I was a good teacher. I did not ask so much to be assured. However, the
absolution of the doctor of souls did not stop the pack of hounds launched to me at
my heels. The new “dahu hunt” bordered on a nightmare.

I owe you some explanations. In holiday colonies of my youth, the “dahu

hunt” was a practical joke aimed at the new supervisors. They presented that chase
like the best moment of the holidays. The dahu, which has never existed, was, they
said, a local animal with succulent flesh, but particularly timid. He lived on the
hollows of the big woods, well hidden, and came out on moonless nights. They
organised then a great search of which the new supervisors were the heroes. Armed
with sticks, they had to wait all night at the bend of a thick pathway, for the dahu
which the beaters did not fail to send them.

In modern school, what I call “dahu hunt” is a type of hunt aimed at the
“bad” teachers, that is to say those who have the reputation of being particularly
incompetent. Ah well, it happens that that reputation can be unjustified. In that model,
just as the dahu is imaginary, the “bad” teacher is not real. However, the unlucky one
on whom one has grafted that remark and who does not succeed in getting rid of it,
that unfortunate one exists.

459
 He has all the aspects of an ordinary person, but one cannot fail to recognise
him when he is aimed at by the gibes, indeed even small missiles such as the pellets
of chewed paper, acorns, chestnuts… So, one asks himself what derisory indignity is
concealed under the apparent respectability of the person.

The “dahu” of modern times, from where can it come out? It was born,
unknowingly to them, from a new behaviour of the parents. Those of long ago
expected their children to respect the teachers, whoever they may be. Now, and
perhaps it is a consequence of the rebellion of the sixty-eight, that duty inscribed in
the tradition, the respect from which the notables benefited, does not exist any more.
The doctors, the mayors, the judges, the professors are only respected if one believes
that they deserve it. And even certain parents encourage their children to show their
hostility towards the “bad teachers.” As long as that doesn’t infringe on the rights of
man, that counter-democratic power is progress.

It must be only that. But a good principle can be found in opposition to one
of his colleagues: another good principle.

In class, the children need a teacher, in the noble sense of the word. If the
parents have withdrawn their power from the teacher, how can he be that teacher?
Upset, scorned, if he does not manage to change opinion, he is condemned to be only
a “bad” teacher for as long as his time of hard labour has not yet passed.

There are also, and they are more and more numerous, some parents who
believe that the “bad” teacher is the only person responsible for the bad results of
their children. Therefore, those poor little ones deprive him of his confidence. Their
resistance which is not always passive adds its negative effects to the disorder already
existing: the class strays from the “bad” professor who, unless he receives improbable
help, has no longer the possibility to be a teacher. Even if he wasn’t a “bad” teacher,
he has become so and it rests that way, prisoner of that trap, without the possibility of
a change.

Why can a “good” professor be a victim of that process?

460
 No, it is not the author’s fiction. Some of them, even for whom the situation
was particularly unbearable, have died because of it. Yes, it is true!

How the children feel responsible only in front of their

parents.

As long as they have not got over the

turbulent zone of the adolescent crisis, it is
only in front of the parents that the students
feel truly responsible. And yet? It is the
privilege of their age: life is only a game, that
is to say training before the start of the actual
existence. It is Mômmanh who has wanted it: like
this, the little man has all the time to form
himself well during numerous years of youth so
that he is on time, later on, to answer the
immense hope placed in front of him.

“And the dahu hunt?

– Behold! Here it is. That can happen like this.”

Some persons worthy of trust have spread a rumour within the college: “A
professor particularly useless has just been appointed with us. It is a pity! What
teaching are our children going to receive? What reputation is our college going to
have? Our students are going to attend the private school the Immaculée Conception,
and some amongst us are going to lose their place… What about the prestige in our
school? And the back up of the secular ideal, do you think about it?”

461
 A first element of the trap is in place. To the rest.

Like in any college, there are children who wish to evade scholastic work,
even if it were on temporary basis. One finds also those who do not want to suffer
because of their bad marks. If bad teachers can take on the responsibility of their
failure, they will be relieved. No matter how slight their selfishness is, they look for
victims among their teachers: whether he is a truly incompetent one, or whether he is
a dahu. The new professor of history carries a big notice on his back: “Completely
useless.” The small hunters are ecstatic: “Oh my my! What a magnificent dahu has
arrived here!”

To start with, one observes him. The rumour continues to circulate. It

increases. One of the Year 8 classes, named “P,” is particularly motivated for that
type of action. They set going an armoured vehicle, that is to say one of the worst
students of the class, who at some time, hates studies, adores disorder and does not
fear punishments. He throws ink on the student next to him, the most studious of the
class, provokes a scandal, receives a punishment from the professor, protests violently
and with insolence, finds himself at the office of the assistant head, Mr Ventoux.

– You again! You start the year well! What have you done, this time?
– I have done nothing. It is the history professor who is accusing me…
– Stop! I know that song by heart. Who is your history professor?
– Dufour. He is completely useless.
– Monsieur Dufour, please!
– Monsieur Dufour. We do not understand anything he says. And he is always
breathing down my neck.
– Monsieur Dufour! Yes, yes, I know… Professors are like parents: you can’t
chose them. But that is no excuse for your lack of respect for him. Your detention
is approved and you must not forget to show me the work that he has given you…

The assault tank accomplishes its mission: “Good! I have my detention, I

agree, but it is only because Ventouse cannot do otherwise. He has to back up his

462
professors, otherwise it would be a complete mess! In any case, he cannot fire
Dufour, that is for sure. You can do it, guys! It is all good!

The students of this Year 8 “P” class send messages to all the classes
concerned. The graffiti in my honour begin to flourish everywhere, on the tables, on
the walls, on the covered playground, on the benches in the yard: “Toufou. Toufou,
useless. Toufou, queer…” The “dahu hunt” is launched.

In all the meetings of the class at the end of the term, in front of my
colleagues and a member of the administration, in public therefore, it is always me
and quite often me only that the delegates of the class or representatives of the parents
reproach. The latter all the same have a quality: their rich variety. It happened that a
student’s parent poses on me a long, long, look filled with heavy reproaches which
lead me to understand to which extent my presence is unbearable. And where can I go
therefore?

In that college, three fourths of the children belonged to the cultured families.
The remaining quarter had the majority of the weak children. The latter were placed
in assisted classes, for the less motivated. Consequently, the other classes had most
often a very good level. None of my students had ever obtained 20/20 mark for the
trimester in “geo-history”: ah well, in that college that happened plenty of times. The
“P” class was no exception: it had its share of stars and good students. Their
intelligence expressed itself particularly well in the way in which they led the “dahu
hunt.”

In the other classes, the process which I described had a spontaneous

character and unfolded itself in confusion. The agitators of this “P” class, themselves,
analysed it, as I have done for you, and they led their operation methodically, as
future executives which they were. In the first place, they did not want above all to
spoil their studies. Therefore, they concentrated their hunt only on three courses:
history-geography, English and music. During the class council, their principal
professor could even compliment them: “They are so gentle!” So, the three pathetic
professors, so useless that they have known how to render aggressive these “gentle

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ones,” you understand that they looked for in vain, in the council hall transformed
into a tribunal, a place where to hide their shame.

Like this, their “dahu hunt” was conducted in a methodical manner. Here is
another illustration. Their class counted on three “assault tanks,” type of students of
whom I have already spoken. They could have hated the college if, kindly enough,
their studious comrades had not offered them a golden opportunity: conduct the
disorder against the dahus. So, they could finally exist within the educational
community. What luck! One of them was surprised while speaking about me: “But
why does he look at me as if I were a criminal? I don’t do anything wrong!” Another
one, the most enthusiasts on the way to social exclusion, considered that he had
accomplished his mission with the history professor. He wanted to develop his action
as benefactor. To the agitators of the class, the future high executives, he asked:

– Can we bring down mother Lavion? She’s a loose woman.

– No, replied the leaders, with a sign of their head.
– Ah yes… And the bio. Professor, then, Jordan. He is a holy stupid bastard, that
one.
– No, they answered making signs with their head.

In another Year 8 class, another year, a student delegate of the class enticed
his assault tank and asked him.

– So? And Toufou?

– So, nothing for the time being. Yet I put the parcel, there, you can believe me!
But he tightens his teeth…

A lot of signs of which I have just listed the most fearful which converged in
a direction of a unique conclusion: in the teaching, Dufour is useless. I felt that
everybody, or nearly everyone, had that opinion of me, an opinion which reinforced
itself thanks to the efficiency of the “dahu hunt.”

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 How does other people’s gaze affect my existence?

The look of the others is a mirror into

which we must look. Remember that it forms part of
the second existential human base: the links with
others.

Although one cannot help being deformed, we manage generally to make the
best of that mirror, but my colleagues’ look sent me somebody else’s image, to whom
I would not have liked to resemble. Accepting that fake portrait of myself, trying to
conform to it, turn myself into derision, install myself like this in the human family,
“Professor Strangelove” for lifetime, sent from one college to another like a ping-
pong ball: was I going to make that choice in order to avoid being alone?

Certainly no. Besides, my dear colleagues forbade it.

About two-thirds among them blacklisted me. Nobody called me Michel: I

had at last become “Monsieur,” “Monsieur Dufour.” Once I entered the staffroom, I
said “good morning” and, as usual, nobody answered. I noticed a group of colleagues
united around a table: all the history-geography professors in meeting. All except
myself. One of them explained himself: “Monsieur Dufour, are you a history
professor?”

The epidemic had hit the majority of classes where I tried to teach. To control
the disorder, I did not find a more energetic remedy except for the detention. The
trouble makers punished like this, received through the intermediary of the parents,
the “detention sheet” inviting them to pass two hours in the study room to do
supplementary work. Under the pressure of the hunters, I was led to put more and
more “detentions,” avoiding abusing of them. In spite of that, my detentions seemed
more and more inefficient. One day I had the explanation: the administration often
forgot to send them to their parents.

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 I am not going to compel you to accompany me till the end of tests which last
as much as some years. I was capable of straightening the situation slowly and surely,
starting from the arrival of a new principal who paid in person to stop the “dahu
hunt.”

While waiting for the arrival of the rescue, I managed to keep on and survive
without much damage, and that was mostly due to another “good” class: the Year 8
class named “0.” Not only did they treat me like a teacher, but they protected me.
They dared combine some praising graffiti to the gibes which overwhelmed me:
“Dufour, nice.”

Oh by Jove! What a lot of good that did to me!

I did not hear any reproaches toward the Year 8 “0” class during any of the
teachers’ conferences.

The generous students gave me a present still, which might seem

insignificant, but which I have only seen once in my career. During a lesson, a
squirting of ink stained my clothes, shirt and trousers. That happened five or six times
during the year. I raised my shoulders and continued the lesson. I turned my back to
write on the blackboard some phrases of the summary. When I looked again at the
class, a student came to me and said: “I am sorry, sir. It is I who has thrown the ink
on you. I did not do it on purpose: when I pressed the cartridge in my pen, it burst in
my hands…”

Other people came to the rescue. There was a group of attendants who always
treated me like an ordinary man, worthy of respect and friendship. Some colleagues
had that attitude as well.

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How the females know how to sense the value of a man without
necessarily being able to figure it out.

And then, there are the eyes of the females.

Mômmanh, remember, has given them the power to
detect the existential value of man, without being
necessarily capable of seeing how she expresses
herself: they can detect gold, but they are not
capable to recognise it when it is hidden in
nature.

Ah well, some deep female looks sent me messages of encouragement.

Thanks to all the combined help, the deforming mirror of the look of others
ceased to fascinate me. No, no and no! I was never going to drown in those untruthful
waters. I plucked up courage and I could hold on till the arrival of that brave
principal.

Oh! But what a crazy thing I did! I was going to forget the most important:
Jeanne. Yes My Love had rejected me during that test, when for me it was impossible
to leave my family before Estelle met her death, another tragedy would arrive.

Since she did not believe that great rumour, I could think that her loving
feeling was still more deformed than that of my colleagues. I preferred reasoning:
since we lived together for such a long time in a profound intimacy, she knows me
better than my mother. When I was on the verge of no longer believing in myself,
neither in others, that type of reasoning gave me back a big part of lost confidence.

Since Jeanne stayed with me in the sorrowful period, it was that she loved me
more than my reputation. She simply loved me, and that love of my well-beloved
gave me the courage to struggle on when I was on the verge of letting the stream

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 carry the dam. After every day of the combat, there was a night with my bloody well-
beloved. The warmth which electrified her body against mine recharged my batteries.
In the morning, I felt cheered up, ready to face again the pack of hounds. And so
much the worse if you take me for a fool.

Have I introduced our children to you. It seems no, with the exception of
Estelle. There were three, born at Ouagadougou. Pablo, the eldest, very serious, was
very fond of his mother. Then came Estelle, the little mother, so gracious, who adored
her father. Thomas, malicious, curious of everything, delighted to be a child, was the
third. In spite of everything, we had not led to the collapse of their education because
they were worth more than us.

– Are they happy, you would ask me?

– From time to time, like everybody. It is not the question which is important.
– And Estelle?
– Be silent!

Who directs the education of the children?

The children learn the existence from their

parents or their substitute: Mômmanh has made them
like this. I have had to repeat that.

Ah well, our war for leadership could have complicated dangerously that learning.

– Go to sleep, it is time.
– No, you can watch TV.
– I am going to enrol you for a judo course.
– No, you will do footing.

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– Help me to peel the potatoes.
– No, you are going to pick strawberries and raspberries.
– You will go to a private school. They will know how to make you work.
– Surely not. We are the type to go to the Public School, we. And we are proud of
it!
Imagine that they had to choose between two opposite wills all the time. Are
we going to be torn apart all our life?

We were as much capable of avoiding the greatest of dangers. The selfishness

nourished during our dear childhood did not lead us to devour our very own children:
that parasite hidden in our existence demanded only that each of us would be an
adulated leader. In that vast domain, he pushed the others till his rank as subordinate,
but he did not forbid the other aspects of altruism which our families had taken care
to cultivate in us: the sharing, the dedication, the solidarity, the courage…
Furthermore, that secret selfishness could not go far under the risk of being
unmasked, uprooted from its converted den in the subconscious and condemned by
our conscience. It was necessary to give up the pace to the official authorities of our
myself, the altruists.

The child learns within the family what he must know to succeed later on in
his mission as man. The girl discovers that she will be a “mother” and, to start with,
she falls in love with her father. In the same way, the boy falls in love with his
mother. It is not rare that an adolescent dreams of having had an incestuous action,
and wakes up at the moment when he is spreading the semen on his sheets. Ashamed
of having done such a thing, in his dream, he understands that it is time for him to
leave the family cocoon. And his mother’s skirts, to face the vast ocean of the
external universe and inscribe there his own adventure. He goes to look for a beauty,
to his convenience, and tries to conquer her.

When a little boy wants to seduce his mother, the simplest way is to take as a
model he whom she loves: father. That dispenses him from having to guess his tastes
and above all to discover alone how to realise them. For example, if mother loves the
ingenious type who knows how to fix all the unmanageable objects of daily life, how

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can the little boy acquire alone the mastery of that magic? He is quite compelled to
learn from his father or from a supply teacher.

But we, indigenous parents, absorbed in our war for leadership, how could
we answer that need? We did not even think about it. Carried away by our rage to
win, we bombarded the portrait of our dear bloody adversary with some missiles
altogether demeaning the ones as well as the others. It was up to the children to sort it
out. That situation complicated their life a lot, but it was also stimulating for their
intellect. Being unable to know what was good in the paternal model thus feeling
queasy, the boys tried to discover at source their dear mother’s tastes, then to satisfy
them if possible. The exercise could prove to be particularly complex. Estelle had to
put up with the same problem.

Moreover we were overcome by pity when, behind the smoke of our artillery
shots, we discovered them completely disorientated. There was an immediate
ceasefire and our first concern was to give them back the reality: “But no, dear Pablo,
your father is not an idiot. He is even very intelligent, imagine. He wants to
understand everything and he reflects a lot: it is for that that I love him…” or rather:
“But no, my dear little red princess! Treasured mother is not a factory of s…! She
simmers lovingly with her beauty all day. And then, she is curious of everything that
one can have everywhere, everywhere! even elsewhere. She dashes with her head
down after she believes to have discovered some nuggets in a puddle of water, and
this happens twenty times daily. That is why I love her, your dear mother.”

Therefore, when passion led us too far away, we took some security measures
in order to protect our children. Alas! Quite often the mad war of the leaders led us to
the danger zone.

The accident always happens to the others: on a beautiful evening of May, it

was our turn to realise that cruel stupidity.

That came on us in the usual style: everything happened too quickly.

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 The feminist movement had entered the phase which it was following now:
public opinion backed the total emancipation of woman, and men in conflict with
their companion suffered an unfavourable prejudice. Imagine how My Love could
push ahead in that prepared ground. Moreover, having a primary concern, the bloody
hunt for the “dahu,” I found myself in a very vulnerable situation. It was enough that
Jeanne abandoned her general principles and I was ripe to fall under her blow.

However, before launching her great offensive, she led me for consultation at
the marriage counsellor: in vain. Since the counsellor for couples in distress was a
woman, I doubted her impartiality. Jeanne consented to accompany me to the
psychologist. Although he was a man, this time, the result was not better. Nobody
could help us to take care of our love. But what soul surgeon is capable, at that time,
to force our subconscious to open itself?

A great explosion was necessary for that, a terrifying stress. To pull us out of
our passions, strength greater than that which alienated us was necessary. Since
neither the attractions of happiness nor of love managed to create that force for our
children, it was quite necessary that a great unhappiness terrified us and gave us
finally the courage to discover in ourselves some unhealthy elements.

Not only, life is a mortal illness, but it is constantly under the threat to be
blown away like the flame of a candle…

So, the Hundred Years War was intensifying itself. There were no longer any
truces. Each fighter threw all his strength in the battle: it was our Verdun.

How impulsive people go from one extreme to the other.

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 You have not forgotten how Jeanne is rash:
she answers immediately to the slightest stress,
without taking time to cover the field of
existential possible answers: selfish and
altruistic. I believe that it is necessary to look
for the origin of a strange behaviour: of an
unpredictable manner, she perhaps can be all
selfish during some weeks or, during other
periods, show herself all altruistic.

I imagine the following process: if one

perspective of pleasure, or the opposite, tickles
strongly and leads her ego to command, she is
going to take care of the last one for such a long
time that it will remain in the first rank. What
can dislodge it from there? Ah well, it is
necessary that a great emotion seeks altruism so
that in its turn, the latter will take up the
direction of the existential operations.

Yes, we perhaps keep there the explanation of the strange phenomenon.

Having a lot of difficulties to take the retreat, my impulsive Jeanne will remain
hanging on for some weeks to her ego, afterwards she will be prisoner of altruism,
and then a new identical cycle will start. In the same way, when she follows a debate,
she agrees with the latter who has spoken, provided that however he has been a good
lawyer.

Ah well, Jeanne was going through an exceptionally long period of nearly

complete selfishness.

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 She had reached the peak moment the evening when I perceived that the
saving book was empty: she had planned that money to the purchase of a new car.

– I was ashamed when I went to work in my rusty tub which served me as a car.
– But, they are our savings! You took them without even talking to me about it…
– No! No, poor sick one! You will not start to harass me. I will not let you be.
– Oh! Tell me that I am dreaming. Not only you steal my savings, but you have the
guts to accuse me! And what am I capable of?
– Of stinginess! Of unbearable stinginess. You hatch yours well like a stupid chick
hatches eggs in a plaster. And we, during that time, there we lived miserably.
– But! But!
– Besides, I do not want to talk to you any longer!

And she went out quickly banging the door. She headed towards her new car.
I jumped and I caught her before she opened the door. Then? Then? What crossed my
mind so that I got to the point of hitting her?

Estelle and Thomas ran, pulled me as best as they could and protected their
mother. I felt degraded to the rank of the animal, a poor animal that had only his
impotent strength to try to survive. I was so ashamed! But what could I do? What
could I do? Good God! Faced with the intolerable?

I jumped into my car and I went in the middle of the forest, our great
vigorous forest quite bushy with oaks and beech trees some of which have seen the
passing of many centuries. Was I to take advice from the trees whose patience has its
roots in time? Yes, it was that: I needed time to find a way out of the trap which was
killing me.

To start with, I wandered aimlessly across the thickets shouting and uttering
sobbing which should have moved the surrounding environment. But neither plants,
nor animals, not even a fly, nobody paid attention to me. I stayed up however to stay
well hidden, because the “dahu hunt” had not yet finished: if I were surprised by one

473
of the tormentors, the local gossipers announced to all, that this time, I had become
completely mad.

Therefore, nobody paid attention to me. However, I believed I heard voices.

Who was talking to me? It was not the crows, because I did not understand any of
their irritating cacophony. The other birds, all on their business, were not addressing
me any more than by chirping. Was that coming from the source which for five
thousand years dug its nest in the mossy rock? No: I was in no state to understand its
sweet murmur.

Across all those actors of nature, trying hard to fatten up our planet Earth, it
is Mômmanh who spoke to me. “How is that? And in which language, please? Listen:
since you are not stupid like me, you will know how to find yourself.” Here you are,
some details approximately, of what our conversation was like.

– Michel, my little one, I see you despairing. You are in a dead end. And then?
There is often a way out: the way which I lent you, you give it back to me. What is
there simpler?
– And who can therefore replace me? Nobody, since I am unique.
– Unique: yes. Irreplaceable: no. A little handyman who believes he is an inventor,
you will not even know how to produce the first brick as a living. Look at all the
roads which I have created by feeling in my blind universe, the billions of billions
of energetic roads, which at any moment push ahead the existence and which are a
good road to conquer space and time, those deceitful two which would like to slip
away in their mad race. As regards all that, you can count much less than the most
insignificant grain of sand in the Sahara.
– But I discovered you! Mômmanh, and nothing knows it. Therefore, nobody can
use that knowledge to improve the human existence and the walk of the world.
– And so? The intelligence which I have given you, favoured by the circumstances,
has known well how to discover itself! Ah well, sooner or later, other intelligences
will reach it too.
– Other intelligences! Surely not. I am the first. That discovery belongs to me.
Besides, I am going to write my name on it and take out a patent for it so that

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nobody can take it from me.
– And humanity in that business? Supposing that you have done a real discovery,
isn’t humanity a priority, since she needs it? Do you want to disinherit her and
close the treasure in your ego as much inflated as perishable? Do you want to put
the discovery to rot?
– No Mômmanh. It is hard, but I don’t have another way. While waiting, the idea
of dying without being able to transmit what I believe I know, that idea there is
borne with difficulty.
– Accept that eventuality, since you have no choice. It is life… And then, it will not
be so serious since, I repeat it, your discovery is supposed to be feeble, others will
do it one day or another.
– And since that does not happen, a band of idiots can quite well burst our world.
– And then? You know that I am gifted with infinite other resources, to start with
the living planets.
– So, I am not indispensable to you: therefore, I can die. Thanks just the same.
– You’re welcome.

So, little by little, death seemed sweet. My sobbing ceased. It was a beautiful
summer evening, the sun was still high in the sky. I sat on a dead trunk, close to the
spring. I tried to imagine my immersion into nothingness. “Farewell everything. I
cannot take any more. Continue without me.” The wiping out of Michel Dufour
seemed bearable, even soothing.

I asked myself what will happen if all the human beings reacted like this. At
the outcome of my reflection, I was not proud. I imagined Jeanne and the children
deprived of my help and I felt pity. You also, although to a slight extent, unknown
readers. I had pity on you: without the new means which the theory of “The Struggle
for Existence” brings to us, will you know how to pull humanity from the noisy and
the disorderly assembly? So, I called Mômmanh again.

How important it is to make oneself useful.

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 “Mômmanh, please, tell me something… I know
that I am not indispensable, I understand that
well and I no longer dread death. But perhaps I
could be useful. Don’t you think?
– Quite sure that you can be useful. And now, you
sort it out yourself. I gave you the lucid
intelligence. You should manage to do something
with it, for Pete’s sake!”

The desire to die blurred itself. I had that idea before plunging irreversibly
into nothingness, I had perhaps other cards to play. I turned all the pockets of my
memory and I found that memory: “There are people who divorce.” I started to
become aware of the chains stretched forth which tore me apart. Soon, I can start to
undo them.

It was about two demands which made me their slave. I have already spoken
about the second, but I was not yet ready to tackle it myself: it was the unwavering
will to be the head of the family.

I have already told you, isn’t it so, how that type of demand hindered our
existence: at first by diverting the resources which we would be able to dedicate to
multiple objectives, afterwards by paralysing us when she finds herself in conflict
with other imperatives of life.

Behold therefore the first of the two demands for me in my family, all
perspective of divorce or separation was unheard of.

The bonds of marriage are indissoluble. Divorce is a monstrosity which trains

the decay of the couples, at the same time as the definite catastrophes, above all if
there are children. It is forbidden, I had inherited during my childhood, in the peasant
family some catholic traditions well grounded. As usual, one had forgotten for a long

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time the primary causes of its establishment, buried in the distant past. Like this, in
my family of peasant origin, the divorce has remained under control until now and it
only started to make a discrete apparition in the last generation of citizens.

During the course of my formation at the Normal School, that ban had
already suffered a strong erosion. For as long as there were no children in the couple,
if one of the two wanted to go away, in the name of freedom we think it’s right to do
it. But, if there are children, we strongly disapprove of divorce. In the formation of
the personality, Freud has put in evidence the essential role of the family: the
dislocation of the latter took therefore in our eyes the colours of crime as regards the
children.

I have stopped there. It was the chains which rendered my life impossible. In
my family I demanded to be the leader, because of which, I was going away. I had
already done it on my return from Austria, remember. Yes, but at that stage of our
love, we were not married and, above all, there were only two of us. Now, this time, I
could not go since the divorce risked destroying our children.

An idea was circulating in the air and from time to time touched me lightly,
without my ever giving it attention. That evening there, in the heart of the forest, near
the spring, the broken shell of my conscience let it enter: “A successful divorce is
better than a failed marriage.” I started to work on that idea.

New convictions came out of it which I hand over to you. I am always

attached.

When the little man reaches the age of an adult, he cannot grow bigger. So
much the worse if he has failed his belief: it is too late, he will remain undeveloped
all his life. It is the same for the formation of his soul: tastes, values and intelligence.
When the time of learning his existence is over, it is too late from now on to do
everything again. One can only practice a little surgery of the soul to overcome, as we
have seen it do, certain defects easy to bear. And yet! you know how that risks being
painful without as much as assuring the recovery definitely.

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 It is necessary that, from their birth till their maturity, the parents are in a
position to nourish the body and soul of the little one.

And if, in spite of all their efforts they cannot manage? So, they have to look
for a substitute to their weak family. Such a transplant necessitates big precautions.

Besides everything, the second element of human existence, love, must be

preserved in the soul of the little ones. If they believe to discover that it is not a stall
holder ball which explodes with the slightest choc, how can they love from now on?

While I was conducting that reflection, the acceptance of divorce instilled

itself in me. To live without My Love and away from my children was a painful
perspective, certainly, but not desperate as my situation of two hours earlier, then
when I looked for refuge and consolation in the forest. The chain of marriage could
break: I was free to evade from the theatre of the War of the Hundred Years whose
only issue seemed to be the demolition of us all. So I elaborated a plan.

I proposed to Jeanne to go towards the divorce in stages, the definitive

rupture intervened only after the failures of the attempts to agree. To start with, I
would ask to be sent abroad.

To the children, we would tell the truth, everything simply, but paying
attention not to hurt them severely. Yes, we would love them always. And for ever! It
was good because we did not want any longer that our quarrels without end would
continue to make them suffer… I would write to them. I would spend the holidays
with them, at least a part…

Why the devil was it necessary that the presentation of that plan transformed
itself into a violent confrontation where it was a question of brutal separation or
conflictual divorce?

– Jeanne, I believe that I am going to ask for a transfer abroad.

– Do you believe or are you sure? There you are beating round the bush. I have a

478
job myself! I don’t have any time to lose in dribbling ravings. So? What twisted
blow are you on the verge of simmering?
– There is no simmering blow. We cannot carry on like this. It is bad for the
children as well as for us. And that does not lead anywhere.
– You believe you can kick me with a pathetic blackmail to divorce. How could I
have married such a nullity? Go on! And above all do not retreat this time! Clear
the camp! I hope only for that. What a relief! Ah but, what a relief! From now on
there are two big feasts in the year: Christmas and the anniversary of your
departure. It will be like the feast of the liberation, in 45, when they burnt the effigy
of Hitler…

I have had to be patient as I know how to do now. I knew it already, the step
adopted in that situation. Since Jeanne was trained at the same time by her ego in
madness and by her anger doubled by rashness, I had to wait till altruism came to the
helm, that which could not be late. Instead of that, in the first squabble, I launched
myself head low in the stupid War of the Leaders.

– Jeanne, please do not reverse our responsibilities, even when it is possible. Up till
now, it is you who have made me the blackmail of divorce, to make me walk on all
fours. When you trivialized that infamous divorce, in the Parisian way and of your
family, you knew that for me, it was an unheard of crime.
Nothing doing: I cannot divorce!
Then, you were keen on it!… your blackmail, to bend me to your whims.
Everyday, you brandished it like a whip loaded with nails. Ah well, it is over! No!
No, this time, you are going to listen to me till the end.

It is over, I say to you. I am free. And do not believe above all that it is a twisted
blow.
I accept the divorce.
Whew! From now on you can always try to make the birds walk at their pace,
because for me, it is over. And I do not believe that you can find another fool to
disgust. In any case, I…! On foot, on horseback, by car and even by plane. Thanks
for having freed me.

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 For once, she remained voiceless, open mouthed. I had finally my last word.
Sinister stupid! I went out, without stumbling, banging the door.

In the shadow of the corridor, the waves of red hair brushed against me. I
jumped as if I had received an electric charge but, to my resentment, I was happy to
say: “Hold on! Estelle, what are you doing there?” and I did not listen even to the
reply.

The following day was a Wednesday. After my theatrical coup on the eve, the
family atmosphere was sinister. I had slept in the caravan which was waiting near the
house a hypothetical departure on holidays. Jeanne had not spoken to me and, that
time, I was quite set not to try reconciliation before two or three days. I wanted like
this to soak my will never again to escape divorce and convince Jeanne of that
completely new determination.

I relieved my suffering simulating, in my thought, my life alone, far away

from my family. From time to time, I managed to accept it and the headache which
had been in my skull retreated. As to the losses which I would have suffered, I
imagined the compensations: look for another love, enjoy the freedom acquired… I
felt nearly cured.

It was probable that I had some illusions. Whatever it could be, I never had
the possibility to verify it by means of experience. Destiny was preparing itself to
surprise me.

In the afternoon, I had to conduct Estelle to the dancing lesson.

Exceptionally, we were both silent. For the time being, I did not want to alarm our
children by making them part of my change in attitude faced with a divorce. As far as
our violent dispute of the preceding day, it seemed that it did not have to affect them
more than the preceding one.

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 Marital discord: the price to pay.

As usual, I parked the car in a small parking place, at about a hundred metres
from the school and, as usual, I set about accompanying the little one as far as the
entry. Half way, she stopped, saying: “Look, papa.” On the edge of the pavement, in
front of the way, she closed her eyes… and crossed the road running. There was a
little flow and one single car had to slow to avoid Estelle. On the pavement in front,
she cried to me:

“Papa! Papa! Have you seen? I am lucky, hey? Now, I am coming back.
– No! I screamed.”

But the impossible monstrosity had already taken place.

That bleeding mass on the asphalt…

You know the rest.

And now.

Life must go on. Life continues.

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482
 11-Beyond Death

The War of the Leaders never started again. We practiced finally the conjugal
democracy. In case of disagreement we together looked for what was the most
convenient for our existence. If we do not find any, either we abandon the decision to
the one of the two which seemed the most suitable, or well we leave to each the
possibility to do as he likes. We share a lot of responsibilities in the function of our
competence and of our most ardent tastes: to Jeanne the house and its management, to
me the making up of the garden and surroundings, to me the cars, to her the research
and the choice of beautiful shows…

How selfishness leads us towards death whilst altruism leads

us to life.

Since here we are freed from our slavery,

the demand of being each the leader which pushed
us to struggle head against head till death, we
can at last nourish and take care of our love. It
carries on well. It develops. A loving creation,
you know, does not realise itself one against the
other but in two.

It is because, the “Myself-I-Here-Now,”

otherwise called absolute selfishness, cannot

483
 serve him as base since it is strictly individual.
Besides, it emits a smell of death. Yes, I said
that a strong dose of selfishness does not forbid
love. It is true, but it is not necessary that a
certain threshold is surpassed, beyond which one
leaves the house of the lovers.

It was like this that Jeanne and I found

ourselves subtly swept away towards what has the
greatest value for Mômmanh: altruism.

Love makes us better. We must also, to avoid

outdoing each other, construct it a little each
day. And Mômmanh, from time to time, rewards us
with some notes of her celestial harp.

To live without fearing death: to overcome death without God’s

help

And this is how the “Good Geniuses” work to whom, on her deathbed,
Estelle entrusted a large part of her existence. Does she not tell us that we would find
her again here, next to the “Good Geniuses”? Indeed, we will come across her again
from time to time.

But this is not all. Jacques, our third son, has totally adopted his godmother
Estelle. But yes! You know well!

We are free to choose our ancestral cultures: ah well Jacques has chosen his
little elderly sister. As the nobles were expected to perpetuate the honour of the

484
ancestors, which encouraged them in spite of everything to be brave and generous,
Jacques has committed himself to do his best to put in action the qualities of his
sister: noblesse oblige. It is not easy, but he is keen on it.

He designates that by a funny name: his “challenge.” We have ended by

understanding that it is a challenge which he launches: “Did you ever manage to
please Estelle. – Ah well! It is what one is going to see.”

Estelle was nine years old. She was curious of everything. Beauty shown out
from her shouts and tears. Jacques will therefore be an artist. Fortunately enough, he
is gifted. But his godmother always at nine years of age: will he always be as young
as that dead one, all by becoming himself responsible? There still, he answers us that
it is included in his “challenge.”

We tell him time and time again:

– You do not have to face this challenge. Estelle held on to freedom too
much, she was too generous, too, to ask for something like that.
– I know, I know! So I’m free to attain Estelle’s freedom. If it really gets too
hard, I will give up. Besides, she would never have asked me to do the same things
she did. I am a good person, that’s all she wants… sorry, all she would like. So far,
it’s a pleasure.
– So, everything’s going well, my little Jacques.

And it is true that Jacques has understood the rules of the contract that he has
chosen to sign with his young deceased godmother: so young, deceased, and yet a
godmother: sometimes, he says, “I agree with Estelle.” and other times “Estelle
agrees with me.” Because he knows that to take over from his godmother, he does not
have to repeat what she achieved, to continue the work and go further in achieving
Existence, inventing future life.

485
 This is how the “Noblesse oblige” contract works.

We never pronounce the name of Estelle. However, she is always in our

company. At every important decision which we have to take, we have that dialogue.

– Michel, do you believe that she will agree?

– She was still too young to judge… But, you know, at the bottom of my heart, I
believe that she will approve.
– I think so also. All that seemed to serve Mômmanh’s plans pleased her.

Quite often, she keeps the place of our guardian angel. We appreciate her
company, and however it happens that we wish to find ourselves both of us alone. In
that case, we go on holiday for some days. Estelle never needs looking after: we are
sure to find her on our way back. So, both of us, as long ago in the mountain pastures,
we do crazy things. “Like what? – That’s none of your business.”

As promised, we made Mômmanh known. Very progressively, in about

twenty years, that theory has seduced a good nucleus of researchers. A lot of
scientific discoveries and inventions have come out of it. Perhaps we have the
tendency, both of us, to believe in it more than in reason, to mix up faith and science.
In any case, it seems to us that humanity and our old planet have just taken a new
take-off.

But attention! This time, let us not repeat the dreadful deceptive vision of the
“Grand Evening.”

Now I must make a confession. As I decided to build this novel with real
bricks, I must tell you that I have expressed my desire here rather than the
truth. After 12 years of presence on the Internet, the pages containing the
theory are visited more and more (439 times in November 2014) and some
intellectuals, scientists and other people have said that my speculations are
plausible. Now it is your turn.

486
 We estimate that we have passed the relay fallen in our hands. We have the
right to some holidays now. Your turn, then! Before rejoining the subject and
Mômmanh in her dark dreams, let us go and take some rest among the living.

487
INTERSTELLAR CONVERSATION

Swift Explora tion, t he council has stud ied the document jo ined
to the repor t, “My Love.” The h umans are on the ve rge of
discovering some m ilestones whic h li mited their fi eld of
existence and they will soon get over them. Afterwards , they
are going to travel in interstel lar space and discov er the
other conscio us animals which are c alled “men.”

They have had a roug h time to reali se th at all the men i n th eir
planet are equal. It is not necessary to repeat that mistake
with the men of the universe.

The moment ha s come to meet them. We sen d an ambassador to t he

seat of the U .N.O. Prepare yourselv es to receive it.

While waiting , continue your study of the role of self ishness

in the human existen ce. We do not see i f the great p lac e wh ich
Mômmanh has l eft him constitutes an advantage or a handic ap.

As for love a s it is written in th e genetic code of th e human

females, it s eemed t o us to conta i n at times a generato r an d a
stimulator of exis tence. “Makin g lov e” is a magn ific ent
invention of Mômmanh. We look for the genetic writing which
develops those aptitudes. But that need which the human males
feel to dispo se of t heir semen near ly ev eryday and to sp read it
in the body of any female “screwable” of their environment, we
are close to considering that as an illness. We shall continue
to reflect wi th the humans themselv es…

(Exploration of the Earth. Great Ar chives of Waliullah.)

488
489
 Table of Issues
Addressed.

For all of the following questions, look first in the introduction.

What are the criteria of a scientific theory?

What is a science-based philosophical theory?
Can history be explained?
Communists and historical materialism.
Should we separate scientific research from other issues?
Does existence precede essence?
How can matter give rise to spirit?
Is spirit already in matter?
Can we control the future of humanity?
How can we fight poverty, unemployment, wars, pollution and madness?
Did the marginalised scientists such as James Lovelock, Jacques Benveniste, Roland Plocher
make real discoveries?
Is the Earth alive?
Does water have a memory? Does matter have a memory? Does matter have the power to
communicate?
Does homeopathy have a scientific basis?
Can part of our experience become hereditary? Can the acquired modify the innate?
Was Lysenko’s theory totally wrong?
Why have there been so many failures in cloning?
Towards the unity of cultures. Towards the diversity of cultures.
Are the various philosophies complementary?
Can globalisation save life? Bring prosperity? Promote diversity?

490
What role can science fiction play?
When are dogmas useful? When are dogmas harmful?
Templates for creating electronic games.
What is the role of love in evolution?
Keys to the future.
The beautiful, the true and the good meet at infinity.
Structures for building exciting video games: the creation of stories and virtual worlds, the
invention of possible worlds.

For all of the following questions, look in the novel.

– The will for existence: the origin and the guide of life, the origin and the guide of man.
– How can the paradoxes of emergence be resolved?
– THE STRUCTURE OF HUMAN EXISTENCE.
– Are ants altruistic?
– Has nature invented beauty?
– Does nature have a consciousness? What is the consciousness of the animals like? What is
Human consciousness like? What is man’s own consciousness like?
– What lessons does Nature give us?
– Does Nature need man? What is the purpose of nature’s beauties? Are nature’s inventions
models for us?
– How do you help nature? How do you delay aging? How do you keep in good shape and in
good health?
– How do you preserve the heritage of humanity?
– Erotism: what is the purpose of the butts of women?
– The young and the feeling of eternity. What is beauty for? Why does natural adaptation
appear to obey the principle of an end?
– Inspiration and artistic creation
– In what conditions can man take his wishes for realities?
– Part of the technique in the art of making love.
– Why do women know how to distinguish the men of merit?
– Spoiling a child causes his misfortune. Why?
– What is stress? How can stress release the existential reactions? How is stress indispensable
to existence?

491
– To obtain a better response possible to stress, what qualities must man develop?
– How does the requirement of happiness transform life into hell?
– What is an ideology?
– Why does ideology rest on the explanation of the universe?
– What has caused the fall of communism in the Soviet bloc?
– What are the conditions of a great love?
– How can love be found?
– Why is the pleasure of love inscribed in our heredity?
– Difference between love and sexuality
– What happens when a desire is so strong that it becomes a high expectation? What are the
risks of spoiling the children?
– How to obtain the good dose of self-confidence which allows you to act in the best of ways?
– Why is the orgasm of love a product of the natural selection?
– Why is the deceived lover the last one to perceive it?
– The origin of a great deal of consuming passions or vices: the game, avarice, jealousy.
– How far is the Buddhists’ control of desire healthy?
– What exceptional resources do we have to face the immediate dangers?
– What is the field of active existence?
– In which way is knowledge a liberator? In which way is ignorance a prison?
– How the theory of the struggle for existence is still nothing but a hypothesis.
– What is the negative stress? What is the positive stress? What is anxiety?
– How can selfishness kill love?
– What are the differences between screwing up and making love?
– How love requires a minimum of altruism
– Why has the natural selection given to man selfishness and altruism?
– What is the purpose of dreams? Do we have a guardian angel?
– How an isolated village is a closed field of existence, an existential prison.
– In what is the isolated village alienating itself? In what is the city a liberator? In what does
the closed village favour the sclerosis and the city the progress?
– What is humour? What is the purpose of humour?
– What does a game serve for?
– How the subconscious which sometimes governs us is not always bad.
– How can existence transcend death?
– Which must be the role of truth in art?

492
– Why is it necessary that the student surpasses the teacher?
– Defeat death.
– How to become immortal?
– How does the field of existence cover all the past and all the future.
– Which are the specificities of the feminine sexuality?
– Why do women have the key to paradise?
– Can we infringe a natural law?
– Difference between the biological acquisitions and the cultural acquisitions.
– Which are the five gifts of the woman?
– What cultural acquisitions of the child favour his studies?
– Why is the foreigner attached to his cultural origins?
– Which are the two means of improving his social level? The good? And the bad?
– From where does the tendency to take our desires for reality come? How do you fight it
back?
– How three false ideas on sexuality cause havoc. They have a historic origin.
– The real danger of masturbation.
– How to look for their origin to get rid of the embarrassing beliefs.
– How can rape be prevented?
– How do revolutionaries and their heirs struggle so long before applying the new principles
integrally.
– Why does the natural selection make of us beings of faith?
– Which is the basis of human existence in Burkina Faso?
– What is animism? How did animism, polytheism link themselves?
– How is the loving orgasm the firework of two successful existences?
– The pleasures revealed by experience and the pleasures still to be discovered.
– How can the cultures understand each other without destroying each other?
– How is the evolution of the material framework of human existence done: of the clan towards
the world-state. Why is it that the Burkinabés don’t even have the sense of state?
– Is it necessary to renounce the hope of finding paradise on earth?
– In a global economy, do we need a world-state?
– How can man and nature be saved?
– As the Earth is a village, when will it have a mayor?
– How can globalisation be controlled?
– How nature and culture are sometimes conflicting.

493
– Why must lovers have the same values, but not necessarily the same tastes?
– What is the recipe of the great love?
– How is it necessary to surpass the struggle for power within the couple.
– How dangerous is anger.
– How the soul which is overcome by rationality looks for her compliment: a soul overcome by
emotion.
– Are the existential experiences of our life written in the memory of our gametes?
– How does the purgation of our passions allow the fighting against our bad desires of the
subconscious.
– From hatred to excess of love, passing through the break-up of love: how does the parents’
love condition the character and the existence of the child.
– How a bad divorce can lead a child towards toxic mania.
– How even, with the purgation of the passions, the bad desires of the subconscious are
difficult to fight against.
– How men have always known how to find recipes not to be slaves of their desires.
– How love makes us better and stronger.
– How the transition from selfishness to altruism works?
– How is it very difficult to replace the cultural acquisitions of childhood? Which is the
principal cause of scholastic failure?
– How it is difficult to correct an apprenticeship which is badly done.
– How does the traditional Burkinabe education generate the scholastic success and the
technical progress.
– How the Africans can jump into our era preserving the best of their cultures?
– What is the principal cause of miseries in Africa?
– How we cannot stop evolution: we can only try to take control of it.
– How each personal ideology tries to inscribe itself in a big ideological family.
– How we must give honour to enemy militants who believed to have done well…
– How a vice which has been pulled out of the subconscious is never completely uprooted.
– Theory of the struggle for existence: its good personal use.
– How the children feel responsible only in front of their parents.
– How does other people’s gaze affect my existence?
– How the females know how to sense the value of a man without necessarily being able to
figure it out.
– Who directs the education of the children?

494
– How impulsive people go from one extreme to the other.
– How important it is to make oneself useful.
– How selfishness leads us towards death whilst altruism leads us to life.

495