A French Philosopher and his Wife

une nation de critique sociale

Pierre: Admiration full stop. Twofold historicization, and reflection. These are my tools, baby, for bringing down the bourgeois sentimentality and dispositions of France. But circle, yes, the circle, continues and stops. Continues and stops, infinite, eternal. Roundabout, British, but good metaphor. If the ruling classes dominate, then what is the role of the working class.

Sophie: Ah Pierre, your words, your insights, tres belle, my mother was so concerned about me marrying you. “He talks so beautifully, but can he hold a wrench? Can he repair an automobile with his bare hands, and fight off the taxman if needs be, these are the things you need in a man” And I said no maman, he can think! And besides that his emotions, his depth, his soul in a word, he is everything I could ever want. Yes, your teeth are quite weird, and you have the looks of a penguin, but you are a true champion of the working class, and that baby gets me going.

Pierre: Love, what is it? What is love but a bourgeois fairytale, a certain entrepot of feelings and sensations, a mirage of curves and excitement. Sex, I repeat with emphasis and fragility, sex, that most curious of monsters and monstrosities. Can it be bought? No. Can it be fostered? No. It is a magic, a spell, a dance. But what kind of dance? Is it the tango, or the forlane? Is it meant to be beat out to the lascivious banging of jazz, or the boom-boom of electronic hip-hop.

Sophie: Oh Pierre! Too much, too beautiful, too expressive. You are making me swoon with your words and your deep reflections.

Pierre: I am a man of deep thought. Deep thought. But on the other hand, d’autre part, I am shallow. Consanguineous with the bear, I am trapped, haunted, hunted. I have a forest before me, wide and expansive. The shade burns, the clearing cleans. Too much. Too far have I ventured into its boughy interiors. Ah, the sun. She shines and kisses me. Kisses me. Sophie, let us make love like young squirrels; afraid of the public but brave on our trees.

Sophie: Pierre, Pierre, have your deeply reflective way with me!



Writer, poet, philosopher,

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