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On Madison's road many times stride

Modifié le : 2019/08/06

In his diary, which he describes as inti­mate, Lau­rent wrote a frank and pret­ty note, Le troisième homme. Lau­rent writes very well. I would add that he writes bet­ter than me. I also have a friend who writes much bet­ter than me, who has an exem­plary syn­tax and vocab­u­lary. In short, I might have want­ed to write such a post, even if I don’t like its con­clu­sions, espe­cial­ly since we are repeat­ing here the end­less Madis­on’s road story.

Yet it is a beau­ti­ful sto­ry, both Lau­ren­t’s and Robert James Waller’s. I might as well talk about my expe­ri­ences in this area. I could tell the sto­ry of this friend of a friend who con­fessed to him, on his own wed­ding day, that she would have pre­ferred to mar­ry him rather than the one to whom she had just promised fidelity.

All nobles can be these con­fessed feel­ings, they describe at the same time the cow­ardice expressed in the real­i­ties of life. The art of the writer or actor is to lie, the art of the liv­ing is to act, and we hap­pi­ly nav­i­gate the wind­ing road of com­pro­mis­es, infat­u­a­tions, and oppor­tu­ni­ties to enjoy our­selves. One could argue that it is a man’s feel­ing to go from a hand­job to the cor­ner of a dark dis­co or ele­va­tor wall. It is true that the male quick­ly falls in love with the inten­si­ty of the moment, that his fan­ta­sized orgasm is enti­tled to a place in the pan­theons of time­less love sto­ries. How­ev­er, women are no more pro­tect­ed from the fur­nace that burns in each of us. If they are like female birds (and I am almost sure of it), what they incu­bate in their nests is a skill­ful recipe for dai­ly bread and dairy cream. We must remem­ber that our bio­log­i­cal clocks remem­ber sim­pler times and still insist on giv­ing us the time accord­ing to the same mechanism.

In short, we love our clas­sics, and Lau­ren­t’s text is no excep­tion. This love is so strong that it push­es the homo­sex­u­al to do like the het­ero­sex­u­al, to repro­duce the same paste. This mod­el has cer­tain­ly proved its worth. It secures, it keeps the econ­o­my run­ning, and it allows you to end your days well. We real­ize the attrac­tion for this atavis­tic repro­duc­tion when we see, on tele­vi­sion, both the so-called real­i­ty series and the his­tor­i­cal recon­struc­tions of the well-done peri­ods of the Edwar­dian bour­geoisie or the sim­ple, com­pli­cat­ed and corset­ed good times of col­o­niza­tion at the begin­ning of the 20th cen­tu­ry when we do not hap­pi­ly dive into roy­al pro­cras­ti­na­tions or medieval churches.

We like to repeat, and we pre­fer to say to our­selves that there is noth­ing more to invent, that every­thing has been told.

Beware of sleep­ing water, frozen sto­ries ; beware of mete­ors that will appear in our futures. Hap­py who has cer­tain­ties. Well mis­un­der­stood is the man who, in the depths of his docks, plunges his lungs full of air, knife in his mouth, towards the ropes that hold him back, to patient­ly cut them so that he nev­er again sticks to the illu­sions of the promis­es of others.

Love is strange­ly like pol­i­tics. We try so hard to rein­vent our­selves by repeat­ing and insist­ing. It is prob­a­bly because, in the end, we are just help­less. Besides, life is so short, why go to all this trouble ?

I search in vain for an answer, a sign. I’ll have to write about it.

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