The good little people

Modifié le : 2019/07/20

The good lit­tle peo­ple, the poets hate them. They find in them no col­or oth­er than that of the undif­fer­en­ti­at­ed and the filthy mis­ery. These lit­tle peo­ple are pre­texts for them to claim the ingrat­i­tude of fate, the tragedy of the human con­di­tion. For this rea­son, the good lit­tle peo­ple are great to live their des­tiny close to nothing.

Good lit­tle peo­ple, politi­cians use them. They dress them in the great cloak of democ­ra­cy, allow them to open their mouth once every four or five years and, although this game is dan­ger­ous for their future, boast of hav­ing played in the pow­er war. Politi­cians are great, and most of the time we only remem­ber them, their illus­tri­ous names, their chival­rous cow­ards. The good lit­tle peo­ple, it is well known, have a wide back, deaf ears, a head that quick­ly for­gets. Faith­ful as a dog, dumb as a carp, the good lit­tle peo­ple are sent to war when nec­es­sary, sent to walk when they dis­turb, offered to dream to pre­vent them from thinking.

The good lit­tle peo­ple, the intel­lec­tu­als are mov­ing away from them, the hip­sters are car­i­ca­tur­ing them, the young peo­ple are rebelling against them for a while before melt­ing too, the thir­ty-some­thing achieved, into homog­e­niza­tion. Those who believe they are ris­ing from the mud cer­tain­ly look good for a while. They spread their wings, their hor­mones, their care­less­ness before their wings melt inex­orably when the fire of truth occurs. They fall back and find the good lit­tle peo­ple who, like a black ocean of lava, absorb them, burn them, some­times devour them.

The good lit­tle peo­ple are of course all of these. It is indeed not much. A big pro­cre­ation machine, an exis­ten­tial beast wheel that we learn to love and insult. A rock, an absurd moun­tain. And, when you think about it, poets, popes, police­men, intel­lec­tu­als, hip­sters and young peo­ple are no more, they do no bet­ter. All liars, all stub­born, all obsessed, all afraid, all inno­cent with over­flow­ing hands, all fools and unconscious.

I, the poet who pre­sumes every­thing, I tell you. We do not real­ize that his­to­ry, the one born before ours even began, has been writ­ten tril­lions and tril­lions of light-years ago. It takes place beyond the light, beyond the grandil­o­quent inven­tion that the human race dares to call God.

You can’t blame the good lit­tle peo­ple for being what they are. They are cer­tain­ly all idiots. It’s obvi­ous, the crowd is stu­pid. So what about an entire people.

There is no one to guide them any­more, not now any­way. No one knows, every­one pre­tends to know. So we must excuse the igno­rants, because heav­en, as well as hell, belongs to them.

So ? Noth­ing and the oppo­site. In this batch of incon­gruities, there are obvi­ous­ly the good sci­en­tists, the unal­tered poets, the devot­ed politi­cians, the silent priests, the faith­ful moth­ers and fathers, the pas­sion­ate chil­dren, the good lit­tle serene peo­ple, the azure sky, the void calm.

Any­thing is pos­si­ble when you think about it. Any­thing is pos­si­ble. Even happiness.