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<\/p>\nBy Richard Marshall.<\/p>\n
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Fritz Zorn and Jean Genet overheard whispering on a stairwell on hearing Paris attacks suspect Salah Abdeslam had admitted he wanted to blow himself up but then changed his mind. Years before it’s about 3am. Andy Gallix walks with purpose at the hour of the wolf and makes something happen… <\/p>\n
Genet:<\/strong> When a man invents an image that he wants to propagate, that he may even want to substitute for himself, he starts by experimenting, making mistakes, sketching out freaks and other non-viable monsters that he has to tear up unless they disintegrate of their own accord. But the operative image is the one that’s left after the person dies or withdraws from the world, as in the case of Socrates, Christ, Saladin, Saint-Just and so on. They succeeded in projecting an image around themselves and into the future. It doesn’t matter whether or not the image corresponds to what they were really like: they managed to wrest a powerful image from that reality.<\/p>\n Zorn:<\/strong> I would define the ridiculous as the distance between the perfect and the imperfect or, cynically, whatever’s made between negative and positive: the nothing is always perfect, the something still has flaws. To a serene Buddha a hectic world seems ridiculous, because he himself has nothing to do with it. In the next man cynical feelings seem ridiculous because he himself has no feelings. To a man who does not play football it seems ridiculous to run for hours after a small leather ball; he does not wonder if this game would not be wildly entertaining, he sees only the ridiculous side of these adult men playing like little boys. Probably the one who makes something always seems ridiculous in the eyes of the one who does nothing. Whoever acts can still be outflanked; one who does not is not even taking that risk.<\/p>\n G:<\/strong> Repudiating the virtues of your world, criminals hopelessly agree to organize a forbidden universe. They agree to live in it. The air there is nauseating: they can breathe it.<\/p>\n Z:<\/strong> Unless you act, the less you’re ridiculous. That was the verdict in force at home and it did much to make me someone unfortunate.<\/p>\n G:<\/strong> I wanted to swallow myself by opening my mouth very wide and turning it over my head so that it would take in my whole body, and then the Universe, until all that would remain of me would be a ball of eaten thing which little by little would be annihilated: that is how I see the end of the world.<\/p>\n Z:<\/strong> I think I am divided into three parts. First, my individuality; secondly I am the product of my parents, my education, my family and my company; thirdly I am a representative of the principle of life in general, that is to say that force precisely that makes electrons orbit the nucleus of the atom, the ants swarm and the sun rise. Part of me is also electron and ant and sun and more bourgeois education can not spoil it.<\/p>\n G:<\/strong> Betrayal is beautiful. Limited by the world, which I oppose, jagged by it, I shall be all the more handsome and sparkling as the angles which wound me and give me shape are more acute and the jagging more cruel. When I got to the street, I walked boldly. But I was always accompanied by an agonizing thought: the fear that honest people may be thieves who have chosen a cleverer and safer way of stealing.<\/p>\n Z: <\/strong>One who never accepts anything should never, either, say thank you and can avoid the painful duty of one day being accountable to someone for something. <\/p>\n G:<\/strong> What we need is hatred. From it our ideas are born.<\/p>\n Z:<\/strong> I define my tragedy by saying that I have not been my life, have not embodied everything that seemed like one worth living, because in my life, obviously, it is not my will and my feelings and my self that have been the main drive, but only and always the heritage of others in me; this is not what I wanted but it happened that my parents – or rather my “parents” in quotes – filled me in. For example, my parents introduced this, that sexuality does not exist for me, though, in the part of my self that I would designate as “myself”, sexuality is the highest of all values. I believe this is only the smallest part of my self that is myself; most of it is poisoned, raped and destroyed by the hostile principle described above, the most typical representatives of which for me were my parents. It’s like a giant foreign body in me, one much larger than the part of my self designated as “myself”, and it gnaws at me and I suffer.<\/p>\n G:<\/strong> Erotic play discloses a nameless world which is revealed by the nocturnal language of lovers. Such language is not written down. It is whispered into the ear at night in a hoarse voice. At dawn it is forgotten.The hour between dog and wolf, that is, dusk, when the two can’t be distinguished from each other, suggests a lot of other things besides the time of day.The hour in which every being becomes his own shadow, and thus something other than himself. The hour of metamorphoses, when people half hope, half fear that a dog will become a wolf. The hour that comes down to us from at least as far back as the early Middle Ages, when country people believed that transformation might happen at any moment. I leave you free to imagine any dialogue you please. Choose whatever may charm you. Have it, if you like, that they hear the voice of the blood, or that they fall in love at first sight… Conceive the wildest improbabilities. Have it that the depths of their beings are thrilled at accosting each other in slang. Tangle them suddenly in a swift embrace or a brotherly kiss. Do whatever you like.<\/p>\n Z:<\/strong> The order and the prognosis for me are: as soon as I get the better of my parents – my “parents” – as soon as they have become indifferent to me, I am healed and saved. But it is still very difficult for me, as the extent of injuries inflicted on me is not yet fully itemised, but, on the contrary, its scope is growing. According to Sartre, in this situation which is clearly unique to humanity, most would not be “he is what was done to the man, but rather he is what was done by him “. It’s a phrase I can sign up to. Surely there can be a chance to still make something despite what was done to you; perhaps everyone he has that chance. Even I could have had that chance. Perhaps, if the damage caused my parents (and all that is part of the concept of “parents”) had not been so enormous, it would have been possible, in time, to become myself before the cancer has devoured me. Perhaps, if the term of my illness had left, some time would have been given me, during which I could overcome my neurosis. Perhaps. But these assumptions are idle because in reality, it is not simply so. To return to Sartre: I have not managed to do anything other than what was done to me. It did something to me, I was torn; but overcoming that “Demolition”, as required by Sartre – I never made it.<\/p>\n G:<\/strong> Well, certain acts dazzle us and light up blurred surfaces, if our eyes are sharp enough to see them in a flash, for the beauty of a living thing can be grasped only fleetingly. To pursue it during its changes leads us inevitably to the moment when it ceases, for it cannot last a lifetime. And to analyze it, that is, to pursue it in time with the sight and the imagination, is to view it in its decline, for following the marvelous moment in which it reveals itself, it diminishes in intensity.<\/p>\n Z:<\/strong> I do not spend a single tear on my unfortunate past and I feel able, if not to forget all that has happened, at least to overcome it. But all that has plagued me in the past is still in this place, it overwhelms me too much.<\/p>\n G:<\/strong> You must now go home, where everything — you can be quite sure — will be falser than here….You must go now. You’ll leave by the right, through the alley…<\/p>\n ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>![\"IMG_4063\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/01\/IMG_4063-269x300.jpeg\")
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\nRichard Marshall<\/strong><\/a> is still biding his time.<\/p>\n
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