After the incursion of Jean-Claude Verdot in the closet of his girlfriend , there was no straightforward explanation, but a growing embarrassment arose between them. In place of their animated conversations (although they had no point of disagreement), it was now the silence that reigned over their little dinner in Chinese or Greek corner. He had only to smell the cigarette at the next table - the client waved obligingly between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, like a censer, merely take a few puffs of scattered carelessly - leering over their plates, listen to their conversation - who learned to Jean-Claude Verdot on housing prices, latest Markowicz, or how to enjoy the last little queue-jumping and free ride , nothing that he did not already know - the toilet once to wash their hands after urination - while she went there once to wash their hands once and for tinkering with her makeup, twice for urination and that the four voyages of his girlfriend did not coincide with those of Jean-Claude Verdot - and drawing the cell phone to talk with some knowledge insignificant, to tell them where it was in exchange for similar information from them. There were a thousand ways to give a capacity, but none dispelled the heavy cloud of suspicion and disappointment that surrounded the couple Verdot - we will forgive me this shortcut misnomer, since it was unthinkable that Jean-Claude Verdot ritual sacrifice in primitive and egalitarian marriage.
He wanted to know if she slept with guys, but dared not broach the subject. The banality he could have said instead were related to his job, so to contemporary, and he feared to learn more about bounded contempt of his girlfriend to modern culture.
One day she told him she had found a job at the tourist information office in Rennes. And it was almost by tacit agreement that she went to settle there, even if they had considered alternative arrangements. Jean-Claude
Verdot suddenly found himself alone, and excellent orgasms were no longer a pious memory, the belly button and her friend that she exhibited so generously to the public gaze. It plunged into a terrible fright, firstly because meet his sexual needs was again a difficult task, because then he felt no shadow a sadness. His marriage had he been a commercial partnership, an exchange of unbilled services, a more scheming to save rent, technical management of idleness in just over television, a season ticket for to empty the balls no more respectable than masturbation or frequenting whores?
As in any business relationship partner's identity was irrelevant, he could live with any other woman, she could sleep with any other type, and that was probably what she was doing.
He felt the need to look in the mirror. It was tempting. Brown, winning, ambitious, impeccably shaved, the tolerant eye, gesture suave, slim, buttocks close, comfortable in his required weekend which left a net drag of fresh air between his chest and his polo A perfect product of the Parisian bourgeoisie and its Institute for Policy Studies.
He had learned in college that had to be sexually relaxed. It was the reign of the English hood. There was on every wall. We distributed in the subway, at the entrance of pharamacies, next door to the Senior Advisor for Education, to the body art cinemas and testing centers for social action and toilets of restaurants. Photographs lined the giant condom billboards. All of them put: councils, youth ministry, ministry of public health, humanitarian organizations, gay liberation movements. The state distributed the leaflets to schoolgirls evocative images, full of hugs without complex, where we saw pairs of compounds variously practice in a halo of happiness all forms of eroticism, in positions that generations had earlier considered quite obscene, but that the art of photographer transfigured into an evocation of angelic bliss. It urged schoolgirls to be sexually relaxed with slogans such as "thirty partners, thirty condoms." And Jean-Claude Verdot also was employed there, whatever might cost him. And his efforts were rewarded, because few knew how to overcome setbacks to achieve orgasms he had excellent product with this girlfriend who was so proper love. He cherished a feeling of gratitude to the Ministry of Education National whereby his sex life had been so reasonably well.
He never quite understood why the hoods and tops of the images proliferated; new worship of the Phallus swathed in latex, so strong and popular as the cult of the Virgin Mary at its peak, even reversal of the latter, since the immaculate conception was substituted fornication barren her parents had vaguely said that it was to guard against disease, but these diseases did not involve in sexual slogans of government is exhorted youth to practice coitus indiscriminately provided to coat the glans with a film of rubber was a new mystery of the Faith, as transubstantiation, it was unpopular to criticize. Like others, Jean-Claude Verdot had sacrificed to the new phallic worship, to the delight of die rubber, until her relationship was stable enough for him to dispense with the sacrosanct rubber sticky after a favorable opinion of occupational medicine. The shadow of the divine, however Capote hung on all reports, even when they're happening. The hood was present, immanent and transcendent, even when she was absent. She embodied the trinity formed by fornication, security and equality, and by a kind of transmutation in the absence, enveloped in an aura all virtual coitus direct. This protective goddess inspired Jean-Claude Verdot visions. While he was making love, marching in his head psychedelic images of old tires, shoe soles, gloves to clean the toilets, and these elongated balloons with which children were the squares of the nodes.
The couple had the function to solve a technical problem, that of achieving better orgasms by dispensing condoms. Accordingly, the personalities that make up the couple are interchangeable. If Jean-Claude Verdot had lived with his girlfriend rather than another, it's because of frictions that prevent to meet an arbitrarily large number of women in an arbitrarily small time. The affinity of souls had played no role, and it was just because their schedules did not leave room for such affinities might hatch. Recreation was not so different from the work: both consisted of a series of tasks to accomplish: the car park, call the restaurant, the buck on the other side of the net, etc.. The tasks were then substituted for the creatures, now indifferent. And this was an admirable form of equality, solidarity and citizenship, that any woman would aim to become the girlfriend Jean-Claude Verdot, and that he was perfectly replaceable by another man. Finished, the weight of emotional storms, stifling the node mutual rights, the mouth of lead because we did not say what to say ... in an era poisoned herself sexually relaxed you do not life with statements Soul marriage.
It was therefore perfectly natural that Jean-Claude Verdot felt no sadness when a friend moved to Rennes. But contrary to what one could have foreseen that this lack of feeling terrified him, so that the few hairs he had on his legs stood on end and he could not repress a slight snap of teeth.
"I'm the one who is not" is what he could say. Behind the boy rider, slim, energetic and fine manners do was a dizzying nothingness, a bottomless pit dressed by the humdrum fonctionnarial a department, clonic mold of the Institute of Political Studies, relaxed sexual practices that he had been taught, and recreation semi-fashionable cultural meekly inherited from his class. This atrocious
doubt lasted a few weeks. And ambition was the impulse that made him emerge.
He learned the news that a former classmate had been appointed Special Advisor to the Prime Minister for urban renewal. Although urban renewal was less stylish than interdependent cultures, he remembered something like (some Combourg-Schneider) as a dirty son pushy dad (his father was a surgeon in sight) coupled with a perfect fool, and career-flash of this snobbish dislike it seemed a real threat. While he was content with his girlfriend and distribute money to the creators, while others filled their address book and prepared the best places for the future. If a pearl of wisdom whispered to continue to put the small pleasures of Paris, the ferocious territorial instinct urged him to break the back of Combourg-Schneider and his ilk.
After three years in the same position, we had not talked about promotion. He resolved to seek, and quite convinced that the case was vital to overcome the anxiety that the departure of his girlfriend had plunged.
***
Felix Rocquencourt detested nothing so much as these young idiots who in frog ministry offices. They came out the same schools, wore the same suits, and said the same thing. Women were more entertaining, even though most were only trying to take advantage of flexible hours and parsimonious and accumulate various holidays. More metastases progressed (air sorry physicians was almost comical, as if they were not sooner or later, too, join in the grave), plus the museum and the project Norbert Walsung Niebelstein, the summit of the dynamic art and conceptual, it seemed like antics. It really was not very serious on the part of a mature man, suffering from a serious illness, to pretend to be remembered through such childish bureaucratic.
Basically, he was a bastard. Ie a perfect officer. Or a schizophrenic for whom the necessities of the service were beyond reproach, even if they are in complete contradiction with him. He never found it strange that the refined dandy who listened to classical music on period instruments, collected junk, bathed richly scented who had been the envy of the most famous casseroles of the Second Empire, and smoking of excellent cigars selected by a trusted and probably produced by semi-slaves under twelve years, was in the city of Saint-Just interdependent cultures, which did not give a penny to bourgeois art and its archaic values (dignity of the artist, public respect, work, effort, entertainment, reality, rules, narrative coherence, balance, composition ... all this nonsense that Verdun, Guernica and Nagasaki were abolished), but instead funded the overthrow institutional institutions.
It was the race of bastards who burn a village because they are orders, and condemn the innocent to the police because it suits them, besides this, able to enjoy life as an individual, cynically and without remorse. It took a bunch of metastases, and an officer of the extreme right he fucks his daughter, he became conscious.
He was glad he lived to the age Pacific where the last battles were called culture of solidarity, civic education, community health and urban renewal, as god knows how he had ended a few decades ago, when one could make an excellent career move for summary executions in Oradour, Auschwitz or Stalingrad. Small
department officials, he once pampered like soldiers of the new society, were more than sinister puppet - he almost heard in petto calculate the consequences of teasing that the game that would inevitably follow his death would have on their pathetic little career. There was one in front of him, a certain Jean-Claude Verdot, so insignificant that he had just discovered its existence, although he had crossed countless times in the hallways and they were seen at some meetings. This homunculus
came to spend so perfectly consistent with the regulatory maintenance manager, necessary for promotion. He had to promote one, so why not this one, thought Felix Rocquencourt, since in a few months these wriggling insects would fall over into nothingness.
By decree of October 17, 20xx, the government decided that only would be promoted officials who had completed their task fairly, with a keen sense of social priorities and a refusal incisive discrimination. It had established an observatory to identify the actions of each employee to certify their compliance with these objectives. We do not climbed the ranks as a favorable report from the Centre. Therefore the left of Felix Rocquencourt, on a Chippendale desk antique Kensington had been delivered, the report was placed forty-two pages of the Centre Jean-Claude Verdot. He did not read of course, what distinguishes a clerk in a round-of-leather needy. But he took a fancy to browse while his partner, sitting beside his chair, stammered an air of constipated the usual speech, which showed how much he supported the objectives of the department and how much he was willing to exercise responsibility to read further, while respecting the union prerogatives.
-Mmh, Rocquencourt interrupted, it would seem that there is only twenty-eight percent of women among the recipients of your awards ...
-Uh ... I ...
-The Observatory also notes the use of sexist pronouns in your business writing, you know, this circular which states that the use of "he or she is obligatory in official documents, and requires the use of the feminine where the writer saw fit to ease her style ...
The other lost composure.
-This is perhaps not so severe, you may be able to convince the Centre that your choice was particularly appropriate, as regards the political content
works ... "That is to say ...
"Unless you've paid particular attention to the sexual orientation of beneficiaries ..." Well ...
-If, for example, you show in the Observatory supporting evidence, that there are at least nineteen percent of bisexuals, lesbians, gays and transsexuals - I remind you that the compensatory purpose of past discrimination was set at five per cent - see ... ten- nine to twenty-eight ... we are not too far off the mark, although I count the lesbians twice. Felix
Rocquencourt wildly amused. He had decidedly sadistic fiber. The other recovered himself took up a pretty convincing tirade on the need to end sexism and discrimination. It sounded like old hat, a popular tune of our childhood, a melody of old sung by our nurse. Rocquencourt took a kindly and reassured him. The other enlisted to scrupulously ensure gender parity in service, as well as to develop special attention to homosexuals, bisexuals and transsexuals, and also those with disabilities, people of color, homeless , undocumented immigrants, homeless, and other species left behind. Then he rambled on about the ministry ... spearheading awareness citizen ... the role of the state in organic solidarity of society ... the plural cultures and identities community ... the societal questioning of the artist plastic ... the public awareness of the new French school of filmmakers ... etc ... etc ... etc ... Rocquencourt floating in a cottony welfare (probably a metastasis, which ruined some secret nerve center), he listened distractedly while flipping through the report .
He interrupted again.
-There are more serious ...
-Pardon? You would
-funded exhibition on Marcel Estoublon .
*** Jean-Claude Marcel Estoublon Verdot knew as little as possible. Author there on the other side of the border that separates light from darkness. TVs and private theaters were feasted to his works. Those they touched are counted in millions, but those millions do not count, because the exotic and the sentimental junk from the bottom floor were banned in the Ministry of culture and solidarity. He had been specifically created to root out the people and the wrong crowd to raise the real art and socially concerned. But the people resisted and shunned the regional centers of drama to clump before the television and enjoy shamelessly moral scruples of the petty bourgeois canebière and devious chicanery illiterate peasants Valensole. Marcel Estoublon embodied everything that the department fought: commercial success, the apotheosis of the bourgeoisie and conventional writing, French Academy, moral obsolete, love of money, a liberalism of the Third Republic, and especially the people, not one that the trying to shape, but the real people, obscurantist, greedy, selfish, intolerant and tribal people that they could not break even in the Kabyle massively important and Senegalese, as these latter were afflicted with the same bullshit that people, that the work of a Estoublon complacent, who does not convey any social criticism, kept in darkness and the acceptance of his condition.
any link with Marcel Estoublon, even if he involuntarily like kinship, was enough to destroy a career in ministry. And Jean-Claude Verdot, who knew Marcel Estoublon as little as possible (he nearly fell out with his girlfriend he had a surprise at his heavy drama on TV), knew that much. He could have given money to a estoublonade only incidentally and without his knowledge. Or, as it was inconceivable that one can apply for a grant from the department on behalf of the seller of soup, he had simply not been paying attention, thinking perhaps a namesake (but it was only lawful to have the same name as Marcel Estoublon?). It was the old trick of the thing so big we did not see him. At least he had acted under the influence of any suicidal instinct, the call of the abyss he had found in him after his girlfriend was gone in Rennes. You could also think about a tragic error of the Observatory, or a paper slid into the record by the malice of an enemy. But he had none, he who ran perfectly in the spirit of the department and whose sense of rivalry that had not woken up after having spoken of Combourg-Schneider in the book business. ***
The mere mention of Marcel Estoublon enough to buckle Verdot Jean-Claude in a broom closet. But because of this effrontery probably unintentional, Felix Rocquencourt the junk collector who kept his complete works in a library of Estoublon locked, took a liking for this young man. Like the cat who loves to tease a little mouse before the crunch, he decided to have a little fun at the expense of Verdot. Life was so short, especially in his case!
"I want to believe in your good faith, but still, nonetheless, Marcel Estoublon is a bit strong ...
The other protested his loyalty.
-We would have to be convinced that you really ...
Profile Verdot asked to be put to the test.
-How you talk! We do not put an officer to the test! This would contradict this status, hard won after years of struggle, a more sacred! Know, my dear friend, there is something Calvinistic in our caste. It has the profile, or you do not. This is not working we acquire the necessary sense of intimate adherence to our goals.
He had rarely had so much fun. Happiness belongs to those who do not take life seriously. He had to wait to have more than eight months to live to see it. What a shame.
-It seems to me, "said Rocquencourt, only a psychological
custom ..." He paused to turn one of his excellent cigars he smoked in his office, violating the prohibitions and the great national cause of the fight against cancer, which in his condition had plenty of panache. He used to long matches scented with nutmeg, it was manufactured by a craftsman in the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, a provider of eccentrics and the creative class, and lifestyle magazine which was devoted to glowing reports.
- ... only a psychological custom, could tell us about your ability to occupy a position of responsibility.
The waffle was sweet as honey. What a pleasure and disconcert his interlocutor with a stream of terms agreed hypocrite, who told him one thing: it was the right side of the barrier, which is holding the handle of the saucepan, and let go that we do 'in exchange for all the compromises and the abdication required of an aspirant to the rank of schizophrenic bastard, that is to say an officer responsible for the hum of the machine without surprise. The psychological
custom was the treatment of deviants, suspects, and traitors. Those who, like the ordinary porter private social conscience, reveled in Marcel Estoublon parts. Those who had risked jokes about a national priority, a cultural body, a rehabilitation plan of urban space, a collective of artists or a think tank museum. Those who had spoken to politicians from the extreme right. Those who did not have enough signed petitions or too openly sulked the National Theatre Citizen. Those who do not read The World or attended American businessmen. Those that had not quite seen in demonstrations against racism and for peace. Those who mocked in private Markowicz and Sung-Jun, and their friends had betrayed. Those who had known for a son's military career, unless they are bruised to the point of being consumed internally in a terminal residue of metastases.
***
Stunned, bruised, shriveled, Jean-Claude Verdot closed the door behind him who ascended to office padded Rocquencourt. Staggering under the weight of nausea, he dragged himself to his. Stunned by the blow that made him a cultural offender, he could not even leafing The World . It was the first unexpected thing happened to him in twenty-eight years old. She should have fun, but it did not have enough imagination for that.
He wanted to know if she slept with guys, but dared not broach the subject. The banality he could have said instead were related to his job, so to contemporary, and he feared to learn more about bounded contempt of his girlfriend to modern culture.
One day she told him she had found a job at the tourist information office in Rennes. And it was almost by tacit agreement that she went to settle there, even if they had considered alternative arrangements. Jean-Claude
Verdot suddenly found himself alone, and excellent orgasms were no longer a pious memory, the belly button and her friend that she exhibited so generously to the public gaze. It plunged into a terrible fright, firstly because meet his sexual needs was again a difficult task, because then he felt no shadow a sadness. His marriage had he been a commercial partnership, an exchange of unbilled services, a more scheming to save rent, technical management of idleness in just over television, a season ticket for to empty the balls no more respectable than masturbation or frequenting whores?
As in any business relationship partner's identity was irrelevant, he could live with any other woman, she could sleep with any other type, and that was probably what she was doing.
He felt the need to look in the mirror. It was tempting. Brown, winning, ambitious, impeccably shaved, the tolerant eye, gesture suave, slim, buttocks close, comfortable in his required weekend which left a net drag of fresh air between his chest and his polo A perfect product of the Parisian bourgeoisie and its Institute for Policy Studies.
He had learned in college that had to be sexually relaxed. It was the reign of the English hood. There was on every wall. We distributed in the subway, at the entrance of pharamacies, next door to the Senior Advisor for Education, to the body art cinemas and testing centers for social action and toilets of restaurants. Photographs lined the giant condom billboards. All of them put: councils, youth ministry, ministry of public health, humanitarian organizations, gay liberation movements. The state distributed the leaflets to schoolgirls evocative images, full of hugs without complex, where we saw pairs of compounds variously practice in a halo of happiness all forms of eroticism, in positions that generations had earlier considered quite obscene, but that the art of photographer transfigured into an evocation of angelic bliss. It urged schoolgirls to be sexually relaxed with slogans such as "thirty partners, thirty condoms." And Jean-Claude Verdot also was employed there, whatever might cost him. And his efforts were rewarded, because few knew how to overcome setbacks to achieve orgasms he had excellent product with this girlfriend who was so proper love. He cherished a feeling of gratitude to the Ministry of Education National whereby his sex life had been so reasonably well.
He never quite understood why the hoods and tops of the images proliferated; new worship of the Phallus swathed in latex, so strong and popular as the cult of the Virgin Mary at its peak, even reversal of the latter, since the immaculate conception was substituted fornication barren her parents had vaguely said that it was to guard against disease, but these diseases did not involve in sexual slogans of government is exhorted youth to practice coitus indiscriminately provided to coat the glans with a film of rubber was a new mystery of the Faith, as transubstantiation, it was unpopular to criticize. Like others, Jean-Claude Verdot had sacrificed to the new phallic worship, to the delight of die rubber, until her relationship was stable enough for him to dispense with the sacrosanct rubber sticky after a favorable opinion of occupational medicine. The shadow of the divine, however Capote hung on all reports, even when they're happening. The hood was present, immanent and transcendent, even when she was absent. She embodied the trinity formed by fornication, security and equality, and by a kind of transmutation in the absence, enveloped in an aura all virtual coitus direct. This protective goddess inspired Jean-Claude Verdot visions. While he was making love, marching in his head psychedelic images of old tires, shoe soles, gloves to clean the toilets, and these elongated balloons with which children were the squares of the nodes.
The couple had the function to solve a technical problem, that of achieving better orgasms by dispensing condoms. Accordingly, the personalities that make up the couple are interchangeable. If Jean-Claude Verdot had lived with his girlfriend rather than another, it's because of frictions that prevent to meet an arbitrarily large number of women in an arbitrarily small time. The affinity of souls had played no role, and it was just because their schedules did not leave room for such affinities might hatch. Recreation was not so different from the work: both consisted of a series of tasks to accomplish: the car park, call the restaurant, the buck on the other side of the net, etc.. The tasks were then substituted for the creatures, now indifferent. And this was an admirable form of equality, solidarity and citizenship, that any woman would aim to become the girlfriend Jean-Claude Verdot, and that he was perfectly replaceable by another man. Finished, the weight of emotional storms, stifling the node mutual rights, the mouth of lead because we did not say what to say ... in an era poisoned herself sexually relaxed you do not life with statements Soul marriage.
It was therefore perfectly natural that Jean-Claude Verdot felt no sadness when a friend moved to Rennes. But contrary to what one could have foreseen that this lack of feeling terrified him, so that the few hairs he had on his legs stood on end and he could not repress a slight snap of teeth.
"I'm the one who is not" is what he could say. Behind the boy rider, slim, energetic and fine manners do was a dizzying nothingness, a bottomless pit dressed by the humdrum fonctionnarial a department, clonic mold of the Institute of Political Studies, relaxed sexual practices that he had been taught, and recreation semi-fashionable cultural meekly inherited from his class. This atrocious
doubt lasted a few weeks. And ambition was the impulse that made him emerge.
He learned the news that a former classmate had been appointed Special Advisor to the Prime Minister for urban renewal. Although urban renewal was less stylish than interdependent cultures, he remembered something like (some Combourg-Schneider) as a dirty son pushy dad (his father was a surgeon in sight) coupled with a perfect fool, and career-flash of this snobbish dislike it seemed a real threat. While he was content with his girlfriend and distribute money to the creators, while others filled their address book and prepared the best places for the future. If a pearl of wisdom whispered to continue to put the small pleasures of Paris, the ferocious territorial instinct urged him to break the back of Combourg-Schneider and his ilk.
After three years in the same position, we had not talked about promotion. He resolved to seek, and quite convinced that the case was vital to overcome the anxiety that the departure of his girlfriend had plunged.
***
Felix Rocquencourt detested nothing so much as these young idiots who in frog ministry offices. They came out the same schools, wore the same suits, and said the same thing. Women were more entertaining, even though most were only trying to take advantage of flexible hours and parsimonious and accumulate various holidays. More metastases progressed (air sorry physicians was almost comical, as if they were not sooner or later, too, join in the grave), plus the museum and the project Norbert Walsung Niebelstein, the summit of the dynamic art and conceptual, it seemed like antics. It really was not very serious on the part of a mature man, suffering from a serious illness, to pretend to be remembered through such childish bureaucratic.
Basically, he was a bastard. Ie a perfect officer. Or a schizophrenic for whom the necessities of the service were beyond reproach, even if they are in complete contradiction with him. He never found it strange that the refined dandy who listened to classical music on period instruments, collected junk, bathed richly scented who had been the envy of the most famous casseroles of the Second Empire, and smoking of excellent cigars selected by a trusted and probably produced by semi-slaves under twelve years, was in the city of Saint-Just interdependent cultures, which did not give a penny to bourgeois art and its archaic values (dignity of the artist, public respect, work, effort, entertainment, reality, rules, narrative coherence, balance, composition ... all this nonsense that Verdun, Guernica and Nagasaki were abolished), but instead funded the overthrow institutional institutions.
It was the race of bastards who burn a village because they are orders, and condemn the innocent to the police because it suits them, besides this, able to enjoy life as an individual, cynically and without remorse. It took a bunch of metastases, and an officer of the extreme right he fucks his daughter, he became conscious.
He was glad he lived to the age Pacific where the last battles were called culture of solidarity, civic education, community health and urban renewal, as god knows how he had ended a few decades ago, when one could make an excellent career move for summary executions in Oradour, Auschwitz or Stalingrad. Small
department officials, he once pampered like soldiers of the new society, were more than sinister puppet - he almost heard in petto calculate the consequences of teasing that the game that would inevitably follow his death would have on their pathetic little career. There was one in front of him, a certain Jean-Claude Verdot, so insignificant that he had just discovered its existence, although he had crossed countless times in the hallways and they were seen at some meetings. This homunculus
came to spend so perfectly consistent with the regulatory maintenance manager, necessary for promotion. He had to promote one, so why not this one, thought Felix Rocquencourt, since in a few months these wriggling insects would fall over into nothingness.
By decree of October 17, 20xx, the government decided that only would be promoted officials who had completed their task fairly, with a keen sense of social priorities and a refusal incisive discrimination. It had established an observatory to identify the actions of each employee to certify their compliance with these objectives. We do not climbed the ranks as a favorable report from the Centre. Therefore the left of Felix Rocquencourt, on a Chippendale desk antique Kensington had been delivered, the report was placed forty-two pages of the Centre Jean-Claude Verdot. He did not read of course, what distinguishes a clerk in a round-of-leather needy. But he took a fancy to browse while his partner, sitting beside his chair, stammered an air of constipated the usual speech, which showed how much he supported the objectives of the department and how much he was willing to exercise responsibility to read further, while respecting the union prerogatives.
-Mmh, Rocquencourt interrupted, it would seem that there is only twenty-eight percent of women among the recipients of your awards ...
-Uh ... I ...
-The Observatory also notes the use of sexist pronouns in your business writing, you know, this circular which states that the use of "he or she is obligatory in official documents, and requires the use of the feminine where the writer saw fit to ease her style ...
The other lost composure.
-This is perhaps not so severe, you may be able to convince the Centre that your choice was particularly appropriate, as regards the political content
works ... "That is to say ...
"Unless you've paid particular attention to the sexual orientation of beneficiaries ..." Well ...
-If, for example, you show in the Observatory supporting evidence, that there are at least nineteen percent of bisexuals, lesbians, gays and transsexuals - I remind you that the compensatory purpose of past discrimination was set at five per cent - see ... ten- nine to twenty-eight ... we are not too far off the mark, although I count the lesbians twice. Felix
Rocquencourt wildly amused. He had decidedly sadistic fiber. The other recovered himself took up a pretty convincing tirade on the need to end sexism and discrimination. It sounded like old hat, a popular tune of our childhood, a melody of old sung by our nurse. Rocquencourt took a kindly and reassured him. The other enlisted to scrupulously ensure gender parity in service, as well as to develop special attention to homosexuals, bisexuals and transsexuals, and also those with disabilities, people of color, homeless , undocumented immigrants, homeless, and other species left behind. Then he rambled on about the ministry ... spearheading awareness citizen ... the role of the state in organic solidarity of society ... the plural cultures and identities community ... the societal questioning of the artist plastic ... the public awareness of the new French school of filmmakers ... etc ... etc ... etc ... Rocquencourt floating in a cottony welfare (probably a metastasis, which ruined some secret nerve center), he listened distractedly while flipping through the report .
He interrupted again.
-There are more serious ...
-Pardon? You would
-funded exhibition on Marcel Estoublon .
*** Jean-Claude Marcel Estoublon Verdot knew as little as possible. Author there on the other side of the border that separates light from darkness. TVs and private theaters were feasted to his works. Those they touched are counted in millions, but those millions do not count, because the exotic and the sentimental junk from the bottom floor were banned in the Ministry of culture and solidarity. He had been specifically created to root out the people and the wrong crowd to raise the real art and socially concerned. But the people resisted and shunned the regional centers of drama to clump before the television and enjoy shamelessly moral scruples of the petty bourgeois canebière and devious chicanery illiterate peasants Valensole. Marcel Estoublon embodied everything that the department fought: commercial success, the apotheosis of the bourgeoisie and conventional writing, French Academy, moral obsolete, love of money, a liberalism of the Third Republic, and especially the people, not one that the trying to shape, but the real people, obscurantist, greedy, selfish, intolerant and tribal people that they could not break even in the Kabyle massively important and Senegalese, as these latter were afflicted with the same bullshit that people, that the work of a Estoublon complacent, who does not convey any social criticism, kept in darkness and the acceptance of his condition.
any link with Marcel Estoublon, even if he involuntarily like kinship, was enough to destroy a career in ministry. And Jean-Claude Verdot, who knew Marcel Estoublon as little as possible (he nearly fell out with his girlfriend he had a surprise at his heavy drama on TV), knew that much. He could have given money to a estoublonade only incidentally and without his knowledge. Or, as it was inconceivable that one can apply for a grant from the department on behalf of the seller of soup, he had simply not been paying attention, thinking perhaps a namesake (but it was only lawful to have the same name as Marcel Estoublon?). It was the old trick of the thing so big we did not see him. At least he had acted under the influence of any suicidal instinct, the call of the abyss he had found in him after his girlfriend was gone in Rennes. You could also think about a tragic error of the Observatory, or a paper slid into the record by the malice of an enemy. But he had none, he who ran perfectly in the spirit of the department and whose sense of rivalry that had not woken up after having spoken of Combourg-Schneider in the book business. ***
The mere mention of Marcel Estoublon enough to buckle Verdot Jean-Claude in a broom closet. But because of this effrontery probably unintentional, Felix Rocquencourt the junk collector who kept his complete works in a library of Estoublon locked, took a liking for this young man. Like the cat who loves to tease a little mouse before the crunch, he decided to have a little fun at the expense of Verdot. Life was so short, especially in his case!
"I want to believe in your good faith, but still, nonetheless, Marcel Estoublon is a bit strong ...
The other protested his loyalty.
-We would have to be convinced that you really ...
Profile Verdot asked to be put to the test.
-How you talk! We do not put an officer to the test! This would contradict this status, hard won after years of struggle, a more sacred! Know, my dear friend, there is something Calvinistic in our caste. It has the profile, or you do not. This is not working we acquire the necessary sense of intimate adherence to our goals.
He had rarely had so much fun. Happiness belongs to those who do not take life seriously. He had to wait to have more than eight months to live to see it. What a shame.
-It seems to me, "said Rocquencourt, only a psychological
custom ..." He paused to turn one of his excellent cigars he smoked in his office, violating the prohibitions and the great national cause of the fight against cancer, which in his condition had plenty of panache. He used to long matches scented with nutmeg, it was manufactured by a craftsman in the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, a provider of eccentrics and the creative class, and lifestyle magazine which was devoted to glowing reports.
- ... only a psychological custom, could tell us about your ability to occupy a position of responsibility.
The waffle was sweet as honey. What a pleasure and disconcert his interlocutor with a stream of terms agreed hypocrite, who told him one thing: it was the right side of the barrier, which is holding the handle of the saucepan, and let go that we do 'in exchange for all the compromises and the abdication required of an aspirant to the rank of schizophrenic bastard, that is to say an officer responsible for the hum of the machine without surprise. The psychological
custom was the treatment of deviants, suspects, and traitors. Those who, like the ordinary porter private social conscience, reveled in Marcel Estoublon parts. Those who had risked jokes about a national priority, a cultural body, a rehabilitation plan of urban space, a collective of artists or a think tank museum. Those who had spoken to politicians from the extreme right. Those who did not have enough signed petitions or too openly sulked the National Theatre Citizen. Those who do not read The World or attended American businessmen. Those that had not quite seen in demonstrations against racism and for peace. Those who mocked in private Markowicz and Sung-Jun, and their friends had betrayed. Those who had known for a son's military career, unless they are bruised to the point of being consumed internally in a terminal residue of metastases.
***
Stunned, bruised, shriveled, Jean-Claude Verdot closed the door behind him who ascended to office padded Rocquencourt. Staggering under the weight of nausea, he dragged himself to his. Stunned by the blow that made him a cultural offender, he could not even leafing The World . It was the first unexpected thing happened to him in twenty-eight years old. She should have fun, but it did not have enough imagination for that.
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