“Oui, vous avez raison, je suis un imbecile,”
begins Victor Hugo, of his submission to the providence of a fool.
“…en même temps, j’ai, comme Eschyle, deux âmes;
L’une où croissent les fleurs, l’autre ou couvent les flammes.

Two souls he has; one blooming with fragrant gardens—of peonies, asters and irises—the other concealing flames within. In his contradictory heart, the mythology of Theocritus is enrobed in the apocalypse of Aubigné.

Puisque je vois comment sont faits les gens d’esprit.
Je suis de mon plein gre rentrer dans la tempête.
Oui, rarement on eut l’audace d’être bête

What do we know of those who have such audacity to be fools, the becoming of spirit? Hugo willingly, decisively, enters this tempest of lunacy that is at once his unmaking and his certainty.

Yukio Mishima writes,
You glitter with debauched loneliness.
He could speak of anyone.

But what do we know now of letters and poems, blind confidence in the uncertain, foolish acts and the courage of gesture? We are instructed to cower in comfort and, happy idiots, obey until we forget how to live fiercely in purpose, refusing the tyranny of numbness.

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