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  Perhaps the most Macronist of all Macron things during the debate about the reforms – the debate in the street, the debate in the supposed Legislature – was Macron deciding that this was just the time to give Jeff Bezos the Legion d’Honneur. I missed it when it happened – I was turned on to it by the excellent, very sad article in Media Part by Nicholas Mathieu: « Savez-vous quelle réserve de rage vous venez de libérer ? » I read the Mathieu article after reading the “what does Macron’s inner circle think” article by Le Monde, which keeps in intimate and admiring touch with the circle around the great man: “Selon plusieurs de ses proches, le président de la République n’a « aucun scrupule, aucun regret »(According to those close to him, the president of the Republic has “no scruple, no regret”). This is how Le Monde writes – a far cry from the revolutionary stylings in 1792 of Pere Duchesne, the paper whose motto was: Je suis le véritable père Duchesne, foutre!” – I am the fucking

  There is a Jewish myth recounted by the philosopher Shestov that goes like this: when the angel of death comes down to close the eyes of man, the angel’s body is all covered with eyes. Sometimes the angel discovers that he has made a mistake. The term of the man’s life that he has come for still has more time to go. So the angel pulls one of the eyes off his body and gives it to the man. “ … then the man sees strange and new things, more than other men see and more than he himself sees with his natural eyes; and he also sees, not as men see but as the inhabitants of other worlds see: that things do not exist "necessarily", but "freely", that they are and at the same time are not, that they appear when they disappear and disappear when they appear. The testimony of the old, natural eyes, "everybody's" eyes, directly contradicts the testimony of the eyes left by the angel. But since all our other organs of sense, and even our reason, agree w

  Vienna 1921 …. where, cigarladen, the “social vampire” steals from a drunken greenhorn his daddy’s crowns: Stören Sie nicht der Spiel! A great admirer of tits, and morocco bound Pornography, illustrations by Rops. In the Cabaret Hölle your table, monsieurs An occasional word with the cops To smooth down any controvers. The song surrenders to the singer Her shorn eyebrows, her glossed back hair its lips of glass, its sacre coeur. Shall we linger by the fall guy’s latest lair? … his wife threw vitriol At one of Europe’s famous flirts? That face was not, although, Marked – her hat received the worst Of it… in the “fameux hôtel Sacher” Behind the Opera, there they built A love nest out of Masoch and Schnitzler Everything in gold late Habsburg gilt. Later: “Les femmes m’ont trompé, le jeu m’a trahi » The cat, the fatal cat, is out for a spree. Yellow gloved player in your mental cabaret Your belly up deuces are leaden and gray. - Karen Chamisso