For years, on our tax radio, I talked about history and a lot of literature, especially essays. I did this in particular, week after week, at the microphone of Marie-Louise Arsenault. She and I didn’t always agree. We even happened to mess up our buns a bit off-air.
I never told him this, I believe, but I feel a sincere and profound admiration for this overflowing energy of his and manifested by these words which flow freely. In verbal jousts, with anyone, Marie-Louise enjoys a considerable advantage. She seems to have a third lung. It allows her to speak as if she never needs to breathe. Such circular breathing makes its interlocutor breathless.
We can very well disagree with someone while drawing a certain satisfaction, even pleasure, from these exchanges. Discussion and debate of ideas, even vigorous, constitute the beating heart of our societies. This is an extremely stimulating exercise, which can be learned.
Last week, Marie-Louise published extracts from comments she receives in bulk on one or other of her messaging services. She coldly notes, once again, having been called “a whore, a slut, a cunt, a public nuisance” and other such pleasantries. Arrows. Rocks. Fierce and atrocious features. Most often very rude. Fortunately, it’s not like him to stay silent in a corner.
How on earth do people allow themselves to confuse the debate with such an appetite for death? Throwing out the worst nonsense, hidden behind your keyboard, without feeling the need to argue, to develop your thoughts even a little, what does that mean? How can one utter such absurd nonsense without realizing that it is the one who professes them who immediately disqualifies himself? This undertow of the spirit of dialogue seems intended to silence, as a priority, the voices of women.
Some people are outraged that Valérie Plante has decided to no longer bother herself with those who pour all their gall on her. Of course, being a public figure means knowing how to deal with criticism. But to criticize is not just to belch. No one has to endure humiliation and intimidation just because we are in the age of communications. Who can say that the dehumanization of such a process – which consists of acting as if the other were without sensible existence – can be considered as progress?
Several public women have spoken to me, over time, about the angry and scabrous comments that reach her. Not to mention the crude photos addressed to them. I also receive distressing letters and comments as a public figure. But it’s nothing, believe me, absolutely nothing, compared to what these women receive.
What makes our public discussions so narrow, petty and stunted? Have we fallen on our heads? I read what has been written in recent days about Josée Blanchette. She has just published, in Almost virgina story on a sensitive subject. But there are those who, without discernment, level the charge against her. Which tends, to say the least, to confirm the accuracy of his statement.
I find them admirably courageous, these women, to continue no matter what in front of all these guys who relieve their anxiety as if they had remained in the Cro-Magnon era, belching fantasies that they themselves generated as if they were These were truths.
Not everyone inhabits exactly the same world. Nor the same neighborhood. Nor the same city. Not even the same campaign. Everyone dresses their own way, wears their hair with the hair they have (or don’t have, in my case). Everyone eats at the time that suits them, swallowing what they have on hand. Some go to bed before the birds. Others prefer to wait until the early hours of the morning, when the nightjars, with their tragic songs, return to bed, disturbing the old owls.
Everyone experiences the pleasures and despairs of existence in their own way. In short, we adapt as best we can, in our own way, to the solitude that being born engenders. It’s not surprising, in short, that our neighbors don’t necessarily share the same ideas and the same ways of doing things as you.
What is beautiful seems ugly to some. What is graceful is only foolish to others. And everything that we loved yesterday as new is seen as old today. Mediocre people occupy the best places. Quality people are disqualified. Why struggle at work, while others just indulge in idleness while getting paid? What meaning do we make of all this?
Life is full of irregular and changing manifestations. She is difficult to understand, even in her daily outbursts. Being a society means learning to deal with the diversity that surrounds us.
Old owl or young peacock, we are often very curious social birds. Speaking of birds, considering The sneerthe new novel by Éric Dupont, I came across an illustrated album that he had signed a few years ago with Mathilde Cinq-Mars. In Our birds everyone, from 7 to 77 years old, can find something to better appreciate our bird life. I got drunk reading his finely crafted little stories that had escaped me. Dupont brings to life with so much passion the grouse, the great blue heron, the raven and other birds that his words transported me, for a moment, far from the baseness of our world. After all, isn’t nature this common space that binds us to each other and that we owe it to ourselves, more than anything, to preserve without complaining?