‘The whole dream of democracy,’ he wrote, ‘is to raise the proletariat to the level of stupidity attained by the bourgeoisie.’
Knowing that he was going to die, the young Cadou wrote a short epitaph for his tomb, which he asked his family to accept as his “complete works”. An ironic request. The epitaph reads as follows: “I tried in vain to be other pieces of furniture my whole life, but even that was denied me. So I have been a single piece of furniture my whole life, which is, after all, no mean achievement when one considers that the rest is silence.”
What are you musing on, Mercier?
On the horror of existence, confusedly, said Mercier.
What about a drink? said Camier.
i wrote a program that makes a poem out of your gchats. try it out and let me know what you think.
“Lekh had a pimpled, freckled face. The peasants claimed that such faces belong to those who steal eggs from swallows’ necks; Lekh himself asserted that this was due to his spitting carelessly into fire in his youth, claiming that his father was a village scribe who wanted him to become a priest. But he was drawn to the forests. He studied the ways of birds and envied them their ability to fly. One day he escaped from his father’s hut and began to wander from village to village, from forest to forest, like a wild and abandoned bird. In time he began to catch birds. He observed the wondrous habits of quail and larks, could imitate the carefree call of the cuckoo, the screech of the magpie, the hooting of the owl. He knew the courting habits of the bullfinch, the jealous fury of the landrail, circling a nest abandoned by its female, and the sorrow of the swallow whole nesting place was wantonly destroyed by young boys. He understood the principles of the hawk’s flight and admired the stork’s patience in hunting for frogs. He envied the nightingale its song.” — The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski
