|
|
 Erect on his ego in the middle of the pont de l’Europe in this golden light of an autumnal end of afternoon softening even the languors of the rue de Rome, the little Marron-Crapette, hand in hand with his sister, is awaiting, febrile, the next trail of smoke which will remove them from the watchful eye of their private governess. It is the hour of the Department Stores, the hour of the Sacré-Coeur, the hour stolen from the daily routine of the Residential Quarters nestling around cemeteries furbished like the entrance halls of luxury blocks of flats ! The locomotive whistles, the steam rises, the little Marron-Crapette plunges his hand down the split in the underskirt of the Mademoiselle... Doctor Nononcle wakes up sweating, mastering with an uncertain hand the spasms of his morning alarm clock. As only too often, he is again a victim of these painful wakings wih a confused “mentism”, of these hemorrhages of the sensitivity against which the antiephialtics reveal themselves as powerless. Doctor Nononcle has, however, tried everything : riding his mare Marguerite who, like the thyroid, sometimes begins to gallop, a coxless pair at the pont de Charenton under the colours of the Racing Club d’Asnières in the company of the Director of the ENA, courses for the improvement of driving in high winds in the suburbs of Arpajon, bull-fighting of female ruminants who come to rub their silken flanks against the white barriers of his property in the Amiens area (Monterlant in Picardie on the whole !). Yes, for sure, he loved his sister like any Chateaubriand, for she alone was able to console him for his sentimental disappointments with their first Mistress, at the time when they were contemplating The Black Lison which opened up the trench of the Batignolles on the way to America. Later, in front of the Guignol and the little donkeys of the Ranelagh gardens, at the foot of the statue of Jean de la Fontaine, the little Marron-Crapette surprized himself pulling the fox by the tail, the probable cause of his curious and durable antipathy towards the animal sculpturers of the capital which he made responsible for all the insults giving a shine to the pavements of the City of lights. .. Would not music be comforting for him, he then imagined, even if it was too late to still talk about the Malibran, and although he was a life-member of the High Society of the Friends of the Garcia Family ; after all, the insipid streets of his quartier chic all sang, or nearly all, the eternal glory of these arrangeurs of notes. By the way at the bipolar meetings of Pauillac, one of his eminent Confrères diagnosed the musician Robert Schumann as suffering from the appearance of tinnitus which gave rise to hallucinoses caused by the absence of Clara allegedly alone in Russia in 1843, while everybody knew full well, however, that Clara did not go to Russia until 1844, not alone, but gallantly accompanied by her husband : the eminent Confrère had consequently won, beckoned by his patients, a single ticket to Endenich where he was impatiently awaited by his excellent Colleague Prof. The Tailor, a long-term resident in the said House ever since, at nightfall and in the place of the Master of Zwickau, he had excreted a series of poems in the confidentio-lyrical magazine of one of his friends, a grandissimo court dwarf cloned from a garden gnome. So in his drawing-room, every month at 15 hours - on a Sunday - Doctor Nononcle gave little concerts to which he invited parents, friends, patients above all, comedy à la Scapin as a prelude to which his official spouse (his “little usual mammal”, as he liked to call her before an admiring audience) distillated by way of comfort and in order to feed the applause, hot chocolate and flat cakes. The Master even went as far as setting a fashion, since his great rival, Dr Goliath in person, inaugurated in his turn a succession of musical encounters in the well heeled temples of the eternal Faith, while his gentle half, who had carefully filtered the visitors of these free concerts, “Music to Bury” (Musique à Recouvrir), pressed, at the exit, the hands of all and everybody in the foolish hope of extracting the compliments which were perhaps still hiding there ...
At the end of painful studies punctuated by juvenile acne contacted by closely protecting - and successfully so, if one believes Lacan - his sister’s underclothes (his parents had entrusted him with the rôle of the guardian of the Sublime Door, a rôle consisting in taking off and putting on the coat of the young lady in order to better protect her from the lasciviousness of all these males casting a glance to the play of calves upon the nice pair of gams of their daughter’s girlfriends), studies incessantly enhanced by the resitting of exams (“warmed-up stuff”, the family cook muttered into the ear of the bakeress on the corner), the young Marron-Crapette finally launched himself into oath-bound medicine in order to better give himself up, in the semi-darkness of his psychic vomitorium, to the enjoyment of the slow confessions such as recorded in The Bosom of the Bosoms of his practice under the tutelary protection of a crucifix which, in times gone by would have led to the immediate internment of the Prefect Herold in the name of the laws of strict secularity or, if one prefers, in order to abandon himself to the arbitrariness of public delegitimation of a way of thinking as personal as it is subjective according to definition, under cover of a politically well-meaning ideology and the remunerative modes of the moment : did not his brother-in-law sing the living merits of the Hypermarkets of the Caberlot, branches of the “ready-to-think” of the Karembouille Institute, famous liquidator of moderately developed schizophrenics or other backwards in terms of phenylketomuria, that is to say individuals inapt for the games of croquet, tennis, bridge, backgammon, pucks, baccarat, if not cocktails, vernissages or other society games very much between ourselves and this, notwithstanding the massive injections of Haloperidol or of Sulfazine, individuals, however, previously inquisitioned in the recesses of rue Lauriston before being needled and duly fleeced, if not liquidated in the shaks of lucrative clinics to the motive : not shown in the Argus any more or do a tango step before attacking slope 703. For Dr Nononcle, nobody was aware of it, had committed some twenty war books (is not every adult a survivor ?) calligraphed on the ground floor of his insipid country house in the lousy Champagne, while his Madelon of a sister scanned the prosopopoeia of the Master by striking with three awkward fingers the yellowed keys of one of the five Bechstein concert-grand pianos crouched amid the surrounding humidity, and that Salome, his canteen cook of a wife, fried for him succulent tripes the old-fashioned way while veiling her face at the recital of the ubiquity of sexual fantasies and of dreams of hallucinatory inanition during which the Master saw file past him naked youths carrying exquisite dishes on basins of solid silver, while swearing by the by that biological fidelity presupposes a handsome love illness since, according to him there is thought to exist a physique and a chemistry, if not an alchemy, of sentiments and not only in the test tubes of Dr Faust. He specified by the way to who wanted to hear it that on the Way of God of the Chemin des Dames* one only wins a victory a hundred thousand times programmed on the Staff Map of Love ; for he had heard it say, without however giving it total credit, that the spirits of the dead came back and that the maternity wards overflow with children who absolutely wanted to incarnate themselves, something little apt to improve, for those in place, the statistics of the labour market, such as very insidiously underlined by his “Centralien” of a father and even if his nephew from the Cabanon Rumba to the Cabane Samba went to repeat everywhere : “My Uncle is my Auntie”, in the name of this tensile familial “I” which, from the shores of Varna to the cliffs of Kamtchatka, proclaimed urbi et orbi the epic exploits of the society of Troulala. Truthful declarations thus thrown at the face of those led off the path who didn’t believe in the orgasm of Father Adam nor in the skullcap of the swollen headed Pope, Dr Nononcle didn’t therefore hesitate any more at all to interpret the words of the Gospel much as the gesticulations of politicians reciprocally throwing anathema at each other, not without laughing at such President (under analysis) in the bosom of his Compère, ex-top model for ready-to-wear, collector of jackets of all kinds, “marmoset” afflicted with “cesaritis”, protector of France, mother of the arts, of the arms and of the kings, one of those “thirsty for consideration” saluting the return of the militarily or literarily suppressed into the columns of a “Canard” with pictures the reading of which he made obligatory for his maker of mundane clothes. Dr Nononcle, a nosographe specialized in the name of the Nation, and of continued extortion, and aggravated, in the manner of any Catanian ( ô Bellini !), although received at the Vatican, was, however, extremely suspicious of the auditive hallucinations of individuals like Jeanne d’Arc, Bernadette or other Bebeceist eructations collected by the galenas** of receiving apparatus in want of listeners ; he categorically did not tolerate that, in the name of female spirits awaiting the Saviour (even if he was recharged by Mesmerouf), one brain gone astray could be right - alone - against the Raison d’Etat (“ Eppur, si muove “ ?) ; he mocked the original inventor who ruins himself, the bilious man who sends blue paper to all and sundry, the peasant who crams with small shots the buttock of the citydweller who airs himself ; he despised the occitanic cowdung population (“ qu’ès aco “ ?) who raise their forks at the arrival of the Molières at Gignac, not to mention the jealous who tightly grip the Kiki of the Demonesses***, even when his sister, proud disciple of The Slobish Academy, would have been (in the name of the “whitening” of the negroes ?) quite simply content to be Pope like every pupil of Freud who respects himself, although it is common knowledge that the unique and only intelligence does not always suffice to occupy a function to which Adolf and Mao in person would not have acceded, but not the Old Tom. (“ bene sunt pendentes “). Dr Nononcle, made modest, had thus negotiated, at top speed, the chicaneries of life, passing not without virtuosity from the nightshirts of the rue Saint-Dominique to the camisoles of Cabanis market, going to all the glandular concerts from the Salle Gaveau to la Salpêtrière (dear to the Abbé Franz Liszt) on the arm of his acolyte on duty, for he had never been able to countenance that his Lucretia of a sister should have been, “ in fine “, raped by a rabbit from the Caucasus (Let’s decentre ! Let’s decentre !) before rediscovering - at the end of the tether - the art of painting and in order to better go into ecstasies (is not psychoanalysis the art of restoring paintings ?) before the under Daubs ornamenting the walls of her dining-room, residual scrawlings in forgotten Salons and dating from well before the times where the Goghs of the Oise fled before the Goths from beyond the Rhine. Dr Nononcle had even asked himself what Mallarmé could well have found in the charms of Julie Manet if not in those of Berthe Morisot since, so to speak, the flesh was so sad and Stéphane had read all the books, except those of the famous Professor Créteil, it goes without saying. But it’s not the patient’s rôle, all things considered and without forgetting the Divan, to cause advancement in the search for the “pigs” and for the “speculators” of the doctrine of the good Dr Freud and of his “Saint Ann” ladies, or those of the ideology of Dr Jung and of his Sabina or also those of this Otto Gross who firmly believed that one had to bed them all before conquering the virgin territory of their psyche, even at the risk of a lapse à la Milanaise for they are always ready to throttle, that is to say because of the entire collapse of the body, to dig with an expert tongue into the very bottom of the foundation of the soul. Crouched behind his trifocals, his Sonotone hidden behind the hairy cavity of his tympanons, Dr Nononcle, according to the semi-official diagnosis of Dr Head Otto Rhino, is not supposed to have ever completely resolved his transfer to his analyst. Dr head Otto Rhino, officer of the order of Saint-Louis, Director of the Esquirol Institution, tempered, however, the sharp edge of the diagnosis for the ear of his respectful second fiddles by this attempt at definition worthy of Kinésitherapy : “would not the complexes be, after all, nothing but the vertebral column of thinking ?”, a deep set graffitus which his son had brought back for him from some distant corner of the lycée Papi (or was it from the island of M. Seguin ?) where the said son sold “ La Cause du Bas-Peuple “ to the children of those on High ? Dr Nononcle, sat in the depth of his best chair with arm-rests depressed by the weight of the elbows of his invitees, takes again a spoonful of Phenyltalamine mixed with vitamine-enriched Aspirin 500 (but what’re you drinking, Lunatic I say ?!!) in order to better strengthen himself given his sister’s monumental judgment : “tarts all of them !” and before plunging back with ever renewed pleasure into the delights of the Surate which promises forty lashes to her who lets the mere white of her ankle be seen. Do’nt say you wern’t warned ? Notes * Le Chemin des Dames ** Galène : Galena is a compound of sulfide of lead which exists naturally more or less everywhere in the world. Galena allows detection of an electromagnetic wave emitted by a radio transmittor. *** Demonesses text : Cf. who tightly grip the Kiki (neck) of the Demonesses Translation : Dagmar Coward Kuschke (Tübingen) |
ADG-Paris © 2005-2024 - Sitemap