De Gaulle’s season
The first decade of November returns every year. Like all decades, we will say. But what makes it the most memorable is the renewed conjunction, in France, of two memories (the great man, the Great War) and a blackness of the frozen sky which, little by little, covers the territory. national. A gray mist settles in the hearts and seizes the bodies.
The season of the dead is linked to the memorial of the greatest Frenchman that we, living, had to know, to follow or to endure, according to our personal orientations, under the Ve. The scale that de Gaulle takes on grows as his followers disappear and the witnesses of what he was leave us. The Companions of the Liberation can no longer be counted on more than two fingers of one hand, but the more time goes by the more Gaullists and Gaullians there are.
→ READ. General de Gaulle: our dossier on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of his death
Gaullists are people of the moderate right who do not like to be called that because they refuse until there is a left-right divide. Gaullians love style, including those on the left. Epic style, literary style of a disciple of Chateaubriand and Péguy mixed. Oratory style made up of finds combining old words, banter and glory, chiseled sarcasm and grandeur, height of sight and cowardice. Baby-boom children, by dint of having heard his inaugural text repeated, ended up persuading themselves that they themselves, born long after the fact, had heard the call of June 18. To some extent, their falsified memories would have made them heroes of the Internal Resistance or of the Free French Forces when it was necessary, patriots, to have been so.
These lyrical illusions were hardly dented or contradicted by the realities, less lyrical than his formidable rhetoric, of the years of power from their dubious beginning in 1958 until the pathetic and twilight end of the years 68-69 which led him to this “Suicide in times of happiness” about which Mauriac had spoken after the failed referendum of April 1969. We all love de Gaulle today or, more precisely, we admire him. There is little affect between his memory and us.
It took, with the beautiful film by Gabriel Le Bomin, the new highlighting of the short life of his daughter Anne, a Mongolian who died at the age of 20 in 1948, for us to realize the beautiful attachment of De Gaulle to this disabled child, little angel of her whole life. It took this for the Constable to show a bit of affectivity in the interstice of two pieces of his metal shell. Never in the time of its power had we been alerted to this taboo subject. It was only due to the intimate feelings that he shared with his wife, this “Aunt Yvonne” whom a politically correct press wanted to make us pass for a reactionary bigote when she had qualities of openness that we discovered too late. . On the occasion of each tribute, the imprint of the giant we miss and the silhouette of this man who already walked like a statue are imposed on us.
It is said that when he was depressed at the end of May 1968 and went secretly to General Massu in Baden-Baden, in “occupied” Germany, he was called to order by his brother in arms who called him to remain de Gaulle and assigned him this mission: ” to face “. He faced the ordeal, the adversity, the youth to which he had understood absolutely nothing to the point of considering shooting demonstrations with live ammunition, as evidenced by his Saint-Simon, Alain Peyrefitte . The great man attributed the student revolt to an infantile aspiration to “trifle” for all. Every man, no matter how tall, has small sides. He had pride in his soul. His too vast body displaced this pride with the flexibility of an armor. She resisted the stabs of the minions who so often tried to eliminate her. We even forgot their names.
What would de Gaulle have done in the face of the pandemic? He would no doubt have applied Massu’s directive, ” to face “. He would have asked us, the people below, to face with discipline and dignity and to apply “Without grumbling” the instructions of the national health staff. He would not have made a shit about unpleasant measures, not procrastinated in the interests of each other and would have ordered that the “Shop” comes after humans and that shareholders bow to the necessities of physical and mental well-being which, according to the WHO, define human health. De Gaulle would undoubtedly have alternated the stick and the carrot, he would have bowed to the decrees of science, but he would not have tolerated “Scholars” argue in public in front of the lost people.
Would he have put a mask on his huge and mobile face? We can doubt that he submitted to this test. He would have considered it ridiculous for him but obligatory for others. He would have demanded “Calves” that they hide their faces of calves. He would have found the words for France to oppose a united, firm and resolute front in the face of disaster. He would have sounded the bugle of the outrageous attack and summoned the scientists to find chemical and biological solutions very quickly. He would not have accused the foreigner of having imported the virus here, nor denounced a Chinese or American invention.
The only thing we can guess is that the virus, passing within its reach, would no doubt have respectfully turned away from Charles de Gaulle. He would have realized that this old colossus was not one of those “fragile people” who are asked today to stay away from everything that makes life spice up: children, others, new books, concerts, recent films and paintings. The Covid-19 would have been afraid of De Gaulle.
The other habit of the first decade of November is linked to the celebration of November 11 and to the memories of the Great War, this war sometimes called “14”, sometimes “14-18”. Each year come back to haunt us the millions of shadows of our ancestors who, at the age when we only dream of love and fresh water, of lives to build, suffered unimaginable atrocities near which our worries are peccadilloes. Maurice Genevoix, the best memorialist of this planetary slaughter, has finally entered the Pantheon. He had found in his admirable collection entitled Those of 14 the exact words to meticulously describe the thousand and one ways of being killed at the age of 20, in 14-18, in Europe.
→ READ. “With Maurice Genevoix enter the Pantheon all those of 14”
This masterpiece of literature and humanity, this paper monument erected in homage to millions of young people, should be reread and made read every year. There are people who are “living reproaches”. They are dead reproaches. Thanks to Genevoix, we will never forget them.