On the French lycée protests
In the fervor of revolution, when the air is cold and blistering and red with discontent, when the real finally pierces through the electric veil of spectacle, we are one with our truest selves, at once finally in the mirror of the present that reflects the faces of the future. We are at peace with our anger and in anger at the phony peace that sustains outside the institutions of violence.
As an outside observer, I can’t help but feel the winds that carry far over the sea, cutting across each of us, reminding us that only the sound of silence has the power to linger, but the sounds of change can rise like flames towards the heavens. This is God – it is where all sentence and structure breaks down, where the only language spoken is that of the real, of the people speaking to themselves. It is where we conjure the words to be heard by that which for so long has had no use for reply but now must heed its call.
We’ve heard comparisons to the student revolts of May ’68, which nearly deposed the de Gaulle regime. We must resist the temptation to make historical comparisons, for they only offer us the haunted image of a past that never existed, and a future never realized. No, it is now that the students of France contemplate a future that is its own past, that subsumes the architecture of the old and erects new monuments, new towers and obelisks, and at their spires the hands of imagination reach towards the stars to grace the faces of the gods, the images of the working class united in infinity.
Let the objects of ideology be repurposed as the blocks of the barricades, and let these be the walls of the new architecture, the marvels of the revolution. Let that which holds the monopoly of appearance be dissolved by the free movement of a people unswayed and unencumbered by its ubiquity.
C'est la lutte finale.
Groupons-nous, et demain
L'Internationale
Sera le genre humain!