Gabriel MATZNEFF – Manuscript – The Three Little Pigs.

Gabriel MATZNEFF (1936-)

Autograph manuscript signed – The Three Little Pigs.

Eight quarto pages in turquoise ink. (Paris. Late November 2015)

A rich manuscript in which the author shares his retrospective feelings about the Bataclan generation born from the Parisian tragedy of November 13, 2015.

Trafalgar Square and Waterloo Station are in London. Austerlitz Station and Rue d'Arcole are in Paris. Places and monuments are named after victories, not defeats. Similarly, in military schools, graduating classes of young officers are named after victorious soldiers: "Marshal Turenne," "General Lassalle," "Lieutenant-Colonel Amilakvari." When, exceptionally, it is a question of the vanquished, they are vanquished who fought heroically to the end and were defeated with all the honors of war: one of the graduating classes at Saint-Cyr is named "Those of Dien Bien Phu.".

Who is the suicidal idiot who gave the name "Bataclan generation" to the young women and men who are the same age as the victims of Friday, November 13, 2015? It is the Islamic State that should give this name to its young citizens, not France, for whom this Friday, November 13, 2015 will remain the date of one of its most spectacular and depressing defeats.

This choice of the "Bataclan generation" expresses a masochism, a staggering self-contempt. And one is overwhelmed by the petty-bourgeois mediocrity, the insignificance of the remarks made by the survivors of this "Bataclan generation" when interviewed by journalists or speaking on social media. The oddball who put a heart-shaped belt around his waist, the other idiot who walks around with a sign saying "You're all great!", the third who proudly declares that his goal in life is to continue having fun, seeing his friends—these petty bourgeois who consider it an act of courage to have dinner at a restaurant on Friday night.

If these were twelve-year-olds, it would be acceptable. Alas, they are not. Those who behave so foolishly, so mediocrely, are adults, bearded men. I said "astounding," but the correct word is "appalling." As appalling was the ceremony honoring the victims in the courtyard of Les Invalides. I adore Barbara and know some of her songs by heart, but on that day, it was the "Dies irae" that, after La Marseillaise, should have resounded in that hallowed place, not some pleasant little ditty, and we would have been far more deeply moved if, instead of Mr. Hollande's insipid speech, an actor from the Comédie-Française had read us Bossuet's Sermon on Death.

This foolishness, this mediocrity, stems from the utter spiritual emptiness of so many of our fellow citizens. They don't live, they merely exist; they have a horizontal view of people and things. They are like the three little pigs in a song Mr. Hollande should have had sung at Les Invalides; it suits him perfectly: "Who's afraid of the big bad wolf? Not us, not us! We're the three little pigs dancing in a circle."

Apart from the Pope of Rome and the Patriarch of Moscow, who in Europe calls upon the forces of the Spirit, invites people to transcendence? No one. At least, no one in France, where political leaders whine about the rise of Islamism, but their only response to stem this rise is to ban nativity scenes in town halls. Soon, I wager, the captivating feast of the Nativity, of the mystery of the Incarnation, of the Word made Flesh, of Christ, God and man, will be, as in the Soviet Union during the era of anti-Christian persecution, replaced by a festival of Father Winter, Diadia Moroz, a Leninist version of Santa Claus.

In the past, from General de Gaulle to François Mitterrand, certain heads of state knew how to speak of transcendence to the little piggies in Basque berets and with baguettes, inviting them to surpass themselves, to read Seneca, Plutarch, and Pascal. Today, the State does not invite the French to reconnect with the invigorating treasures of their Greco-Roman and Christian heritage; it is incapable of doing so. The State never speaks of their souls to the French of the "Bataclan generation," and these people persist in having no other concern than to make money, do as little as possible, go on vacation, and have fun. The three little piggies cling to their comfortable lives; tragedy horrifies them; they don't want to hear about death, or eternity, or the salvation of their souls, or asceticism, or fasting, or God. What they want is to keep drinking steins of beer and above all, above all, for the nasty terrorists of the evil caliph Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi to leave them alone, na!

Meanwhile, in our bored suburbs, where instead of encouraging young French people of North African origin to—as young French people of Armenian, Russian, Spanish, Italian, and Polish origin once did—read The Three Musketeers, visit the Louvre, and see Children of Paradise, the State teaches only football and abstract "republican virtues" that don't excite anyone, it's the wicked caliph who speaks to them about their souls; teaches them transcendence; explains that what makes man great, as Buddha, Epicurus, and Christ once taught, is not the Sum, but the Sursum; not the self, but self-transcendence; not comfort, but sacrifice. This is what these rebellious, raw-skinned teenagers, as sensitive teenagers always have been, thirst to hear. Educated and knowledgeable, they could become shining figures like Alyosha Karamazov, but growing up among adults as flat as flounder, they end up siding with the caliph, the dark archangel of death, the big bad wolf. One would have to be incredibly stupid, or extraordinarily dishonest, to be surprised by this.