Journey to the end of the night. Needless to imagine a convoluted journey of initiation towards saving light. Dawn Point here is "Voyage to the Bottom of the hole," head first. We must think about before reading the text, think about what we are able to see and hear about his own misery, human misery and its impasses. All fallback positions meticulously disassembled as we imagine them, there is only emptiness. No need to take a look at the bright arena that stuns its crowds and screaming to hype hoping some echo. No need to look in the memories coherent happiness are only sprinkled respites: if the forest is beautiful from afar, just to get close to see that there is not a leaf is torn, stained , noisy, promised a pervasive rot, a few meters below. We can always pretend to believe that this is as hateful and obscene ravings of a fascist and embittered writer is a generous exit door that offers all those who prefer to continue in their world cardboard. "Journey to the End of the Night" is a mirror that bed War is the beginning, as the beginning of a life, of course absurd war. But this is not an academic or lyrical absurdity in question is the absurdity of tripe, by fear, by cowardice. Once free of the ego of the narrator, it is his own, for fear is not cowardice, it is recognized that universal cowardice in the face of death, it is well known that this is the hers too, which is that. Everyone instinctively knows that heroes are mentally ill, or loose so much looser than others that they are in a hurry to finish. And then there are the great strategists who send each being killed, the others being shot, just to go on, go on, in the name of patriotism hallucinatory. And then there are the civilians who agree with everyone, alternatively ... Where is the truth in the grandiloquent stories of history books, in advertisements nasal official news, or in the mud engorged where young people are terrified drown? The narrative leaves the war, but peace, war is more of the same, as for the poor, it's still war. The difference is that in times of peace, they fight among themselves to look less poor, are competing to provide the rich bigger cakes which he may fall more coarse crumbs. This is not the least of despair, the condition of the poor, timeless, the poor we do not know whether to pity them for the curse that strikes them, or leave them to their incurable servility. It is perhaps this which imposes to keep Céline away: he does not like the poor which so much need to work and make war, he does not know flatter. This is more likely in any case that these stories very convenient political commitment. When the poor are going to school, we will not spoil their mind and courage with defeatist horrors and frankly negative. Today, nothing has changed, just the ride turns a little faster. Nausea may come envy of lucidity. From reading this, surely.
