see there that Rimbaud is a
poète fantaisiste
, and there is a certain redundancy in the intent of the one guilty of this insertion. For most people a poet is necessarily a
fantaisiste
, unless the most dubious lyricism or bogus profundity earn him a respect that matches his vapidity.
Frivolity is nothing but a lack of heroism and a kind of refusal to give oneself away in any respect. It is a flight mistaken for a dance, a slowness seeming a swiftness, a heaviness appearing like this lightness of which I am speaking and which is only met with in souls that are profound.
It may happen that certain circumstances, for instance Oscar Wilde’s imprisonment, open the criminal’s eyes to his crime and force him to repent of it. Then he will admit that ‘all that is understood is right, all that is not understood is wrong,’ but he only admits it because he is made aware of it by discomfort. The same is true of Pascal’s accident in hiscarriage. * One cannot imagine without horror a spirit of his quality in love with itself and with life to the point of attaching such extraordinary importance to being saved from death. †
I accuse of frivolity anyone who is able to apply himself to solving problems of local interest without the least sense of absurdity, a sense that might make him think, and direct his efforts towards a peace, for instance, instead of a war. For unless he is criminally frivolous, this dangerous person only finds excuses in personal interest, whether for profit or for fame. And patriotism is a poor excuse, since there is more nobility in displeasing the masses who are its dupes than in duping them in the name of greatness.
Frivolity, already odious when it works on a superficial level, since there are in that field heroes of a charming lightness spoilt by frivolity (certain Stendhal characters among others), becomes monstrous when it proliferates to the point of tragedy and, through the easy charm it exerts over all lazy minds, entices the world on to ground where true seriousness seems like a childishness which must give way to the circle of grown-ups.
So one has to witness, helplessly, all that frenzy of catastrophes, of red tape, of controversies, of murders, of trials, of debris, of murderous toys, at the end of which the hideous frivolity of man comes to itself again, dazed, stupefied, in the midst of a disorder, as when children slash pictures, putmoustaches on busts, throw the cat into the fire and upset the bowl of goldfish.
True, frivolity soon raises its head again, not wishing to believe itself guilty under any circumstances. This is the stage at which the family bickers in a corner of the drawing-room while the furniture is being removed, when feverish grievances prevent its members from noticing that the pieces of furniture are disappearing one after the other and that there is not even a chair left to sit on.
What irritates me is the person whom everyone expects in advance will please me because he is a
fantaisiste
. Phantasy and frivolity are wedded, I repeat. The
fantaisiste
incapable of originality, find this in the annoyance he causes you by the lack of coordination in his behaviour. He wants to astonish. He is a hindrance. He thinks himself a marvel. He does not move any of the pawns that are the opening of a game. He contents himself with mixing up the dominoes and the cards, placing the chessmen in positions unsuited to the mechanics of the game, but suited to catch out the players at first glance. He treats times, places, conventions with an insolence which is not even that of the dandy and without ever interrupting his course for the sake of anyone else. He numbs and bludgeons, like the drunkard when he imposes upon us the superiority he feels, from the height of which he despises what he takes for our conventionality, and which is merely our embarrassment.
I have known
fantaisistes
in whom phantasy was as it were organic and who died of it. I felt in them a kind of mild madness
poète fantaisiste
, and there is a certain redundancy in the intent of the one guilty of this insertion. For most people a poet is necessarily a
fantaisiste
, unless the most dubious lyricism or bogus profundity earn him a respect that matches his vapidity.
Frivolity is nothing but a lack of heroism and a kind of refusal to give oneself away in any respect. It is a flight mistaken for a dance, a slowness seeming a swiftness, a heaviness appearing like this lightness of which I am speaking and which is only met with in souls that are profound.
It may happen that certain circumstances, for instance Oscar Wilde’s imprisonment, open the criminal’s eyes to his crime and force him to repent of it. Then he will admit that ‘all that is understood is right, all that is not understood is wrong,’ but he only admits it because he is made aware of it by discomfort. The same is true of Pascal’s accident in hiscarriage. * One cannot imagine without horror a spirit of his quality in love with itself and with life to the point of attaching such extraordinary importance to being saved from death. †
I accuse of frivolity anyone who is able to apply himself to solving problems of local interest without the least sense of absurdity, a sense that might make him think, and direct his efforts towards a peace, for instance, instead of a war. For unless he is criminally frivolous, this dangerous person only finds excuses in personal interest, whether for profit or for fame. And patriotism is a poor excuse, since there is more nobility in displeasing the masses who are its dupes than in duping them in the name of greatness.
Frivolity, already odious when it works on a superficial level, since there are in that field heroes of a charming lightness spoilt by frivolity (certain Stendhal characters among others), becomes monstrous when it proliferates to the point of tragedy and, through the easy charm it exerts over all lazy minds, entices the world on to ground where true seriousness seems like a childishness which must give way to the circle of grown-ups.
So one has to witness, helplessly, all that frenzy of catastrophes, of red tape, of controversies, of murders, of trials, of debris, of murderous toys, at the end of which the hideous frivolity of man comes to itself again, dazed, stupefied, in the midst of a disorder, as when children slash pictures, putmoustaches on busts, throw the cat into the fire and upset the bowl of goldfish.
True, frivolity soon raises its head again, not wishing to believe itself guilty under any circumstances. This is the stage at which the family bickers in a corner of the drawing-room while the furniture is being removed, when feverish grievances prevent its members from noticing that the pieces of furniture are disappearing one after the other and that there is not even a chair left to sit on.
What irritates me is the person whom everyone expects in advance will please me because he is a
fantaisiste
. Phantasy and frivolity are wedded, I repeat. The
fantaisiste
incapable of originality, find this in the annoyance he causes you by the lack of coordination in his behaviour. He wants to astonish. He is a hindrance. He thinks himself a marvel. He does not move any of the pawns that are the opening of a game. He contents himself with mixing up the dominoes and the cards, placing the chessmen in positions unsuited to the mechanics of the game, but suited to catch out the players at first glance. He treats times, places, conventions with an insolence which is not even that of the dandy and without ever interrupting his course for the sake of anyone else. He numbs and bludgeons, like the drunkard when he imposes upon us the superiority he feels, from the height of which he despises what he takes for our conventionality, and which is merely our embarrassment.
I have known
fantaisistes
in whom phantasy was as it were organic and who died of it. I felt in them a kind of mild madness
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