A specter is haunting the world. The specter of Henri’s forehead period pimples.‘I’ve never seen the point behind god’s choices, assuming the idea of compatibilism as a way to give god the benefit of the doubt, in what way would someone have the idea of period, and think damn that’s cool? Who does that? It’s not even paid for. Makes me question the inevitability of capitalism, it came from god anyway’ shrieks Henri down from up the attic as they are looking for their evening attire. They know that the labor of period not being paid for is human doing. In fact, suffice it to say Henri were friends with Ann Oakley and Christine Delphy. But they’re right, if women are to be domesticated, at the least allot them a monthly salary for their labor, and I am a woman myself.
Henri were having a date. A quaint sort of date, to be precise. Their partner once booked the whole ‘Shakespeare and co.’ for themselves. Out of the dates Henri had, chiefly from the Alain Badiou encounter onward, this was a tad bit sophisticated. Henri were dating the Saint-Germain-des-prés governor’s step-son, Gilles. Unlike what Henri stumbled upon their whole post-badiou encounter, Gilles were this quasi-nerd debonair existentialist, unabashedly clothed in pink turtle neck holding a handmade scarf, and patiently waiting for Henri under the rain to get going. From where I stand, the grin on Henri’s face was genuine, save for the clumsy gait due to the heels? Everything went fine for them. Despite their past ordeals with compulsive agitation, anxiety, and identity crisis for the most part, Henri were recovering gradually since their blind date with Gilles at Les Deux Magots.
I was invited to be their third wheel, in the most sarcastic Henri tactics, quite an invitation for the sarcasm repartee to begin. Something we usually do for fun before a date, a job interview, or when one of us is having their belly bursting at the seams. Still, I’d refused anyway. I had a date of my own. A date would be an overstatement, makes it more of an internship with this exotically attractive bookbinder. Well, from my point of view, or so to say, from my slightly degenerate alter ego’s vantage point, her moves were inviting. And if you’re riveted at this point, here’s an interesting piece of trivia about me: I kind of enjoyed the unfettered thoughts that sate my ego from time to time. Degenerate? yes. But would that, and dare I say, stand up to par with Will Durant having a crush on his underaged pupil? def not.
description of the bookbinder.
Eloïse is in fact an ex-friend of Gilles. And by ex-friend, I mean ex as if in, they had a sort of fleeting intellectual bond that ends when studies end. I know you can relate. With hindsight, I should’ve told Henri about the qualms I had about Gilles. But again, the fun of living wouldn’t be pleasurable without, well basically, everything that’s got out of pandora’s box, right? At first, I thought Eloïse was one of those cadaverous ladies interested in Camus’ ideas, and secretly masturbate to his dance moves. Actually, that’s based af never mind. Surprisingly, she turned out to be an actual academic. She is a Ph.D. holder and a self-dismissed associate professor of Moral Philosophy and Kantian Transcendentalism. Eloïse was a chain-smoker. Tuberculosis would be the nail in the coffin that hastened her voluntary dismissal of the position of associate professor. Eloïse was effortlessly kind, gothic, and quasi-Kantian, unlike Gilles who’s balls deep in Kant’s virgin thoughts. Perhaps tuberculosis wasn’t the only thing that convinced her let go of teaching moral philosophy and strictly adhere to transcendentalism as a distinct discipline. She was mostly interested in understanding our own subjective experience, retrieving morality from the divine subject to the reasonable human subject with ‘noumena’ pronounced in what sounded like Daniel Keyes’ Algernon with an ultimately delicate French accent. Categorical ethics for her, and pretty much any thought experiment or golden rule are to be bypassed at this point. But she would still act according to maxims lol. Eloïse and I met at a patisserie. She was holding a transparent tote bag, from which I could see Kant and Locke’s tomes right next to each other. I walked toward her and gently murmured.
- ‘I’d assume having these two together is to sate your two selves, amirite?’ She gave me an emotionless look and proceeded into the queue.
- ‘C’mon, it’s like, who killed Shakespeare and decided the Montagues and Capulets approve of Romeo and Juliet’s marriage’ I spoke. She projected a wide grin, took her baguettes, and left.
Forward in time, somewhen between my birthday and Jan. 10, I went to this book fair with Henri and Gilles. The fair attracted what seemed to be a mixture of suicidal Confessional Poetry aficionados interested in everything that starts with Sylvia and ends with Plath, actual university professors, and a handful of Americans ‘literally’ mean-girling. Amongst all the hubbub, stands aloof a legit Kantian snack. A beautiful gothic thin piece of snack. Eloïse could be bluntly put in the following: (a) a snack (b) a bookbinder snack and (c) an unusually perfect combination of gothic swag and Kantian maxims in practicum. Her job was to collect important books during the fair, and repair them. And I thought I’d never find a sexier job than a librarian, guess I was wrong. She proved me wrong. I snatched a threadbare paperback version of The Bell Jar from the fair, paid for it, and went to the bookbinding section as a pretext to strike a conversation with Eloïse. Her, wearing that librarian apron is probably the sexiest thing I’ve seen since Jameela Jamil’s aristocratic smile.
- ‘You know the olive theory?’ I initiated.
She smirked, shunned me, and smiled at customers in disregard of my existence.
- ‘It goes something like, if you’re into olives, and this is no sex tactic. It’s literally olives. But the other’s not into them, then you are perfect for each other.’
- ‘Hmmm’ responded Eloïse.
- ‘Which brings us to the Montagues and Capulets, Kant and Locke. I know they’re almost enemies in theory, but it’s just like that. That’s how things work. Dialectics baby!’ I spoke.
- ‘how about a platonic date at a regular café, talking about regular stuff or we could just ethically mean-girl like the Americans over there?’ I added.
- ‘sure thing, find my phone number with the name Eloïse on the margin at the register over there and we’ll talk,’ said Eloïse.
in re: Gilles, and why was he being avoided by Eloïse, well, he was too Kantian that he tilted toward a utilitarian happiness pump. Eloïse, acting according to her dark twisted version of moral maxims, stepped back because Gilles was too naïve to realize his ultra moral obligations that he's become a literal 'pump'. This was exactly why I sensed he'd ring Henri up at the register at any time.
After the fair, I went out looking for Henri and Gilles. They'd already left for a walk over the Pont Alexandre III. From the back, they looked like candidates for a John Cocteau film. Henri were the humongous Beast, and Gilles was the svelte Beauty. And yes, I'd told Henri this joke many times I could predict their different answers every time. I only wanted them for recommendations on what to wear. It started up at recommendations on what to wear, for them to wind up telling me to take her to this restaurant where this accordion dude plants the first seeds of us, looking like a couple in her mind.
Yea, I'm tired. Will continue later king/queen! thanks.
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