History repeats

The pictures here were taken two weeks ago, on the Parvis de Notre Dame. The fire jugglers were part of a city-wide festival called the Nuit Blanche, which is a sponsored night of arts events across the city. All sorts of quirky theatre, dance, music, film and food-tasting events happened all over Paris. Unfortunately I had to get a night train to go home and couldn't stay to see most of it.

The reason I wanted to write about these fire jugglers is because it's a tradition which has gone on in the same place for hundreds of years. At least back into medieval times. The opening chapters of Notre Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo tell of the gypsies, who were egyptian immigrants, scorned with the same right-wing conservatism which greets the 'arabs' in France today, gathering in front of the cathedral to perform shows. They would have performing animals, dances, beggars performing 'freak show' acts, and of course the famous carnivals, in front of this church. But rather than being some sort of holier-than-thou tourist attraction, Notre Dame was a refuge for the lowest of the low. Society's underdogs who had nowhere else to go, who were automatically presumed to be criminals - and mostly were - but who were always welcome in this stony, draughty building. They could even take refuge from the king's army there, as Esmeralda does in Hugo's novel.

Standing on this square and watching these guys with punk haircuts and combat trousers breathe fire and juggle for the crowds somehow brought out how weird it is that human beings can be doing the same thing for over 900 years - gathering in front of a cathedral and entertaining each other with fire tricks - without this ever becoming institutionalised. Unlike religious tradition or readings of canonical literature, there is no aura of veneration, no artificial sense that these lowlifes are doing something particularly special or even traditional, as they entertain the crowds. It's a real tradition.

I guess it's closer to what Nietszche called 'Dyonysian art'. The art which consists of celebrating life, sexuality and collective madness, rather than venerating one's masters. The art which is found at the bottom of a glass of beer rather than collecting dust in a museum. If only reading a blog came anything close to a 'dyonysian' artistic experience...

Dregs

I am reading 'Chronicle of a Death Foretold' by Marquez, in my English class. This novella tells the story of the death of a character, Santiago Nasar, as a revenge for the deflowering of a promised bride. It is never clear, although the answer is suggested, whether Santiago is guilty of his crime. But the collective guilt borne by the community which puts him to death in their need for a scapegoat, shows in their obsession with superstition and omens.

I find myself looking out for the signs of my own flaws and faults, these days. The omens which should have been clearer, showing how I was going to hurt someone close to me. Hindsight is always 20/20, but the fact remains that there are signs if I am willing to see them. The person I hurt most recently gave many signs that they would be hurt by my actions and I chose to ignore them. Isn't it true that, as Oscar Wilde says, 'each man kills the thing he loves'?

Although we know that some superstitions are just examples of bad knowledge (that the world is flat and we'll fall off it if we stray to far...), the idea of recognizing signs of fate or the future doesn't strike me as blind superstition. I think there's a thread in my own life, and a meaning to a lot of what happens. The infinite possibilities which fracture at every moment in time don't explain some of the patterns I've seen in my own life.

Perhaps getting good at reading the 'signs' of what will happen in the future is just a form of sincerity. When you know yourself and your flaws well enough, you can predict the mistakes you're likely to make. A fantastic singer I've been listening to recently puts it well:

Je me sens coupable parce que j'ai l'habitude
C'est la seule chose que je sais fare
Avec une certaine certitude.

Go figure.