I WANT TO STAY A STRANGER.
violence Manifesto
Copyright © David Noir ® 2021
Distributed by Smashwords
Website page dedicated to the eponymous performance
A little brutality in this world of poetry
Well, if you don't mind, I'm degenerating in peace! God ate at KFC and saw that it was good. I don't give a damn about the emotional and social lives of my contemporaries. I don't care if they're alive or dead, women or men, unknown or famous, children or old people, from the other side of the world or from the building next door. The only thing that matters to me is what they might still have to offer that's generously singular, relevant and inventive, from their buried mystery echoing to me from the back of their noggin. It's not a question of getting along well with anyone who doesn't want to, or of 'getting along' - yuck, once and for all! It's about earning your supposed brain power as an evolved individual. Work, think, question and, if possible, even go a little further. There's a price to be paid for becoming human: not just being. Self-sufficiency is a fine dose of complacency. Self-satisfaction is both necessary and possible, provided we have a certain awareness of the mediocrity of the efforts we make to grow. There's no point lamenting the horrors of life if you're content to live. And your gender, and your sexuality, and gnagnagna, and your intolerance, and your opinions on everything that goes by, and your cheap indignation until you grovel before a new power and change your mind, and your me, me, me and your I have the right, and your sensitivity, and your family, and your children, and your imbecilic and cultural racism ; ah your culture, yes, yes; your identity, yes, yes; and your even more racist anti-racism, and your religion, and your social network, and your art, ah yes your art, and your good taste, you poor shit who still doesn't know that you are what has been made of you, you who think you exist by yourself. Your claim to be deserves your non-existence. I want to remain a stranger to you and everything else. But does a stranger always have to have a hooked nose? I have to change my face. You're not my face. You're not my project. Unloved. Loved the wrong way. Wrong friends. Wrong love. The peacocks (Léon!) wave on time. And well below the level of bitterness. My way of resisting is to take as little part as possible in the relationship experienced as social, not to agree with the indignation of convenience that begins and ends at the gates of social networks. My way of resisting is to consider that thinking like an artist is far less banal and far more demanding than producing art. Preconceived ideas! A victim is not someone who whines. It's someone who justifies the actions of his tormentor. Here's a racist version of Henry James's masterpiece. Barbara stresses. There is so much facade in the couple. Funeral burne. The pretentious little girls need not worry. Every day the practice of art seems to me to be unfathomably stupid. I clamour alone... In the streets without anyone. Crade crade crade crotte crotte crotte. As soon as I stepped on the plane I smelled poo. Here nougapork. My penis is so beautiful! Oh too loose! Complacency hides the emptiness of relationships when living becomes too much effort. Talking directly about things doesn't always address them. The desert of steak tartars. I'm wearing a skirting board on the day my computer files. Anyone who gets in my way can become my enemy. That's what an enemy is, someone who gets in your way. Every morning I have nothing left from the day before. My normal life is gone. I'm in the wrong place. And yet I go where the people are the best. But I'm not there. It's terribly hard to be yourself. When hardly anyone wants you to be. If the horror is there, close by, very present, just a stone's throw away, it's also because of that. No, no, I don't want to provoke you; provoking you would still be talking. All I want to say is that you don't necessarily have to hear me. Language clichés repeated without thought mark the beginning of stupidity on the part of the individual who suddenly asserts his existence by imagining himself part of a great collective. By renouncing the invention of himself in this way, he is contributing to the regression of what he believes he is helping to advance: his stupid idea of a two-bit humanism; a humanism that would cost him no effort other than to say "No worries", "Only happiness" or, for the slight level of intellect just above him, the dreaded "Society" and just as yuck: "Living together". Apart from the undeniable aspect of sucking up to the spirit of good taste of the age, which decision-makers and institutions also easily take on board in their aesthetic choices in terms of culture, this refusal or absence of personal singularity turns the individual affected by this contamination into a larva. Which is no longer fashionable? Between Trump and John Waters, you're in deep shit. Endless idiot. The imbecilic conformism of thematic projects. Maybe it's a performance? What is a performance? A presence. Transposing the art of the spoken word and the body into a costume. Every little stroke of the pen is important. Every day I strike out and rebel.
Read your erasures
Free, it can't be you, it's me. It can't be about you, it's me. All conformism is filthy. Happiness is in the bank loan. The nausea of the human race - nausea? Oh well! Your culture is your limit. Every day between audacity and cowardice. In what way would the greatest number be more capable of enunciating a value system that each individual consults in isolation? In the singular, the sum of the units does not equal the whole. Belonging to a group is a social trap. Perfo-romance "doesn't care about dead art". About the creeping artist. Creeping arrival; kissing the feet of cultural officials. Look, Michel Simon as a gorilla. We knew each other, we recognized each other. I missed my monkey suit. It takes everything to make a monster, as Arnold and Willy used to say. All this little world is getting lathered up to shave, sit down spectator. I'm not gonna hold back. I'm not going to preserve you. I'm not going to nuance. I'm not going to include myself or be subtle. I'm going to spit out of me what you inspire. I'm going to vomit this you without the tweaks of humility or style. I will say simple. I'm going to say big. I'm going to write big because the bigger the better. Because you like slogans that simplify your life and spare you from thinking. Because you like advertising, trendy trainers and buzz. But also because you think you are better for loving erudition, culture and pedagogy. Because you are the same, no matter how you look. The same as all the others you think are different. Because you will not change, neither for good nor for bad. Because you have always been and will always be the same. The same man, the same woman, always. Because the coarseness of your thinking serves to kill time; because the subtlety of your arguments only serves to pass it by under the pretext that it would be useful to us. We, the world. Because you believe, you hope that we are the world. Better and more the world than other living beings, than the woodlouse, than the virus or the dog. Better and more the world than the slaughter animal or the gnat. I will teach you. Yes, I am going to teach you, what you already know but are not conscious of knowing or do not like to know but know nevertheless. I will teach you from this place where I am detached from you, where I am no longer like you. Censorship is for the scaffold but few use it. The social world is a pollution. Your thought is pollution. Dialogue is pollution. Dirty defeat. Why is it that when I walk into a theatre I want to leave? Why is it that when I open a book at random, I can't wait to close it? Why do I find it hard to stay in my seat in front of the images of the cinema, its story unfolding and its actors passing by? Why is it impossible for me to listen to more than half a piece of music at a time? Why do I suffocate in culture? My desire. I want: a body that carries me and legs that walk. I don't want to know who you are deep down if I have to face your surface friendliness first. I am a sum of bulk that can't stand the sterile ordering of thinkers' thoughts. Hollywood gum or the Pleiades, I don't care. You see, though, I don't have a gun to pull out of my pocket to tell you. No bowling, no Colombine. Context are you there? Shoot one shot for yes, two shots for no. I don't want to be you; I don't want to be you. I don't care about 'living together'. I already don't live with me. I don't want to. To live each for himself would be to live already, wouldn't it? If everyone learned that already. And once we're living together, what do we do beautifully? We sip our peaceful happiness in the quietness and harmony of all? Do you think that's what being human is all about? Is that what you want, this lack of morbid ambition? From bar to bar, from concert to concert, from movie theatre to movie theatre, from nice party to nice party, life goes on like that? My problem is that, as it is, if you're the human, satisfied with your little existence, sucking on your two-bit pleasure, orgasming with your little pleasure, you don't interest me more than anything else. You are no more than a pebble on the side of the road, no more than a grass among thousands, no more than one of the billions of shits produced every day in quantity. Nothing, you are nothing. Nothing worthwhile. Usurped normality. There is nothing worse in the world than the one who thinks he or she is right. And especially not you; even less you who think you are something or someone. Just someone good, but mostly just nothing. To think that you are something that is "entitled to" is truly the stupidest and most unrealistic conceit in the world. To you who preaches nature at all costs, you should know that for your dear nature you don't count. One more of you, one less of you, bof, bof, bof! Don't you feel that there is something missing in your flower garden? A goal, an objective, a constant? Yes, yes, you're almost there. The tension, no? Wouldn't you call it that sometimes, the desire to live, to move forward, to take certain risks once just to see? It bothers me when people love me; it bothers me when people don't love me (B. Bardot, it seems). Globalisation is above all the globalisation of bullshit. Let's talk a little about pollution and the environment, since it's in the air right now. I'm surprised that we don't talk more about a pollution that is just as harmful as the ones we hear about in the media, if not more so, because it's the source of all the others: mental pollution. Underneath it all, what is there? There is where we are and then there is beyond. That's where you have to go. And over there is not very far. It's exactly the same place as here, but a little deeper. Beyond this layer of filth that serves as your culture and identity. You don't need inspiration to write. You can write about anything and everything; from anything and everything. You can write about a wet tissue. You piss me off as an artist with your aesthetic forms; you are nothing; nothing worth anything if you don't take power; the only power that counts; that of destroying what is not you, what prevents you from being; what denies you. That is, everything else around. Destroy, she said? Did you only do it once? But have you even tried, too busy making your little families, fighting your little battles, thinking you think. Shit as big as the ass that produces it. Do you really think that when there's art it's comfortable; do you really think that it's shared, this thing that must crush everything for the sole benefit of its own existence? Oh, because there are ministries for that? To regulate what should normally lead to their extinction? Your joke is good. Go and make your music that enchants; go and make your paintings that delight; go and produce what we don't need because the only indispensable necessity is to breathe new air, free from the miasma of your own culture and your two-bit beliefs and your values that you think are social! Invent your life, you poor shit, but think before you do because it won't come by itself. French, one more effort... to get out of your filth! Shall we stop here? I like incomplete things; fossils and holes in the text. Being interested is old-fashioned. You know, to counter violence you need more, elsewhere. You want your revolution; against human stupidity it will not be done gently. People deserve to be sentenced to death. Ah, the joke! In fact, they already are. The real works are secret. They don't form this ridiculous heritage sold as culture. Language is the expression of collective thought. Contempt for sexuality or organs? More than a ban. It's bullshit. I don't give a shit. Cunt. From this contempt comes misogyny, violence, homophobia... over-valuing the child. Your culture is your limit. Either the era needs you, or you're no use to it and you won't go down in history. It is not you who chooses to be in history or not. It is the era that writes its history and you have a role in it, major, minor or not. Whether your existence is necessary to history or absolutely useless does not matter in the eyes of this same history. The one with the big H. Everything is infinitely replaceable. Which means that if it hadn't been this fiction, this reality, there would have been an infinite number of other possibilities. Even if we reduce it to nothing, a story cannot not have existed. A story only has to take the trouble to be born. Respect, honour and dignity. Woof! Woof! Woof! A primitive society where a signature is good for agreement. Idiot, I'll make you as many signatures as you want, caveman. The given word! What bullshit! I don't have a word to give. What's the rule, it's a game, it's not a game, it's cheating? You have no right! And you think you're allowed to lock me up for it. That may be the way the law works, but it's not mine. Real victims are as rare as real executioners. Laws are not above what is. Laws do not grow in the fields. What is more important in a man's life, his conformity to the social world that houses him as much as it encloses him? And who benefits from this? Ah, the freedom of insult, what a joy! The joy of rediscovered spontaneity.
I want to remain a stranger
I want to say that this is not my world. I want to say that I don't want this urban, civic, social conviviality of every moment that life together would like to run after. I want to say that your sharing, the obligatory value of our times, is suffocating me. That your debate... ah the debate, the ideas of others. Do I need it? No, I don't think so. I don't feel anything of the sort. I yearn for the city, not dead, but extinguished and unseeing. The translucent city, especially not pink, green or any other colour. Silent city. The gaze that respects me is also the one that does not look at me. And in a way, none of this is my business. Your festive excitement makes me borderline nauseous. There is no identity in following the collective. I want to remain an outsider. In the social spaces of the masquerade, you don't make art, let alone invite it. By going to your spaces of shared conviviality, you trample it. There is only shit in which you walk like this, without realising where you have put your feet. By dint of contorting yourself to be accepted, you end up breaking your spine. Art does not make a profession of having a supple spine. Neither am I a gymnast. Neither are you, perhaps, if you are not an earthworm. I want to remain a stranger. Today subversion has unfortunately passed totally and absolutely to the side of the rude and the criminal; the twittering presidents and the ignorant terrorists. Political correctness is now everywhere and its denigration is seen as an offence by the cultural bien-pensants, which include artists (or at least art-makers claiming to be artists) and art promoters, all of whom have been lumped together in a large and beautiful basket and who no longer know what to do, dispossessed of what used to be their warhorse, their very fibre. Capped at the post in the final stretch after the seventies. This is what has happened in almost 50 years through your one great fault, the social world: a facade of weakness that has become a deep throat. The mask that society puts on each individual's face works like a patch. It diffuses and adheres to the skin. It welds to it and miraculously your depth, dear humanity, is reduced to your appearance. Consuming consuming consuming convenience and appropriateness, be it unbridled or pseudo-free or offensive, as long as it is normalised. Vulgar behaviour becomes chic and proper. But we are often wrong about the vulgar... Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, that's what we should be saying loud and clear every day. Yet it would seem pointless to talk to those who can't hear. And even to others. But a person sometimes understands. So, well. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Well, here are the anarchists who worship gods and masters. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. It shouldn't be an insult "asshole" though. Rude people, that's what I come across as soon as I leave my house. The neolithic frontal thickness pushed like a protuberance on their face. Radiation; a little further than your two centimetre diameter circle around the trogne, of your indelicate lambda brain, which talks, which bawls, which roars. And when your discouragement takes the form of reproach, you become what you naturally are: vicious and full of hate and resentment in reaction to your own weakness. And you insult me in all the glory of your villainy. Yes you are a villain, a dishonest one. I wouldn't blame you entirely for that if living by that precept were an enviable solution, but it would be a lie to say so. We don't live well that way. True power requires depth. At least in one place. That of not pleasing. Refusing is the best thing you can do. To open up is not to be stupidly kind. To adore is just being stupid. To say no is to distance yourself. Then we'll see. And again. Not sure. Years of psychoanalysis and what happens next? Not much. My truth is that you can get out of the hole of malaise, of the malaise into which you have fallen for years, in fifteen minutes. A little more time, in fact, than it took to be pushed into it. A fraction of a second, in fact. Listen to your brain, which knows everything. That's it. A few minutes to come back, yes, because the unconscious is not so deep. It's not an unfathomable well, just a rut. But it's more than his vague instincts that you have to follow. It is its certainty. Don't listen to anything that wavers. Not to be impressed by the stupid brutality that brandishes placards, slogans and displays badges and banners in the name of... no, nothing, just oneself. What you are at the moment will always be better than what you plan to be. Calculating takes too long. Leave it to the computers. Self is something else. No debate. Especially no debate, exchange, discussion. Just the portrait emerging before one's eyes of what one is at the moment. This is what is expressed and must be expressed. This is what being is. It's not just talk about yourself. Firmness holds the body and the mind. You have to trust it. It is a support sheath. Indispensable. It is insight without hysteria. It is a hard drug without the side effects. At last, oneself. Why has he been kept waiting for so long in the anteroom of his existence? It's not good, is it? I don't know anything about it; have I really experienced it? I just say it because I know it is so. In the best of cases, when the situation is the worst. But you, you are in life, aren't you? Projects, couple, family? Let's take an example. Follow me. Is that what is important, being a father, being a mother? Is that the best we can come up with, this fake transmission? In the first degree of what nature dictates? But you don't even know what to pass on to your sons, to your daughters. You find yourselves, thinking you've taken the plunge, as helpless fools. I have already put an end to the theatre. In one stroke, I crossed it out. For me. Finished in its obsolete and stupid form. There's no point in doing the same show a hundred times over to build a career. What is said is said. So we move on. I love acting, its practice and its techniques, but the performance that still uses it is most often the dumbest there is. All I can do is reflect back to you the image of your conceited social bullshit. A small mission of misery implemented without brilliance. Tedious too. Because the problem remains unique and always the same since the appearance of consciousness: cowardice. How do you live with it? So, overcome the disgust. How do you do that? It is not because, once again, one draws the portrait of cowardice and hypocrisy that one escapes it oneself, of course. Perhaps it is even the opposite. And to say what? I, for one, am still an idiot.
A little bit of requirement does not hurt and induces honesty
I find it hard to write 'con', even though I use it commonly in spoken language out of usage, ease and conformity. I would like to use it less often. Etymologically, "con" refers to the rabbit, especially its nose, and to women's sex. I think it's terrible that it's one of the most widespread insults today. Especially as I have a great deal of attraction and sometimes even tenderness for vulvas; it all depends on who is behind or whose head is on the other end. So let's change now. So I will say today that I will no longer be taken for a fool. I will be respected. If necessary, I will be feared. I don't know how yet, but it will happen. It will happen. I want it to happen and not be a feverish, anxious thing like I inherited from the world. Being respected obviously starts with achieving self-respect, right, the self-improvement preachers would tell me? A difficult task, isn't it? For a long time, I thought courage was putting oneself in difficulty. I confused it with testing. But when you haven't learned anything, there are plenty of confusions for a head that's trying to put things right. And they're happy with themselves, these artists' assholes! Loving the other person because he loves you is the first cowardice. Wanting to please in order to be loved is the second. We must not ask more of human nature than it can give. Love cannot be built. You're annoying me with your self-built love values. Who is dealing with my anger? Do you deal with it maybe? Managing your prostitution to others and to society is what social life is all about. Everyone defends themselves from prostitution, while everyone lives under constraint, acts under constraint. Sex and society - images. Life as a couple is a deadly infection for the individual. He should know better. I speak because you won't shut up. There are tops. There is debate. Only those who see have reason to fear. The volunteer seems to have become the yellow star for the little Nazis at the job centre. The media make the celebrities. Politicians make the images of the world. And sometimes music makes noise. And sometimes speech pollutes. Poetry is what remains when efficiency has disappeared. Efficiency is what remains when poetry is gone. Treated as unwanted spam. The experience of understanding and gentleness? Hmmm! It is because we are guilty that we think bad. Guilt generates violence. The other way round? We just want to be part of this group of humans who live on earth. Or not. Unverified cliché: women are beautiful. Ah ah! Well, sit down in the street for five minutes and tell me if you see Grace Kelly or Greta Garbo. That's real good misogyny, saying like an agreed-upon moron that women are beautiful. But be careful, girls shouldn't take such a liking to it and maintain this flattery of being reputedly pretty, because deep down it makes you feel good. 2th bullshit: beauty is elsewhere (that's what we say when we can't find it anywhere) and even old people are beautiful. So go ahead, fuck your grandmother. You want to be amazed first and then be interested in the details. The nuance is never immediately apparent. Rudeness and idolatry go hand in hand. That's your vision of art, life and the strong and beautiful. Shock, well understood right away, like you eat sushi and then you move on. Another shock, future communication of your life disguise. Wow, you feel! What a talent you have! But in life, actually, no. Well, not so much in real life. Car accidents, violent break-ups, explosions in the metro, punches in your face, we're not so keen on that. You want to be able to rebel and shout "I'm touched! Look at me, I'm here, I'm reacting, I'm still alive. I'm still alive". Come on! Jump out of your grave, old roué, old crone, and come and tell us one of your stories, to die of boredom. Get up! Sorry my role is not to kiss pain's ass. What the hell is an artist? Not here to make your wallpaper, nor to decorate the living room with your friendly thoughts. Fall stiff. Yes figs! Yes figs! The connected fruit tree dies from giving too much.
Urgent appeal: We have it on good authority that there are still many writers and directors doing theatre, scattered in various strategic locations where they have been placed, like some Japanese veterans unaware of the end of the war and still lying in wait thirty years later on islands in the Philippines. Please help us find them for their sake and especially for ours. Turn off your shitty phones and above all, enjoy the show.
The devil is not in the details. Ding dong! What a bell the war is ringing! Art no longer answers. Tell me, old thing, what place in nature is left for you? Age, background and pretension... go figure. Reading or seeing, hearing poets, artists, distresses me more than anything else, as too obvious proof of their impotence. Come on, struggle with your little arms; you probably won't tell me about it. Emotion, delight in the shock; sometimes everything ends in entertainment. Yes, life will always be more interesting, it's known. Reversal of proportions; large proportion of reversals. Content of values replacing the value of contents. Go ahead. That's the way it is. Ah yes, advanced citizen, tell me again about your not even afraid, your great anti-pain masses, grotesque denial of war threats and of all threats for that matter. Unfortunate insubordinate person who only knows how to submit. Phantom, histrionics. When will you kill your first game? When will you bring us your first trophy, like the primitive individual you should be? Perhaps it will be the head of a presidential candidate or the head of an agency director, an agency of what? We don't know, now that agencies for everything and especially for anything are flourishing. Travel agency, employment agency, immobile agency yesterday and the same today, C agency. Bastien back in the bins... soon... back on your screens! An artist does not make a pact with society, you see. He bypasses it, punctures it and kills it; he makes it bloodless. Otherwise, what's the point of all the trouble taken and given, to beat other paths? It still has to beat them, to shoot them down. An artist must shoot at point blank range. Without warning, without apology, without secret desire to be forgiven. All the rest is complacency. But he has to do it quietly. By being sure, like a certain wasp does to a spider, to sting and lay eggs at the point of fragility where the social skin is the most tender, more ready than anywhere else to break. Oh yeah! Thus equipped, a slightly dexterous primate, a simian tinkerer, a simply learned monkey, let's call him that, rather than artist, an atrocious word that we must banish, too heavy with the heaviness of others, of those who ignore everything, who would like to define and name the unspeakable; well, this monkey can curiously move forward where the others stagnate. And yet the others could not be others if they wished, if they had the slightest audacity to do so. And then, it would be true perhaps to say then that all could be; that all would be, this simple and complex artist who sleeps. For who is better, eh, than this being? Yet some are not, never will be, because they have chosen not to listen to the life that animates them. But I don't blame them, unfortunate wooden puppets. No, he, the guy, the girl who tinkers, are real wanderers, mercenaries for a laugh, je ne sais quoi of all that, who must try to deceive not "their world", which will never be theirs, but the other one; the one that calls itself "world". A fine usurper that one, a growing machine that dictates to each one his conduct and this, for the good of a great hypothetical whole, to which you will never belong, you who dream yourself a little less cowardly and sinister than the others. Get some height for God's sake, human shit! Stop fiddling with your life like the engine of an old car that's struggling to start. So, your not even afraid, it is above all not even true, infantile friend vexed to be pushed around by politics like the negligible quantity that you are. Defenders of close squares, banalities by the cartload; life stronger than death... but yes, but yes. Say it again. Shout it louder. Society of cons-sans-sumption; why would we want to belong to it? To serve it with goodies? But everyone has hatred in their bones, come on! No, life is not the strongest. It is just the sum of what we are capable of doing, life, no more and no less. It is even far from being the strongest, life, one day suddenly limited by its announced end. The threat of death hovers; not from birth, but from consciousness, in the exact manner of that which looms in our minds via terrorists of all stripes who amuse themselves by frightening everyone, and above all themselves. Better to anticipate death than to wait for it, right? It's so much more heroic. Thus programmed, some people, more impressionable than others, find it less frightening. Natural death is terrorism in itself and its concrete translation, an attack on the carefree nature of our lives. In any case, an attack on the worst, dear little sieve. It is through your too loose meshes that the system crushes you. And the system is you, it's me. It's like a love song, you see. And like the eunuch citizen, overwhelmed by his impotence, the pitiful artist is not even afraid. Not even afraid to remain anonymous. Not even afraid to live as a tramp crawling along the walls of institutions. Not even afraid to play the virtuous sage who pretends to have done the rounds of human things. Yes, I am still regretting the ineffectiveness of ridicule in killing the careless, naive, imbued fool. But now I can already hear the egotism screaming at me "but that's just where he is blah blah blah... touching blah blah blah... beautiful blah blah blah... sensitive... fragile... blah blah blah". But yes, but yes. Try it again Facebite commentator. The more you struggle, the more you accentuate the misery and miredness of your poor forces darling. After all, what do we care? And why bother? Think and say what you wish, but above all don't distract me; I don't want to be distracted; I want to see what is, what is happening and what is being done, here, everywhere, elsewhere. How great everyone is in their quest for good humour. Long live the veliBs and the neighbourhood meals! The king is naked though, isn't he? Fortunately for him, the king was already a beggar. Solidarity in principle. Sorry, this time it's me who won't follow you. I'm tired of sparing you my little doughnut. My civilisation is better than your culture. Total global dissociation of my body and your ethics. Nothing to do. With you. Nothing to say except what will never be for you but my incoherence and, always in my eyes, an intact poetry reacting to your world. So, I beg you, above all, don't understand me. If you only knew how much it bores me to write to you, but this is the only way; there is nothing else I can do to submit to you. And that is my only desire. In general, three stars and still no name to name me. Black. Black card. "If a tyrant hasn't killed several million people by the time he's fifty, he's missed his life,' these guys say. Adolphe i tolerates it. But until Caen?
