Coco was interesting in that she absolutely knew she could
not depend upon any human being to help her. Yet with the unerring sense of an
arrow with a mind of its own seeking a bullseye, she turned tricks, picking
successful johns and working her way up the social and economic food chain
until she found benefactors willing to inspire her and fund her business until
she could get on her feet. This was a process that took at least 15
years.
I'm sure I could write a lot about that subject, but that
is not the purpose of the post today. Today, my post is a prose-poem
mentioned in a biography of Coco Chanel that served as an important catalyst
for her business sense. I'm not reading her biography because I'm a fashionista
or a clothes horse, but because I do enjoy understanding how one goes about building
an empire when one comes from nothing -- especially an empire that ends up
getting larger and stronger even after one's death.
I personally found this poem to be spot on in certain
sermons preached by the politically correct in our time as they go about
building the new slave class to suit their own economic dreams.
“Let's Beat up the Poor!"
also known as “Knock Down the Poor.”
by Charles Baudelaire (“Assommons les
pauvres!”)
Written somewhere in the mid to late
1800s
(Bold italics are in place at Angela
Durden's discretion)
For 15 days I was confined to my room, and I was surrounded
by the sort of books that were fashionable then (this was 16 or 17 years ago) –
I mean to say those books in which is treated the art of making people
happy, wise, and rich in 24 hours. I had, then, digested, – I should
say, swallowed whole, – all the lucubrations of all of these entrepreneurs of
public happiness, – of
those who council all of the poor to make themselves slaves, and of those who
persuade them that are all unthroned kings. You won't be surprised to
learn that I was in a state of mind close to dizziness or stupefaction.
It seemed to me only that I felt, confined in the depths of
my intellect, the obscure seed of an idea superior to all the old wives’ tales
collected in the encyclopedia that I had recently read through. But it was only
the idea of an idea, something infinitely vague. And I went out with a great thirst. For a passionate taste for bad reading
engenders a proportional need for fresh air and refreshments.
As I was about to enter a cabaret, a beggar held out his cap to me, with one of
those unforgettable gazes that would cause thrones to tumble, if spirit could
move matter, and if the eye of a hypnotist could make grapes ripen. At the same
time, I heard a voice whispering in my ear, a voice that I well recognized: it
was that of the good Angel, or good Devil, who accompanies me everywhere. Since
Socrates had his good Demon, why shouldn’t I have my good Angel, and why
shouldn’t I have the honor, like Socrates, of obtaining my own certificate of
insanity, signed by the subtle Lelut and the well-advised Baillarge?
There is a difference between Socrates’ Demon and my own, and that is that Socrates
only appeared to him to forbid, warn, and prevent, whereas mine deigns to offer
council, suggest, and persuade. Poor Socrates only had a prohibitive Demon;
mine is a great affirmer, mine is a Demon of action, a Demon of combat. Now,
his voice whispered this: “He alone is equal to another who proves it, and he
alone is worthy of liberty who knows how to conquer it.”
I immediately leaped upon the beggar. With a single punch I
gave him a black eye, which became in a second as big as a ball. I tore one of
my nails breaking two of his teeth, and since I didn't feel strong enough –
having been born delicate and being little practiced in boxing – to beat this
old man to death quickly, I seized him with one hand by the collar of his
jacket and with the other I grabbed his throat, and I began to bang his head
against the wall vigorously.
I must admit that I had previously inspected the area with
a quick glance and that I had verified that I would find myself, in this
deserted suburb, out of the reach of any police officer for a fairly long
period of time. Having then knocked down this weakened sexagenarian with a kick
in the back, energetic enough to have broken his shoulder-blades, I seized a
big tree limb that was lying on the ground and I beat him with it with the
obstinate energy of a cook who wants to tenderize a steak.
Suddenly, – Oh delight of the philosopher who verifies the
excellence of this theory! – I saw that ancient carcass turn, stand up with an
energy that I would never have expected to find in so singularly broken-down a
machine, and, with a look of hatred that seemed to me a good omen, the decrepit
ruffian threw himself upon me, blackened both of my eyes, broke four of my
teeth, and with the same tree branch beat me to a bloody pulp.
Through my energetic medicine, I had returned to him his
pride and his life...
Then I made him numerous signs to let him understand that I considered the
discussion ended, and getting up with all of the satisfaction of a Stoic
philosopher, I said to him: “Sir, you are my equal! Do me the honor of sharing
my purse with me; and remember, if you are really a philanthropist, that you
must apply to all of your brothers, when they ask you for alms, the theory that
I had the sorrow of testing out on your back.”
He swore to me that he had understood my theory, and that he would obey my
advice.
