#suares

“De Napoleon” is a strange book by an eccentric French writer, André Suarès. He apparently hated Napoleon but the book is so beautifully written that I like it. He wrote another book about Napoleon but it’s not in the public domain. Here is an excerpt translated by me/google.

Irony is the king's counterfeit currency. It is the negation of value. This is why Napoleon never ceased to hate Talleyrand, without managing to do without him. Talleyrand was his weakness, his vice, his silk stockings, his perverted taste, his only taste for the West. Talleyrand irritated and tempted him beginning with his name, which he could not pronounce as it is written: “Taillerand,” he said.

What would Napoleon not have given to crush this prince of corruption, or to inspire him with a little of his sound conscience? But the icy intelligence of the accursed cripple escaped reproach: this spirit remained incorruptible in all the putrefactions of action and morals. He even escaped contempt through the superior contempt of the skeptic and the consummate egoist. He blunted the violence of the tyrant by the impassive mask which he opposed to offenses; and he was stronger than the threat, stronger than the blows, putting between them and him the cruel distance of irony, and the infinite estrangement of a politeness which was never found wanting, and which never delivers anything of itself.

At all hours, Napoleon, disconcerted, lost his footing before Talleyrand; and growling against him, he was seduced, frightened perhaps by this demon of secret irony. At all hours, he was astonished with rage to suffer its presence, and not to have yet annihilated it.

La victoire sur soi-même : elle se passe de vos acclamations. Une action qui dédaigne tous les gestes désordonnés, qui refuse de se perdre dans les orages de la poussière et les remuements des dunes ; une action qui s'en tient à l'essence de nous même, au soin de la racine, à la culture profonde de notre vigne, à la santé du cep, voilà mon fils, qui compte. Le seul orgueil d'en avoir fini avec toutes les ambitions vaines, et d'être le feu qui fait oraison à la lumière. Se conquérir sans cesse, pour atteindre à la connaissance suprême dans le suprême amour. Et dans le rien de tout, faire porter à ce néant la fleur d'un sourire qui ne doit pas se flétrir, voilà des conquêtes. (...) Tu te méconnais. Laisse là ces mépris : ils font vivre en nous la vermine, dont ils veulent nous venger. Défais-toi de ces colères puériles. Purge ces flammes trop lourdes de fumée. Réserve ta puissance à d'autres entreprises. Garde toi pour le feu, toi qui es tout feu. Et ton sang même est feu. Tourne-toi désormais vers les seuls objets qui te sollicitent, où tout aspire à la beauté. Pour l'étincelle de l'instant comme pour le temps éternel, ta passion est là uniquement.