Why are actors always insecure? Why does a young Macron, mathematically challenged, uninterested in economics and science, dreaming of becoming a poet and writer, feel the pull of an average looking instructor of French literature?
“The teenager [Macron] spent hours with Ms. Trogneux to adapt a play by the Italian playwright Eduardo de Filippo about a clever actor who tries to outsmart a powerful local official. She cast him in the lead role. “We worked a lot together,” he recalled.”
A “clever actor” who it just so happens, tries to outsmart a powerful local official in order to marry his wife.
Aside from the obvious error of Brigitte Macron’s married name (Trogneux is her maiden name), Eduardo Filippo‘s play and the Wall Street Journal’s description distill Macron’s essence, which isn’t in his individual ability to lie, but the couples ability to do so together. To differentiate not Macron from his persona but to grasp that Macron never existed, except as a persona, cast in a play by Brigitte Auzière, the daughter of a Chocolate maker, who at the time was wife to a real banker who unlike Macron’s 4 years at Rothschild, actually knew how to sign a real contract and extend a real loan.
From his peers’ reminiscences Macron comes across as a social outcast, and happily so. From his earliest tryst with Mrs. Auzière, he thirsted for the certitude of a woman who embodied his lust for poesy. Which is to say, his desire to dominate his peers, who he feared, and therefore loathed.
By nature a terrified coward, Macron’s early reflex to leverage the power of adults against that of his peers, defined his social arithmetic into adulthood. It sums up his “intelligence.” It explains his career. It reveals his political logic. It exposes his partiality to all forms of power. Be they that of David de Rothschilds, or Putin and Trump. Macron will get along with anyone, provided they flatter his ego, and temp him with carrots (career promotion, more leverage).
Macron is a squalid imitator of Faust, signing off his soul to a 21st century Devil who doesn’t even bother with his end of the deal. The modern Mephistopheles being perfectly content at hawking simulacrums. What can the soulless schmucks going off to Hell say – “Hey, you didn’t really make me a genius!”
It isn’t clear if Macron possesses any cognitive abilities other than those of a self-obsessed bourgeois with a sense of entitlement. Had he written an original poem? Can he cite classic lines? An article in a peer-reviewed journal? A single original idea? A concrete example?
Macron’s supposed written works are consigned to nuclear bunkers, not being worth the paper they were wasted on. Fantasies about a “racy novel” written in his teenage years inspired by his love for Brigitte Macron are pure and unadulterated bullshit. A cheap PR stunt to rub horse manure into the public’s eyes.
Does Macron boast any particular knowledge of anything? Literature, economics, history, languages? It’s impossible to know with a personality scripted by PR agencies and editorial boards of Le Monde and TF1, whose epithets of “genius” and “brilliance,” are just the loud strokes of snobbish wankers.
Macron is always prepped, and claims of his brilliance are made by groupies whose very adulation is proof of daftness. Is he anymore a poet than he was a banker? Or was poetry and writing his first act. His first dramatic performance, linked to his desire for Brigitte?
One source believes that Macron has written brilliant work. Mrs. Auzière spews diathrongs to Macron’s literary genius since they compose a play together. He is her “Mozart.”
Ask the average Frenchman/woman about Macron’s siblings. He doesn’t have any. Ask about his parents? Oh those he must have.
No appearances. No public photos. The father is notoriously publicity shy. The mother, despises Brigitte Macron.
Of all the things Macron’s father could have said in public, the only observation he is known for making is that
“With Holland, we were missing good storytelling. A people needs someone to tell them a story,…[Macron] has a power of seduction, which could work for him.”
It’s almost creepy. The French people need to be sold a bridge. Told a fairy-tale. My son might have what it takes – to sell them that bridge.
Or is it a circuitous admission that his son is nothing but the figment of a collective hallucination? That Macron is a mere seduction, with no substance, for the father has taken note after years of struggle with his son and himself, the emptiness which defines them both?
As odd as this father’s total absence from Macron’s public life. The fact is Emmanuel Macron assiduously avoids mentioning his family and siblings. It’s true that Macron’s brother looks like a psycho, and his wife’s gaze is no better, but the real problem is Macron’s truculence.
Macron mentions having to struggle in order to marry Brigitte, with the implication that this involved tense disagreement with his family. The parent’s could have called the police on Brigitte, they didn’t. They complained to the school. His mother met Brigitte, pleaded with her to leave her son alone until his coming of age. Brigitte refused to make any promises. Macron cut off his family, brutally, and totally.
Considering the pride most families take in someone as young as forty becoming a president of anything, let alone a country, the nearly total absence of Macron’s family from his public life, is ominous for France as a nation.
On personal grounds it rubs off the wrong way, raising the wrong questions, like the plausibility that Macron, a loner in school, was a loner at home as well?
The only links mentioned by journalists with his father are intellectual. A few discussions here and there. No emotions, no personal stories, no family of which to speak. No anecdotes of growing up with sister and brother, grandmother and grandfather, playing games, playing pranks, telling jokes.
Covered up, forgotten, deliberately confabulated? Buried while still alive? Consigned to oblivion?
What does it say about Macron? Brigitte? The father?
The father is described as brilliant. The mother as well. Did an excess of brilliance, of working hectic hours in hospitals result in a deficit of affection and personal contact? Was Macron largely left to fend for himself, his own imagination? A cold household where IQs outweigh human reality?
It certainly seems like Macron’s affectation for Brigitte, and Brigitte’s affectation for Macron, are the proverbial upper-middle class sexual diphorias of Freud’s fervent imagination.
A neglected cerebral boy, angling for love from parents whose only interface is IQ, meets a manipulative social opportunist spoiled by her own father’s chocolate shop goodies.
Brigitte sensed all of the boy’s emotive weaknesses and personal fragility, and felt herself empowered by flattering his lonely ego. If Freud were given his due, Macron’s attachment to Brigitte was a rejection of a family environment lacking warmth. Driven by a basic human need for love and maternal attention spurred by a budding sexuality which would forever be frustrated as a result of the incongruence between a detached family environment, and a frustrated drama teacher.
Freud cannot be distinguished from story-telling, and only Hollywood directors conflate his theories with scientific analysis or “reality,” but as a plot generator, Freud’s take would suggest that it wasn’t even Macron who cut his ties to his family, it’s his family that never established ties to itself and to Macron. No ties between the siblings, who remain freaky looking, nor the father nor the mother.
A simple look at Macron’s parents suggests a smug neurosurgeon, expert in cat’s sneezing, self-engrossed, a sexual egotists. An abandoned, withering, stern, and tough mother who appears in public with her son as a matter of pride, for an occasion she herself grasps as being of vast importance, where her absence might eventually become historic. Smiling isn’t her forte.
Macron didn’t snub his family, the family never much cared for him. Brigitte did, in her own unhealthy way. As a result, he married a woman 24 year his senior, and became a grand-father, without ever engendering a single child.
The Brigitte and Macron’s couple was the result of emotional sterility, and it produced a sterility of its own. Figuratively and literally. As a couple, and as a couple in power. Either Macron is sterile, Brigitte did not want children, or he’s most plainly gay and children are an adoption, not a surrogate option (gay surrogacy is a recent trend). Brigitte’s children are all of Macron’s age, and one is a parliamentarian member of Macron’s party.
Either because the marriage was, ten years after the initial romance, mere pro forma for a man used to getting his way, or because more likely, he had evolved beyond his infantile focalization but not beyond his infantile need for validation, there remain few pictures of early marriage years.
Marriage pictures are few and in between prior to 2016. Before Macron burst on the candidate scene, neither Paris Match nor Michele Merchand’s Bestimage managed to snap one.
Undocumented matrimonial happiness. Two personalities united by their dishonesty and sociopathic personalities, two confabulators more ready to join hands in playing a part than joining hands in an effete conjugality.
Ten years after their marriage, Brigitte would panic about Macron’s homosexuality. Prior to their marriage, Brigitte probably knew as much about Macron’s Parisian wanderings as he knew of hers. Did they keep in touch? Remain close?
Their public kissing looks awkward (warning – NSFW) and unnatural. Unnatural, because it is not performed in private. It is unpracticed.
Michèle Marchand had no trouble in scripting their respective roles as a couple for election purposes. The need to follow a script and to act brought them together after their initial meeting in a high-school theater 20 years ago. Here was their chance to compose a play everyone would watch.
They could rediscover that primary bond of make-believe of two lonely and wounded souls, more interested in themselves than their families, because their families weren’t interested in them; the permanent dilemma of all egotists, how does one receive love if everyone is like oneself, and is not interested in giving it?
There is a complicity between Brigitte and Macron, and while very unlikely to be sexually involved with one another, there is an intimacy when lying together, hiding their proclivities, the one’s geriatric tendency towards ephebophilia, the other towards his initial anililagnia and its possible links to homosexuality. One disguises her age and masculinity, the other his mediocrity and femininity.
In his classical study of the paraphilic attraction of young men to aged women, Charles Féré coined the term gerontophilia but failed to address its mechanics. Later studies classified it within the group of “psychological infantilism.”
Excessive prevarication is inherited from families where lying is commonplace. Compulsive lying, pathological lying, Brigitte Macron and Emanuelle were appropriately bound as mental infants by the reassurance of make belief.
Not the make belief of their own minds, nor that of their respective families. The make belief of an entire nation, their broader, and universal family.
For in all the venom and analysis one can pour out over Macron, it is as dishonest to focus on a single man’s detriments, as it is to forget the social context in which it takes place.
France is the family of both Brigitte and Macron. The family of their birth, their marriage, and perhaps their death. Is it a warm, loving, sincere, passionate, and closely knit family? Or is it cold, superficial, cut-throat, self-centered, divided, morose, violent, and inconsequential?
Can France as a family love, or does it merely demand to be loved.
Are the French honest themselves? Or are they too, lying with Brigitte and Macron?
Does France possess the courage to face itself in the mirror, or is its finger pointing, protests, and impetuousness a case study of mass infantilism and dishonesty?
Did not by chance France vote for the leader that it deserves? That most closely resembles itself?
The country of romance and love, which invented neither “French” fries nor “French” kissing, and whose idea of romance appears to be nothing but a figment of the Anglo-Saxon imagination?
Are the Macron’s only a pair of confabulators?
How real is this pair?
How real is the couple?
A couple upon which the masses project their fantasies of both triumph and destruction.
How real is France itself?
Anymore so than a failed United Kingdom, an Israel sleepwalking into its umpteenth election, a United States built on hot air, unable to deliver anything concrete to life itself?
A Pair of Confabulators – the electorate and the elected?