She was half silk, a cocotte. A half-world lady who, even without showing it, was more powerful of the kitchen language than the books she tried to read.
She did not succeed in depriving language of its delicacy, any more of its appearance.
And yet she continued to diligently criticize her judgment rather than begin to judge her habits. She gave herself lasciviously; Enjoyment as a philosophy, a pleasure philosopher. Kind of Marilyn Monroe, singing for John F. Kennedy. With room view.
Sometimes she thought for a long time. One of her books said that one should not limit personal freedom in favor of one’s own safety. In the film of the other day, however, politicians would lie to cover up the truth.
How should she proceed now?
It did not matter, because a lot was on the program.
She practiced speaking, dozens of times, and was anxious not to make her speech, but to make it appear natural; this makes them credible.
Remain, verba sequentur. If she found the thread, she would just have to follow him. She did not want to discuss. Do not give an old-fashioned bag, answer compulsory questions, knowing that her smile would be enough to answer.
She wanted to try to seduce, to amuse, to provoke, to invigorate.
Take the air out of the sails, knock on the table, the tupées would fall to the ground and ears would rattle. She did not want to think, not to be hated. She just wanted to pretend because they would love her for that.
However, she knew, before she was ready to convince others, she would have to be convinced herself. It was a thin line. An illusory state, assuming she was clinging to immortality. She knew that many would rather die than think. And that they would do it