There was so much more than just these two penguins! Not only do we risk spending a freezing winter, without water or electricity, with strikes and the obligation to remove the mask from the closet, but we will also have to stuff ourselves with the epic story of these two lovebirds whose intellectual horizon, if it ever exists, must limit yourself to choosing the font to use for your Instagram feed.
After Gustav and Alma, Scott and Zelda, Simon and John Paul, Humphrey and Lauren, John and Yoko, Robert and Raymond…so here’s Harry and Meghan. Megan and Harry. The new mythical couple, the quintessence of our artistic and intellectual life. But what have I done to the Lord to be born in such a time in which, for the training of the mass media, we have to bear day after day the story of people so insignificant that compared to theirs, the life of two albatrosses stranded on an island of the archipelago of the Galapagos seems a thousand times more exciting to us?
We had already been entitled to a sensational vacuum interview with Oprah, now it’s Netflix’s turn to offer us a journey into the intimacy of the princely couple. Of course, no one is forced to watch, but the hype is such that even those who are lucid enough not to subscribe to this streaming service are doomed to become passionate about their own adventures.
No one will escape him. The soap opera of their setbacks, their clashes and misfortunes will punctuate the weeks to come. Just like the World Cup should be boycotted, find an application that can allow read the newspapers without falling over a report of the last few episodes. The escape to America presented as the traumatic exile of a couple of Soviet physicists at the time of the Cold War, when it was above all a matter of saving their own skin. About their desire to escape the tabloids, the ones whose official portraits must be worth a fortune. On the royal family’s alleged racism — talk about a revelation! – all this nonsense useful for the march of humanity like a cosmonaut’s fart in the infinity of the cosmos.
We’re talking about a couple drowning in the millions, living under the balmy, haunting California sun a house as big as a Parisian arrondissement, he spends his time writing his memoirsa rich existence transformed by the grace of a few communicators into a sort of pain marathon, a culmination of suffering, where between the shadow of Diana’s ghost and the suspicion of institutional racism, their lives would resemble a waking nightmare .
A sort of obscenity taken to its most absolute paroxysm. No matter how much we look, we always wonder how their lives can interest or concern us. They are neither artists, nor philosophers, nor singers, nor sportsmen, nor journalists, nor porn film actors, nor sunscreen influencers, nothing but a vague actress, a fallen prince, both put together by the idea of cashing in to the highest bidder the story of their immaculate vacuum.
In this they correspond perfectly to the canons of the time. We have never glorified stupidity so much. Never have we been so passionate about people who, strong in their nothingness, have managed to pass themselves off as high-ranking intellectuals. Never has insignificance been so celebrated on television. Never have we emphasized mediocrity so much, the taste for scandal over nothing, gratuitous rumors, all this background noise that now punctuates our daily lives from the National Assembly to television studios via the incessant rumination of social networks.
So Harry and Meghan, no. A firm and decisive no. Because it exists in them as a shadow of dishonesty. Not the novel of two beings upset by a singular destiny but the disguised story of two people unable to cultivate the bond that unites them in discretion. As if they couldn’t live without this celebrity they claim to hate for a living. As if they absolutely had to show off, show themselves, reveal themselves, to give their existence a semblance of depth.
Two forgers.
Neither more nor less.
