“You don’t scare me with your T-shirt,” le ministre du Travail tells the striker. “Working is the best way to buy yourself a suit.”
Which words, in their way, summarize some of the basic disconnects between a millionaire politician and a militant union member from the rank and file.
No, I’m not going there this morning. Airwaves, tweets and assorted pundits are in full bloom with analyses, comments, invectives. France, on the brink of…etc. Emotions are contagious. Anger and rage are close neighbors. Add panic, and the stage is set for troubles.
I’m off to the sea this morning. Back tomorrow evening. The laptop stays home. Bringing a notebook and pen, of course. Most of all, bringing my availability to look and see, hear and listen, and jot down whatever insists on the need of a pen and paper witness.
Then when I come back, I’ll take another look at what I wrote this past year. One certainty remains: for the writer, writing a piece of fiction beats writing a synopsis and query letter.
To the sea, with Aly and other neighbors.