The excuse that comes to mind is that I behaved the way anyone would have: I lived from one day to the next without giving much thought to the consequences. I like the version where I was merely a man—and how I enjoyed being one!
Alas, I cannot close my eyes; there was something else that was worse than submitting to my father, something worse than anything. The friendship I granted myself a short while ago has come too late. If I have accepted the unspeakable, it is not solely by virtue of an exonerating unconsciousness, it is because I carry inside me that ordinary poison: self-hatred.
How did I get it? I have tried to go back through my memories. As soon as I knew what I was destined for, I hated myself. But I can recall memories from before memories, snatches where I did not say I, where I was not yet aware, and I did not hate myself.
I was born innocent, then something was ruined, I don’t know how. I’m accusing no one but myself. It’s a strange sin one commits at around the age of three. To accuse oneself of it increases self-hatred, an additional absurdity. There is a flaw in creation.
And so, like everyone, I am holding my father responsible for my failure. This annoys me. Damned suffering! If there were no suffering, would we always go looking for a guilty party?
Laborer of the eleventh hour, I have been trying at last to become my own friend. I must forgive myself for having gone so seriously astray. The hardest thing is to convince myself of my own ignorance. Did I really not know?
A voice inside assures me that I did know. But how could I have? Self-hatred is terrible, but there I was, preaching, “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” and now I am forced to see the logic: how could I have hated others? And hate them to such a degree?
So, was this atrocious comedy nothing but the work of the devil?
Oh, I’ve had my fill of him. The moment things go wrong, there is talk of the devil. It’s too easy. From where I am now, I can allow myself every form of blasphemy: I don’t believe in the devil. There’s no point in believing in him. There’s enough evil on earth without adding another layer.
The people watching my ordeal are mostly what are commonly referred to as good people, and I’m saying this without the slightest irony. I look into their eyes, and I can see more than enough evil on which to found not only my misadventure but all those past and future. Even Madeleine’s gaze contains some. As does mine. I don’t know my own gaze, yet I know what’s inside me: I have accepted my fate, I don’t need any other signs.
To reject this explanation and call Devil that which is only latent meanness, is to adorn pettiness with a grandiose word, and thus endow it with a far greater power. One day, a wonderful woman will say, “I do not fear Satan half so much as I fear those who fear him.” That’s it in a nutshell.
Others will say that if you baptize goodness with God’s name, you are bound to baptize evil as well. Where did you come up with the idea that God is goodness? Do I look like I am goodness? Is my father, who dreamt up this thing I have accepted, credible in his role? He hasn’t claimed to be, by the way. He says he is love. Love is not goodness. The two might overlap, but then again, not always.
And even what he says he is—is he really? The power of love is sometimes so difficult to differentiate from all the other ambient currents. My father sent me here out of love for his creation. Find me a more perverse act of love.
I’m not seeking to prove my innocence. At the age of thirty-three, I’ve had more than enough time to think about the villainy of this business. There’s not a single way to justify it. According to legend, I have expiated the sins of all humanity that has gone before me. Even if this were true, what is to become of the sins of humanity to follow? I cannot plead ignorance, because I know what is going to happen. And even if I didn’t know, what sort of an imbecile would you have to be to suspect otherwise?
Moreover, how can I believe that my torture will expiate anything? My boundless suffering has not erased any part of the suffering unfortunate souls before me have endured. The very thought of expiation, with its absurd sadism, makes me sick.
If I were a masochist, I would forgive myself. But I’m not: there’s not one single iota of sensual delight in the horror I’m going through. And yet, I must forgive myself. In this jumble of words pouring from my thoughts, the only one that might save is: forgiveness. And now I’m offering a striking counterexample. Forgiveness requires no counterpart, it is just an impulse of the heart one must feel. How can I explain this in the midst of sacrificing myself? Imagine someone who, in his effort to convert people to vegetarianism, sacrifices a lamb: everyone would laugh in his face.
And that is precisely the situation I am in. Love thy neighbor as thyself, do not inflict upon him what you yourself could not bear, if he has behaved badly toward you, do not require his punishment, turn the page magnanimously. Illustration: I hate myself so much that I am inflicting this atrocity upon myself; my punishment is the price to pay for the mistakes that you have committed.
How did I end up in such a situation? It has gradually occurred to me that this accumulation of paralipsis is the height of an a fortiori argument: with the level of guilt that is mine, if I manage to forgive myself, then everything shall be accomplished.
Can I do it?
There are a thousand ways to envisage the deed. It is impossible to tell which is the most abominable. Let’s take the one that will be officiaclass="underline" I am sacrificing myself for the good of all. Appalling! A dying father calls his children to his bedside and says to them:
“My dear children, I’ve had a dog’s life, never had a moment’s pleasure, exercised a despicable trade, pinched every penny, and I did it all for you, so that you would be sure of a fine inheritance.”
Anyone who dares refer to this conceit as love is a monster. And yet, that is the very conceit I uttered. Thus, I have made it officiaclass="underline" this is the way to behave.
Let’s take my mother. I will say it again, she is a better person than I. She is so good that she has not come here: she knows that her presence would only increase my suffering. Yet for all that, she is not unaware of what is happening to me. What she is going through is infinitely worse than what I am going through, with the colossal difference that she neither chose it nor accepted it. I am the one who is inflicting this pain upon my own mother.
Madeleine: she and I are joined. I am in love with her the way she is in love with me. What if we were to reverse reality: I stand there where she is, while she is crucified, and I know it is what she wanted.
“I shared a passionate love with you, and still, I have chosen to be tortured in public. I have good news, my love: you have the right to look at me.”
I could go on like this for a long time. Below me, there are children in the crowd. Up to puberty, we are different, not exactly innocent, we are capable of harm, but we have no filter, we are on the same level with everything. In this very moment, these open creatures are being filled with this abject sight.
Can I forgive myself for this?
I use the word this on purpose. I refuse to say crucifixion. It’s far too elegant and precious. What I’m experiencing is coarse and ugly. If at least I could be sure people would forget quickly! The most devastating thing is knowing that they’re going to talk about this for ever and ever, and not in order to decry my fate. No other example of human suffering will be the subject of such colossal glorification. They’ll thank me for this. They’ll admire me for this. They’ll believe in me for this.
For this, the very thing for which I cannot forgive myself. I am responsible for the greatest misinterpretation in history, which is also the most deleterious.