Thomas Morales is the author, in particular, of “Praise of the car. Defense of an endangered species” (Éditions du Rocher, 2018), and “My last session: Marielle, Broca and Belmondo” (Pierre-Guillaume de Roux, 2021). Latest book published: "And now, here comes a long winter" (Éditions Héliopoles, 2022).
As Christmas approaches, we are collectively depressed.
Schoolchildren no longer know how to agree the past participle;
foie gras is criminalized on the holiday menu;
fir trees made of recycled cardboard rise in front of town halls to make us feel guilty;
tango is no longer a ballroom dance but a stepping stone for gender theory;
in the north of Paris, armed police escort children in pushchairs to their crèche and the Norway rats take out the jackets of metro users without the help of Garcimore;
in the land of the atom, the energy crisis is looming and the streetlights are crying out for hunger;
since the wind turbines hide the landscape, we chatter our teeth in our interiors;
we will thus have sold off all our traditions, whether industrial or memorial, to line up behind a devastating modernity.
Long gone are the days when I went to midnight mass with my grandmother, her in her indestructible green loden, me in my red duffle coat.
How can I forget my furry boots crunching on the snow and the concord of this winter night in the middle of the Berry countryside?
That evening, everyone, believer or atheist within the same family, forgot their resentments and jealousies, we then tried to behave with dignity and not to upset our elders.
We went to church in 2CVs from the 1950s, in the swaying of the suspensions and the heckling of accomplices.
We felt protected and understood.
When I got back, I knew that a yule log with butter and a plump capon that was browning in the oven were waiting for me.
But today,
Who to trust ?
Who to believe?
Who to blindly follow?
Which path to take?
All our beacons are gone.
All of our dikes gave way.
A great cold froze our destinies.
We don't really belong anymore.
There is Europe, war, inflation, natural plagues and a largely demonetized political class.
We wander in the evil wind of discord and hatred in our history.
We have become gloomy and distrustful, driven sometimes by silent anger, sometimes by raw indifference, incapable of levity and joy, constantly seeking to instruct and destroy, only flourishing in bitterness and rumination.
natural plagues and a largely demonetized political class.
We wander in the evil wind of discord and hatred in our history.
We have become gloomy and distrustful, carried now by silent anger, now by raw indifference, incapable of levity and joy, constantly seeking to instruct and to destroy, only flourishing in bitterness and rumination.
natural plagues and a largely demonetized political class.
We wander in the evil wind of discord and hatred in our history.
We have become gloomy and distrustful, driven sometimes by silent anger, sometimes by raw indifference, incapable of levity and joy, constantly seeking to instruct and destroy, only flourishing in bitterness and rumination.
There remains, however, an event that takes place every year in December, as expected as the descent of Santa Claus down the chimney.
A pagan show, kitsch and colorful, long and indecisive, provincial and emancipatory which unites and moves by its folklore and its recurrence, but also by a form of tenderness deeply rooted in our customs.
The rural people remember their queens of comitia who were not beasts of the fair.
I will not allow anyone to smear their title.
These icons had the aplomb of beauty and the kindness of pure hearts.
They participated in local life and chanted in their own way, the waltz of the seasons.
They were the witness and the guarantor of the identity of the village communities.
A hyphen between the cantons and a respected benevolent figure.
In France, the Misses are not under the influence.
They free themselves from sneaky and hurtful laughter.
They do not need any moral authorization to apply.
Thomas Morales
The election of Miss France drew its matrix from these peasant origins.
And the annual contest is probably the only "quasi-universal" suffrage that is not tainted with illegitimacy.
For once an election does not divide and collects such a strong turnout, our wobbly democracy should welcome it and be inspired by it.
Here and there, a few dissident voices want to deconstruct this institution on the fallacious pretext that it would be degrading and infantile, basely libidinous and commercially indecent.
It is to misunderstand its territorial network, its power of attraction and social advancement, its popular imagery and quite simply, the aspirations of the young women who take part in it.
To attack the Misses is to discredit the candidates, BTS students,
business or engineering school, nurses or accountants, denying them the right to pose in swimsuits and think freely.
In France, the Misses are not under the influence.
They free themselves from sneaky and hurtful laughter.
They do not need any moral authorization to apply.
Because it takes talent and composure, courage and character to speak in front of millions of viewers, not to tremble, not to blink, not to beg, not to get angry, to speak calmly and sincerely.
We have seen other candidates (in the presidential election), seasoned professionals, armed with diplomas, faint in front of a microphone, lacking in appropriateness and political vision.
Being a Miss is no picnic.
We will not fail to support and encourage them,